How to Marry a Marble Marquis(15)
“You’re blushing so adorably I’m inclined to believe you,“ he chuckled, his voice a bit incredulous. “Are you a virgin, Miss Eastwick?”
There was no sense in lying, not anymore. She didn’t know how he found her out, but he had, thoroughly, and she wasn’t helping herself any further by continuing to obfuscate the truth any more than she was helping herself by listening to him. Eleanor shook her head.
“No, my Lord.” Silas Stride said nothing, but he raised an icy eyebrow, giving her space to continue for a change. “I was sixteen, about to leave for the conservatory. I was terrified,” she remembered, tears stinging at the corner of her eyes. “Young women are told such wretched things about what will happen to us in our marital bed. I was even more afraid to go off on my own, away from the protection of my family. I just wanted to get it over with, so I wouldn’t have this horrible thing, this fear, hanging over me.”
“And was it an enjoyable experience?”
She choked out a bitter laugh, tears spilling over her lashes. It didn’t make a difference. She was already humiliated, she decided. “It was not. He was also sixteen, one of our stable boys. It hurt. The only thing it had to recommend itself was that it was over very quickly.”
The Marquis of Basingstone leaned forward on his elbows, that searching look back in his eye. “And you’ve not had a lover since then?” His brow furrowed when she shook her head again. “One hears such tales of patrons. If you did not take a lover, then who . . .” His head tipped back, smile splitting as he chuckled again. “Lord Ellingboe.”
“Yes,” she whispered, nodding. “Uncle Efraim gave me patronage for the duration of my study. After I left the conservatory, I performed in some small theaters while I completed finishing school at Sister Winnifred’s.”
He laughed then, a slip of satin against her back, making her shudder. “I was wracking my brain to think of how I knew you, Miss Eastwick, for several days. And then I remembered. Your voice is exquisite, as lovely as your face.” He sat back in his chair, giving her an appraising look. “An actress, nearly as pure as a rose. Who would’ve believed it? All things considered, my dear, you are quite skilled in verbal seduction. No doubt learned at the stage door, attempting to put off your would-be suitors.”
“Quite right,” she bit out, deciding she’d had enough. He’d been toying with her from the start and had no idea if his offer of assistance would even still stand now that the truth was out. “You are right that verbal seduction is an art form, but so too, my lord, is flattery. It’s not proper to employ in civilized settings, for example, at Lady Farthington’s Ball, but well used in a one-on-one situation. Isn’t that what all you men want? Butterflies flitting from flower to flower, eager to be told how handsome you are, how witty you are, what a fine hunter and horseman and banker you are? You’re quite right that I became extremely skilled at wordplay and flattery, extricating myself from situations and conversations with men like you. Lords and dandies who only want to ruin women, ruin our reputations and our virtue. Flattery, I discovered, was the best way to put those men off, and I can’t imagine it wouldn’t work on you as well, Lord Stride. You now have the power to ruin me for London society. Is that enough? How long am I expected to stroke your ego before I’ve sufficiently mollified your colossal vanity, my lord?”
Silas Stride was positively beaming at her across the small, intimate table, and she realized that, too, had likely been a design of his making. “And a show of temper for the finish,” he crowed. “Miss Eastwick, you didn’t even allow me to give the instruction for that! A bit of flirtation, some carefully applied innuendo, a spat to whet the appetite, and then enjoying each other for dessert. If you do at the ball exactly as you’ve done tonight, my dear, you’ll have your pick of suitors. I don’t know about my ego, but it’s not the only thing that could do with a good bit of stroking right about now.”
She gasped, nearly choking on her shock, clapping her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Does-does this mean you still intend to help me, my Lord?”
His wings rustled behind him, huge leathery things, the same ebony black of his skin, shot through with white veining. They were tipped in curved horns, exactly like a dragon, and she thought again of him flitting across the field of flowers, alighting on her, and using his tongue in the most sinful way she could imagine.
“Of course, Miss Eastwick, I gave you my word. And aside from that, the Ellingboes are family friends, and I would not disrespect the earl by turning down his request. This does change things, though.”
Despite her flush, Eleanor shivered. “Does it?”
“It does,” he intoned flatly. “I was operating on the assumption you had some experience in the carnal arts. I myself have no use for virgins, and in practical application, Miss Eastwick, that is essentially what you are.” He held up a hand to stave off her sputter of outrage. “Yes, I am well aware that is the expectation of well-bred young ladies. I daresay most of your rivals at the ball will come boasting the same inexperience. That doesn’t help you, though.”
He pursed his lips in consideration, tipping his head back in thought, providing her the perfect vantage to admire his sharp bone structure. His face was a series of extreme angles — high, jutting cheekbones, a sharp jaw, and a straight nose. His eyebrows, too, were acutely arched, and as she ogled him, he tapped a shaped claw to his wide mouth.