How to Marry a Marble Marquis(27)

He was a fool. If he wasn’t, he never would’ve found himself in this mess with the girl, would have never offered himself up as a toy for her to cut her teeth upon. A bloody fool! He was one of London’s most notorious rakes, a reputation well earned, one he was proud of. He was not meant for love and would never give away his heart, but that didn’t mean he needed to deny the women of the city the joy of his carnal company. Eleanor Eastwick was an impediment, one he ought to remove from his path as quickly as possible. That was the sensible thing to do.

But first, he needed to have her again. He would die if he didn’t. There was no other way to free his mind from thoughts of her, no way to cool his blood and keep from wanting her. He would send for her, he decided, his blood thrumming at the thought. He would send for her, would have her come here, to Basingtone. He would have her, worship her, pleasure her until his cock was limp and satisfied, his balls drained dry, and his head free of her at last. The Monster’s Ball was in two weeks. Plenty of time to wring her from his consciousness before sending her off to whatever lord she would marry.

The monstrous men in attendance would fight over her, of that head little doubt. Upon reflection, Silas wasn’t sure what Efraim Ellingboe had been thinking, for certainly the earl should have known that a woman such as she — beautiful, well-mannered and graceful, witty and humorous — should have no problem seeking a mate, particularly at an event where the men would most certainly outnumber the women, men who were all eager and desperate to marry, particularly to small, soft, sweet-smelling human women who carried offspring across species with such ease.

Lord Ellingboe had offered Silas a ten percent retainer of her dowry, a dowry he himself was subsidizing, in exchange for his assistance in securing the marriage. Not a fortune, but neither was it a paltry sum. This was a business transaction, he reminded himself, pulling out a fresh quill. He would bring her to Basingstone, he would have her, and then he would be done with the whole messy affair. It was a foolproof course of action, he decided. Dipping his quill in a charger of ink, Silas thought for several long moments, smiling at his own brilliant plan, and began to write.





The High Tea





Society Papers





Dearest readers,

We’ve previously served up a surprisingly serene cup of reformed behavior regarding one of London’s favorite rakes — reliably wicked, taking wing from bed to bed, leaving many horned husbands in his own horned wake – but as of late, those predawn dalliances have curiously died down.

As previously reported, we’ve spotted his carriage coming and going from an unknown London address, and our keen eyes have taken note of an escorted visitor making her presence known at this lascivious libertine’s lordly London home. None were as surprised as us by this devil’s domestication . . . but it seems we were premature in taking this pot from the heat.

The very same night his escorted visitor left this past week, our stony-hearted rakehell was seen leaving a house of ill repute in a state of dishabille. It seems that reformation is not in the cards for this marquis.





Eleanor





The northern countryside was breathtaking this time of year, as signs of spring blossomed over every hill and dale. Lambs dotted the fields, wildflowers provided a colorful counterpoint to the unbroken greenery, and once they closed in on their destination, golden gorse lit the hills of the Irish countryside.

The noble house of Basingstone was a curiosity. Loyal to the crown, situated on the northern Irish cliffs, with the French designation of their title in use. Silas Stride’s accent wasn’t different from any other posh, London-based lord she’d met over the years, yet the provenance of his nobility seemed quite continental. Who cares? He and his house have no bearing on you.

“It was so good of the marquis to send for you, dearest,” her grandmother sighed, at least the tenth time she’d made the observation since they began their journey. Eleanor wondered if sighing over the Marquis of Basingtone was an action her sister had learned from her grandmother, or her grandmother from sister — or more likely, that they’d trained themselves over the last month on the automatic response to any and all mentions of Silas Stride together. “In his own private carriage, at that! He must surely be planning his marriage proposal.”

“Look there, at the side of the road,” she raised a gloved hand, directing her grandmother’s eye out the carriage window. “Look at how tightly they stay to the side!”

Approaching on the opposite side of the packed dirt road, a shepherd led a flock of at least seventy-five heads, tightly pressed, bahhing their disapproval of the lack of greenery on the dusty thorofare. A sheepdog prowled on the outer perimeter, nipping at their feet, keeping the herd in line. It was an adequate metaphor for the way she felt as of late — just an opinionless sheep being led to slaughter. Silas Stride was the shepherd, and the moneylenders and collectors of the outside world nipped at her heels.

Fortunately, her grandmother was forgetful and easily redirected, rather like a child. She wouldn’t remember alluding to Eleanor’s fictitious impending nuptials to the Marquis of Basingstone until the next instance of sighing over his handsomeness commenced. Eleanor didn’t bother reminding grandmother that he was not the lord she was hopefully marrying. Not if he had the last bloody title in England. It wouldn’t make a difference, in the end. She would come home from the Monsters Ball with an engagement, and no one would remember who they’d hoped the lord in question would be.