How to Marry a Marble Marquis(17)
She couldn’t stand him. He was rude and smug and entirely too pleased with himself, and she would be glad once his instruction was over and she was married, all of her problems laid to rest. Until then, though, allowing the Marquis of Basingstone to give her hands-on lessons in lovemaking might not be the worst idea she had ever allowed herself to be talked into. She sunk into the pillow, pushing away the troubling thought, the sound of his cold laughter, and the mischievous glow of his dark blue eyes. She only had to get through a few more weeks, and then this would all be over.
Silas
Eleanor Eastwick was a vexation; one of whom he’d be glad to be rid of soon enough.
The second time he had visited her in her home, all three of the other ladies of the house were eager to present themselves — the two children, of whose presence he was aware, and an agéd grandmother, who had not been mentioned previously. He might have been a libertine of the highest order, but poorly mannered he was not, and it took little effort on his part to charm the two young ladies as well as the older matron.
His eyes had wandered around the room as the young girls recited a poem for his benefit, picking out a spot on the floor where the wood was darker, denoting a piece of furniture that had long stood there. From its odd shape and his hostess’s musical education, he guessed a piano. Silas did not like the twist in his stomach when his gaze moved from the empty spot to Eleanor Eastwick’s quickly downcast eyes, as if she were watching him looking and knew exactly what it was he would see. The library, too, seemed somewhat emptier to him than it had been the first night he met her, graciously accepting the glass of port he’d been offered as the younger girls went to bed.
“I hope you don’t mind an old lady like me being your chaperone this evening, my lord,” the old dowager had chided gaily as Eleanor went to tuck the girls in. He decided not to take it as an affront to his charm that she was already dozing in her chair by the time Miss Eastwick returned, reminding him of what a strain on the family his visits likely were.
“I do apologize, Miss Eastwick. I’m sure it’s frightfully inconvenient for you to play hostess at this time of night.”
She’d shrugged prettily, topping off his glass and pouring herself two fingers of the rich liquid, grinning at his raised eyebrow. “If I’m to have a cup of ratafia, my lord, you will be having one as well. And as I told you once before, Lord Stride, I’m a bit of a night owl. Always have been. I assure you, these hours are quite normal to me.”
Something moved inside him at her admission, a queer shift in his chest that left him feeling slightly out of breath, and he worried he was forming some condition. Of course, she would be used to late hours, he reminded himself. How many times had he left the concert halls and theaters, arriving at some private salon for a post-theater sup at near midnight? The performers at such venues would be doing the same, a celebratory drink and meal with cast and crew mates at taverns or else leaving on the arm of a wealthy patron for a private party. She’s more apt to keep your hours than half your staff.
“Do you know why I so enjoy the theater, Miss Eastwick?” he asked suddenly, watching her eyebrows raise. “I keep an apartment in Paris for much the same reason as I keep a permanent residence in London, you know. Partially for business but mostly because I do so enjoy patronizing the arts. Symphonies and operas, theaters that produce concerts and plays and exhibitions, like the one where I heard you sing. They all have one thing in common, my dear. They’re designed to be enjoyed at night.”
Her eyes were bright, her full lower lip trapped between her teeth in a gesture he was beginning to recognize as familiar, something she did unconsciously. It’s a poor way to treat such a lovely little lip. “There is much in this world I do not experience,” he went on, forcibly pulling his eyes from her inviting mouth. “Things of which I only know of through tales and books and illustrations . . . but sitting in a crowded room and hearing an incomparably lovely soprano singing of loss and heartache is not a pleasure to be undertaken in the afternoon. So I suppose the existence of lovely nightingales such as yourself are the trade-off for a lifetime in the dark.” Silence stretched between them for several long, yawning moments after his uncharacteristic disclosure, but it was strangely comfortable, and he had no desire to fill the space with chatter.
“You know, now that you mention it,” she said after a moment, leaning forward in her seat, “it was a bit odd discussing flowers and butterflies with someone who is stone throughout the day, my lord.”
The genuine bark laughter that escaped him at her words was startling. Definitely coming down with something. He was so used to the sound of his own icy affectation, and it had been too long since someone made him laugh in a way that caused a stitch in his side, possibly not since Cadmus had last visited. What was in this port? Are you drunk?!
The entire situation was such an unusual tableau to find himself within — a silent home at night with sleeping children, all candles and lamps extinguished except the ones surrounding them, their quiet conversation taking place in a room partially devoid of furniture with a septuagenarian snoring lightly in the corner. There were no half-naked duchesses lying about, no countess on her knees before him with cum-smeared lip rouge, and no empty wine bottles to be found. There was only this girl, with her quiet dignity and hideous dress and her singular ability to make him behave completely out of character.