How to Marry a Marble Marquis(11)
That was, until the following evening.
The chaperone in question was an exhausted-looking mothwoman. Fluffy antennae framed her face, and Eleanor wasn’t certain where the fur collar on her pelisse ended, and the thick mantle of fluff around her neck began. A great show was made of the woman coming to the Eastwick’s door with the assistance of a footman, her wings a tawny shade of brown, with eyes like an owl’s. A bevy of servants descended once they arrived at the marquis’s London address, a butler opening the door with a bow, another servant appearing at her elbow to take her coat. She was offered a seat, offered refreshment, and had her every care accounted for before she had even taken five steps beyond the threshold, but there was no sign of Lord Stride in sight.
“His lordship is waiting for you in the conservatory, miss.” The mothwoman gestured to another servant, a young woman with huge dark eyes and wings like a dragonfly, leading Eleanor down a long corridor and away from the alleged chaperone who was meant to be protecting her virtue. A glance over her shoulder showed Eleanor the sight of the mothwoman dropping into a chair exhaustedly in the room they had just left, her chaperoning duties evidently fulfilled.
He was standing before the glass conservatory walls, overlooking a lovely stone garden. It had begun to drizzle shortly after the carriage had dropped away from the curb in front of her own home, and now the rain came down in a steady patter. The room was lit with candlelight, and between the wavering glow and the syncopation of the rain upon the glass, it lent the conservatory an almost cozy air. Or at least it would have with any other partner.
“Miss Eastwick, you’re looking lovely this evening. Truly ravishing.”
Her breath caught as he turned to address her, just as striking as he’d been the first time he greeted her. She wasn’t sure if he was actually more handsome or if she was being unduly influenced by the fancies of a pre-teen girl, but Eleanor couldn’t deny that the Marquis of Basingstone was very easy to look upon. He was tall and slender, despite the breadth of his shoulders and well-formed chest, his form better appreciated in a room of great size like the one they were in. His trousers were just as tightly tailored as they’d been the first night he’d visited, she couldn’t help but notice, even though she did try. Once again tucked into high, polished Hessians, the tight fit emphasised the strength in his legs. She had a brief vision of another outline the snug fabric might show her, and her fingers tightened over the top of her beaded reticule in response. Just remember what a charlatan he is. Easier said than done as he took her hand to his lips, gazing up from beneath his arched brows in a way that caused a most unladylike swoop in her belly.
“Thank you, my lord. It was most generous of you to send your own carriage to fetch me this evening.” She had fretted endlessly over what to wear, choosing a beaded gown of dusty rose, her hair curled and pinned, uncertain if she was overdressed or underdressed or if it even mattered. Still, the complement was mollifying. “I will confess myself a bit confused as to how my chaperone can chaperone from a different room, but I am under your tutelage now, my lord.
The sound of his laughter made her spine shiver, icy white satin against her skin.
“Well, I suppose shedding the inhibitions held by the human gentry is the first step in finding yourself a monstrous mate, my dear. It’s very rare that you will find young ladies under such similar constraints amongst the nonhuman population.”
“Is it very rare, my lord? Or simply amongst the company you keep?”
Another laugh, the slippery slide of it accompanied by the brush of his fingertips against her back, as he pulled out her chair, and she shivered again.
“Maybe so, Miss Eastwick. You may be right, at that. But I suppose that brings us to our first lesson, one at which I have no doubt you shall excel.”
Eleanor glanced around the room pointedly as he seated himself. The conservatory was at once cavernous and intimate. The glassed-in walls gave the space an expansive feel, but the elaborately set table was small, and the candelabras close. The servants beyond the cozy ring of candlelight around them were invisible, as if they dined in some hidden nook, alone together. The very thought brought a blush to her cheeks. “Dinner, my lord?”
Across the table, Silas Stride grinned, his white fangs gleaming in the wavering light. She had a feeling he would be striking no matter what he wore, but based on the two times she had been in his presence, his sartorial choices seemed to favor cool jewel tones, moody blues, and rich violet. That evening was no exception. His waistcoat was a deep aubergine, accented in cranberry, topped off with a blue cutaway coat the color of the night sky. His cravat was as silvery-white as his hair, pinned once more with that plump cherry of a sapphire.
“Witty repartee. Innuendo is an art form, Miss Eastwick. I should remind you that you only have several days to capture and keep the attention of one of the gentlemen at the ball. I understand that humans are quite content to play at being coy indefinitely, but when your time is limited, and a mate is your aim, I assure you, exciting his blood is just as important as your manners. More important, to be quite frank.”
Eleanor shifted, discomfited by his words and annoyed that he was right. She did not have the luxury of a full season before her. There would be no endless succession of garden parties and dances, matches of croquet, and afternoons riding. She would have a single weekend to meet, match, and make certain. She needed to exit that weekend with a promise of marriage, and there was no time to fiddle-faddle about pretending she was disinterested.