How to Marry a Marble Marquis(29)
When the gilded blue carriages arrived, Eleanor was unsurprised to find Cressida, the mothwoman, in the one taking the girls north.
“I expect my sisters will receive closer chaperoning than I have,” Eleanor said in a voice that borrowed some of Silas Stride’s coldness.
“Yes, miss, of course. I’ll likely sleep in the carriage in the afternoons so that I’m able to watch over the young ladies all night. But if we slow or stop for any reason, you’re to wake me at once,“ she directed to Lucy and Coraline. “You don’t have to worry, miss. My entire family serves the marquis and his household in some capacity. We take our duties to his lordship seriously.”
The carriages had followed each other out of London, and the girls had practically hung out the window waving their goodbyes when they parted at last. She’d experienced her first Highland gryphon flight once they’d reached Nottingham, the gondola strapped to the beast’s belly not being terribly different from the carriage they were exiting.
“Watch your step, ladies, and welcome. My name is Hectorn, and I’ll be your conductor this afternoon.”
The towering orc had a gap-toothed smile and a cheerful air, and Eleanor smiled automatically at his greeting. An orc might make a very good match. After all, Uncle Efraim and his sons were handsome and strapping, stoic but kind, and there weren’t any special accommodations to consider regarding their anatomy or sleeping habits. And they’re probably capable of dressing themselves.
“The take-off is the rockiest bit, I’ll give you fair warning now, but Lemuel is one of the marquis’s finest gryphons. We’ll be in the air as soon as you ladies get settled and then touching down in Ballymena. His lordship’s carriage will be waiting to take you the rest of the way.”
Her grandmother and Hettie whooped and squealed like schoolgirls when the gryphon bounded across the empty meadow that stretched before them, and all three women shrieked when it leapt into the sky. Once they were airborne, she was forced to admit, the ride was very smooth. It took no time at all to cross the whole of England and the narrow sea, the beast’s touchdown was far more graceful than the bounding leap had been. She had met men who were gryphon-born, with leonine haunches and wide, feathered wings, but this creature was as tall as several of its orcish conductor, laid end-to-end.
She wondered if there were women who lay with beasts like this, producing their monstrous, human-sized progeny. Well, obviously? How else would they exist? She wondered what the result of a human mating with a gargoyle would look like, if it was even possible for her to bear a child with horns and Silas’s dragon-like wings. Would your baby turn to stone each day? She shook away the foolish supposition with a blush. It didn’t matter. She was diligent about tracking her blood, and her last menses had been the week after the Marquis of Basingstone had first come to tea. She would be bleeding again soon, and she’d not fret until then. And besides, if he’s gotten you with child, he’ll be forced to support you and you won’t need to marry anyone.
Their traveling party had stopped to take tea at a small tavern once they were back on solid ground, as the coachsmith readied their horses, and her grandmother had let out a triumphant yelp, scooping up an abandoned High Tea as they sat. She and Hettie exclaimed over the High Tea supposition that some unnamed countess had been spotted in a compromising position with some roguish baronet, and an entire section of marriage announcements, the ton’s most sparkling diamonds of the season landing within their comfortable settings, just as they’d planned.
As her grandmother read aloud the story of some slithering Viscount who was embroiled in a property dispute with his former wife, Eleanor considered that it was rather lucky that the High Tea primarily focused their attention on members of the peerage and gentry. How gutting it would have been to have read of her own family’s financial ruin in the gossip tattler. Bad enough that you’ve begun to recognize whom they are referring to in the blind items. She’d just picked up the column while Grandmother finished her tea, perusing the blinds when she saw it.
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. 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. It seems that reformation is not in the cards for this marquis.
The High Tea had fallen from her hands.
The Marquis of Basingstone didn’t give a whit about her, but she had, she was forced to admit, begun to care very deeply for him. It was ridiculous. It had been only several weeks earlier that he was sneering at her from across the tea table in her father’s library, scoffing at her in his exaggerated way of speaking, rudely interrupting, and implying she was up to no good. How could she come to care for him in such a short amount of time? How could she fool herself when she knew what he was like? The marquis didn’t care for anyone but himself, himself and his own lustful desires. He’s a rake. An unrepentant scoundrel and you’re behaving just as foolishly as every other na?ve noblewoman he’s bedded.