The Marquess and Miss Davies (15 page)

There was a story there, Carys decided, but did not press the matter. They circled past the open doors of the Telford’s balcony and the breeze stirred tendrils of her hair. An odd tension had blossomed between them, or so she felt. Perhaps the marquess was merely having his dance with a pretty girl. But that was not what Lady Josephine had said. Lady Josephine had used the word ‘smitten’.

Miss Davies had
taken his heart
. Supposedly.

Lord Leighton’s gaze did not waver from her face, and now an awkward silence threatened. If they did not converse she would be left with that gaze, and Miss Davies did not think she could bear it, nor bear alone the questions flooding into her mind.

What are you thinking, your lordship?

“And how do you find the weather this spring, my lord?” she said finally.

‘Tis true that every young lady of the
ton
was enjoined to memorize this phrase prior to her first ball, as a last refuge when conversation was at risk of dying out. Carys thought that the marquess might find it amusing under present circumstances.

He did, favoring her with a grin. “Well, the rain is quite fine, is it not? And the sunshine?”

“Ah, yes, the sunshine. ‘Tis very ... sunny.”

They were both laughing as Lord Leighton swung them into another turn.

The Marquess of Clare—circling the ballroom, his partner’s step matching his as if they were born to the waltz—was in an uncomfortable state, laughter or no. He had only just remembered a dream from the previous night, a memory which had surfaced and now fired his blood. The dream had featured Miss Davies in dishabille, and in his bed, and he could not look at her without his breath catching in his throat.

Concentrate, he told himself. You will look a proper idiot if you stumble.

And how Jo will laugh.

One must remember that, despite Lord Leighton’s position as a marquess of England, despite his wealth and vast holdings, regardless of the fact that he was the head of a large family and responsible for the livelihood of any number of servants, not to mention the crofters on his estate, that he was only a gentleman of his late-twenties. His response to a young woman of whom he was increasingly fond was that of any young gentleman. He was roused. He was smitten. And he wished desperately for a few minutes alone with the girl, to demonstrate the warmth of his affection; minutes which—for all his wealth and title—he had no power to command.

He felt the smooth skin of her back beneath the silk. He saw, as one might expect from a tall man dancing with a woman of average height, all that her decolletage had to offer. He noticed everything; the silver cord woven into her hair—and how he longed to touch one of those curls!—the small necklace with its gold locket, even her slippers of matching cream.

Carys.

“You are woolgathering,” said the young lady.

She has no idea, thought Anthony to himself. His fingers tightened against her back and he thought she perceived it, he thought a hint of a blush appeared on her cheeks.

“I beg your pardon,” said Lord Leighton. “I was merely thinking how enjoyable the waltz is with a skilled partner.”

“You flatter me. I fear that your feet are not quite safe, as I have been known to stumble.”

“I can scarcely credit it.”

One might wish that the dance would go on forever. But one might also wish it to end, to give the chance of a stroll on the balcony, some darkened corner—

Lord Leighton tried to remember what the Telford’s balcony had to offer in the way of privacy. Miss Davies’s reputation must, of course, remain secure. Jo would be watching them with eagle eyes, but he had nothing to fear from that quarter; his sister was no gossip, certainly not when it came to family. And he much doubted that Isolde was any more likely to tattle if the Marquess of Clare and her sister spent a few quiet moments away from the crowd.

‘Twas perhaps unfortunate that his lordship was not acquainted with the Viscount of Cardingham, and did not realize that Miss Davies had other close family present at the Telford’s ball.

* * * *

Although the strength of his feelings might have come as a surprise, Carys began to guess something of Lord Leighton’s interest. ‘Twas the manner in which he held her, the touch of his hand against her back. Not that there was anything outwardly improper. As the dance went along, in fact, the marquess kept them at a greater distance, and although the change was only slight it was quite noticeable to Miss Davies. His lordship seemed hesitant and distracted. Their conversation lagged again, each caught up in their own thoughts, and Carys wished for a few moments of privacy, some way in which they could speak ... frankly to one another.

Frankly? Perhaps that was too much, but if she could only let him know that she did not find his interest objectionable in any way, the tension between them might be eased. ‘Twas a tension that trembled inside her, and made her heart beat hard against her rib cage, and her hand tremble in his.

She hoped he had noticed none of it. She hoped—

To marry him. Admit it. You have fallen in love with a
marquess
.

A little voice spoke up at this juncture. This little voice, annoyed, reminded Miss Davies of the marriage list she had written over the past few months, a work to which she had given considerable thought. It informed her that the Marquess of Clare, although doubtless a respectable peer of the realm, and certainly no worse than others of his type, did not necessarily possess the qualities that she had insisted upon in this list. A marquess was unlikely to possess them, perhaps. Rich and aristocratic men went their own way, in Carys’s experience, with little thought for the feelings of their wives.

Except for Talfryn, of course, but her brother might only be the exception that proved the rule.

So what was this nonsense, that she was now considering a private assignation in some out-of-the-way corner? ‘Twas unthinkable to allow oneself to be toyed with, and if she could not marry the gentleman—

She heard Isa’s voice in her ear, quite distinctly.
Little idiot, why not?

Her husband should be of sober habits and steady disposition. Inclined to careful examination of the facts of any question. Perceptive and well-read.

Hadn’t Isa told her only yesterday the story of Lord Leighton and the Earl of Derby’s horse? Carys happened to know of that stallion—Diablo, and worthy of its name. The marquess must have been well into his cups to even consider riding such an animal on a moonless night. And
now
he had turned up with a black eye.

‘Twas only boxing.

Which was a stupid sport, but—

She wondered if she could have ridden Diablo herself. Not at night, of course; she had more sense.

Although it did sound like great fun.

Fun, pah, said the little voice. What has fun to do with marriage?

Carys wished the little voice to perdition, and settled her attention on Lord Leighton. The music of the waltz was coming to its end.

* * * *

It was simple, really. The orchestra played the final notes and they ended their waltz—by chance, he would swear to it—within a few steps of the doors to the Telford’s expansive balcony. Anthony started to lead them in that direction, and then recalled himself. He had not even asked the young lady for her permission. Such was the power of imagination, in that the marquess by no means dismissed Carys’s opinion on the matter, but had merely gotten ahead of himself, and began to picture her feelings identical to his own.

“Perhaps a bit of fresh air,” he said.

“Of course,” answered Miss Davies. “It is rather stuffy.”

The expected reply, although she did seem nervous, unaccountably so after her poise on the dance floor. Lord Leighton did not realize what his partner knew all too well; her brother was present in the ballroom, and had the habit of keeping a close eye on his younger sisters.

They stopped at the balustrade, within sight of the other dancers. There was no moon, and ‘twas very dark in the distance, the balcony illuminated only by light spilling from the house itself. Miss Davies raised her eyes, shadowed by thick lashes, to the skies above, and to the stars now twinkling through the city haze. The curls which had been tempting Lord Leighton during the dance now slipped from her shoulder, falling down her back in a soft cascade.

“A beautiful night,” she said, and sighed deeply.

Anthony followed the rise and fall of Miss Davies’s breath, undone by her beauty. His fingers, so recently against her back, and clasping her hand, itched to return to their former habitation. He knew he should reply, something easy and safe. But before he had time—

 “I understand,” she said, with a note of teasing, “that ‘twas a night something like this that found you in Green Park, on the back of a devilish stallion.”

He laughed, surprised that she had heard of that incident.
Lord Harcourt
, thought the marquess.
I shall pay you back someday
.

“‘Tis unfortunately quite true,” he admitted. “But I will say in my own defense that I would have remained safely on that animal’s back if my compatriots had not chosen to begin yelling as banshees. They were afraid—”, and here he paused, acutely aware of the irony, “—that I was about to meet a watery end in the fountain reservoir.”

She laughed. “How very untrusting of them.”

“Indeed.”

“The animal is fast, I have heard.”

“Like no other.”

They chatted for several minutes, by which time Miss Davies’s nervousness seemed to have eased while his lordship’s desire for a closer association with her had reached a nearly unendurable level. ‘Twas time to return, and Lord Leighton knew it. ‘Twas past time. At any moment he might take her hand and lead her into the shadows. At any moment. And she would be willing, thought the marquess. He knew it. He could almost feel her lips against his own.

His hands against her back, the feel of her hair entwined in his fingers—

Lord Leighton was never sure, afterwards, how it had happened, but he and Miss Davies were now rather more in the terrace shadows, and no longer within full view of the dance floor. Her face turned to his and she smiled.

“Carys.”

A masculine voice, nearly at his ear. The marquess only just had enough self-possession not to jump back in guilt.

Miss Davies cocked her head at the interloper and said, calmly, “Hello, Talfryn. Have you abandoned your wife?”

Anthony was briefly at sea. Who was abandoning his wife? He knew that Carys had a brother as well as a twin, and if it had not been so dark he might have noticed the family resemblance. As it was—

“Lord Leighton, may I introduce you to my brother, Lord Davies, Viscount of Cardingham. Talfryn, this is the Marquess of Clare.”

Ah. ‘Twas the brother. And not a happy gentleman.

“Your lordship. What business have you with my sister?” A brief pause. Anthony could see the viscount’s eyes narrow. “And what business have you here at all, in such a state?”

Anthony was taken aback. Generally a marquess was not spoken to in such terms. On the other hand, Lord Leighton was himself possessed of a younger sister. And he knew that he and Miss Davies had been flirting with the boundaries of proper behavior. On the whole, he could not object to the man’s tone.

“I am very happy to meet Miss Davies’s brother,” said Anthony, taking the lower-ranked role as a signal that he understood the man’s ... dissatisfaction, and extending his hand.

“Tal,” said Miss Davies, with a peremptory tone.

The viscount took the offered hand. “Pleased to meet you as well,” said Lord Davies, somewhat grudgingly. “Carys—”

“Lord Leighton and I were having a heated debate—”

Perhaps
heated
was not the best adjective to employ, thought the marquess. Under the circumstances.

“—on the Corn Laws, and quite forgot the time.”

“Well—”

“And you haven’t answered my question.
Where
is your dear wife?”

Miss Davies was clearly accustomed to a fair amount of give-and-take with her elder brother. Lord Leighton, the veteran of many such exchanges with Josephine, felt a compatriot’s sympathy.

“My dear wife is talking with our dear sister. Now—”

“Excellent. Lord Leighton, if you will excuse us, I have been
utterly
remiss in my attention to Lady Regina.”

The viscount, outmaneuvered, could do nothing to continue any argument. Miss Davies curtseyed prettily, and as she rose—Anthony was sure of it—she winked.

“Oh my goodness,” said Isa, when they were finally home, very late that night. “I thought I would have to run after Tal and throw him to the ground.”

“Mmm. If
that
was your best plan—”

“I could have tripped him, I suppose.”

“Much better.”

Carys was slowly undoing the silver cord from her hair. She was preoccupied and taking much longer than necessary at the task.

“So,” said her sister, nearly bouncing on her bed with impatience. “What happened?”

“Mmm.”

“Tal was watching you the entire time, you know.”

Carys hadn’t known. She rolled her eyes. “You would think he knew me better.”

“Has Lord Leighton declared his undying love?”

“I heard no talk of love. But I believe he was about to take ... liberties,” said Carys.

“Excellent!”

“Do you really think so?” Carys had hung up the silk gown and was beginning—with much complaint—to remove hairpins. “Why do these things hurt so abominably? And shouldn’t some talk of love precede ... other things?”

Isa shrugged. “What better way to fix a man’s attention than to give him a taste of what he cannot yet have in full?”

Such things were discussed rather more often among the young ladies of the
ton
than the young gentleman might like. And between twins, little was left unsaid.

“That seems most unsporting.”

“Posh. What else do we mere females have in our armory?”