How to Marry a Marble Marquis(2)
The tea service would fetch a fine price at auction if it came to that. The tea set and the needlepoint chairs, the fine crystal, and all of the porcelain. The grandfather clock in the front hall had a face inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and Eleanor was certain that, too, would do handsomely if it was sold to the right bidder. She had already sold off most of mother’s jewelry, saving one special piece for each of the girls. Father’s silver-topped walking stick had gone the way of the baubles and gems, along with the pianoforte that had been her entire childhood. Soon the house would be an empty shell as she sold off their belongings one by one. Like a cavernous dollhouse, devoid of furniture or dolls or any carefree little girl to play with it, all of their memories and fine things scattered to the wind like ashes.
Stop it. He’s going to be here any moment. You need to remember yourself. Remember your manners. Show him that you are, in fact, a lady of good standing. Uncle Efraim wouldn’t have suggested this if the Monsters Ball wasn’t your last hope. Drawing in another deep breath, Eleanor moved back to the fireplace, posing herself in a way that she hoped was alluring, and readied herself. She was already able to hear the clip-clop of horse hooves and knew that would likely be his carriage. This is it. She was going to be taking courting advice from some dreadful old man, possibly one with a wandering hand, but if he had a nephew or a cousin of marrying age, it would be all worth it in the end. You’re doing this for the girl.
Her head felt heavy as he was announced, her grandmother’s nurse doing a valiant job at playing house servant for the night. Hettie was attempting to disguise her country accent with what she probably thought was meant to be posh, but wound up sounding as if she’d only learned the common tongue that same day.
“The Marquis of Basingstone has come to call, Miss.”
Hettie stepped aside, the gargoyle behind her moving forward, his nose in the air, and Eleanor froze. She didn’t know why she had been picturing someone of an age with uncle Efraim. Perhaps it was the stuffiness of his title or the fact that he knew uncle Efraim at all. She had envisioned a gentleman even older than the earl — white of hair and wrinkled of face, perhaps with a cane. She had been berating herself for this mad plan all week, not understanding the earl’s suggestion, nor why taking advice from some old man would do her any good in finding a husband, but now — now she understood perfectly.
The Marquis of Basingstone was far younger than she had anticipated. Perhaps a decade older than herself, at most. He did have white hair, she sniffed. A shock of silver-white hair tumbling appealingly over a sharply arched brow of the same snowy color. Twisting horns sprouted from his head, pushing through his white hair like the twinned spires of mountains above a lush valley of snow. His skin was black as pitch, veined in the same luminous white of his hair, almost glowing across cheekbones so sharp, she wondered if he’d ever accidentally cut himself. He was devilishly handsome, and to add insult to injury, his figure was as appealing as his face. The intricate jacquard on his waistcoat stretched across a broad, well-muscled chest that tapered to a waspish waist, and the cherry-sized sapphire pinned at the center of his cravat was the same shade of blue as his narrowed eyes. His trousers looked practically painted on, disappearing into high Hessian boots, the shine upon which rivaled her tea setting.
Eleanor consoled herself that while she was gaping at him as if she’d never seen a member of the opposite sex before, he was taking her in just as thoroughly. She felt the drag of those keen blue eyes up her form and wondered if he could tell that her dress was twice turned already. As he took a step further into the room, his wide wings blotted out the sight of the housekeeper altogether, and his tight-lipped smile curved, arriving at her eyes at last.
“Lord Stride,” she finally squeaked out, remembering herself. “I’m so grateful you were able to come this evening. Thank you, Hettie. That will be all for now, but you can begin preparing our tea.”
“Miss Eastwick,” the gargoyle before her purred, taking her proffered hand as soon as the door had clicked shut behind them. “Thank you for your most gracious invitation.”
If Hettie had wished to sound posh for the evening, conversing several minutes with Lord Silas Stride would have served as an ample lesson in the elocution of the nobility. His voice was silky, practically a drawl, managing to sound lofty and bored out of his mind simultaneously. He enunciated every crisp consonant and hung on each voluptuous vowel, his voice icy and white, like a slide of satin, as striking as his appearance.
“I admit,” he sniffed, his gloved hand releasing hers at last, “to being quite intrigued by the correspondence I received from the Earl of Chwyllenghd.”
“I’m so grateful to him for writing to you. Please, let’s sit.” Eleanor held her breath as the Marquis came around the table, pulling her chair out with a little bow. He was cordial enough, but he was so unlike what she was expecting — a doddering old man with a wild shock of hair coming from his ears, perhaps — that she felt completely unprepared for the rest of the night. All of her careful preparations and rehearsed speeches had been designed for someone old enough to be her grandfather, who might look at her with the kindly eyes of the village vicar, or else, some lecherous old uncle who would gape at her décolleté, make ribald jokes, and each facet of her plan seemed woefully ill-prepared now. When he was last seated across from her, she finally dared to blink.
“It’s a very fair evening,” she chirped, hoping she sounded serene and unflappable and not at all like someone who was content to roll around with a footman in plain sight of the household. “I’m quite relieved the weather has remained so mild. This time of year can sometimes be so unpredictable.”