How to Marry a Marble Marquis(4)
“But you need to marry yourself to have the ability to do so,” he interrupted again, reaching the conclusion of her story before she could do so herself.
“We don’t have any close family,” she went on through gritted teeth. “Lord Ellingboe heard about my recent . . . misfortunes and—“
“Ah yes, the parvenue scandal with a capital P.”
Eleanor wondered if she would ever be able to complete a sentence while in the Marquis of Basingstone’s haughty company. He chuckled, and that, too, was an icy white sound.
“It’s as if they don’t even make an attempt to be clever sometimes. As someone whose exploits have been regularly and thoroughly excoriated by the High Tea, if it is any consolation, my dear Miss Eastwick, you can rest assured that by the next edition, no one remembers anything from the previous week. There’s always a new target.”
She was going to need to have the inside of her lip sewn up once this evening was through, Eleanor thought as she practically chewed a hole into it, a desperate effort to keep her occasionally barbed tongue from finding its target in the gargoyle across from her.
“You do have my deepest sympathies for your loss,” he went on, his voice losing a fraction of its chill. “I, too, have experienced the unfortunate role of being orphaned in adulthood with younger siblings to think of. I take it that Lord Ellingboe was the one to sponsor your season then?” he continued. “Although, I am a bit surprised that he went to such lengths on your behalf rather than simply finding a match for you himself here in London. I suppose that owes to the fact that the earl has vacated London completely. A premature decision, in my opinion, but that’s Northerners for you.”
She exhaled slowly through her nose, determined to keep her voice light. “Begging your pardon, Lord Stride, but is Londonderry not in the north? I hadn’t realized those rain-soaked cliffs had been relocated.”
His mouth split, another flash of white fang, although his smile reached his eyes this time, sparkling across the table, as blue and shining as the sapphire he wore, and her breath caught in spite of herself. “So it is, Miss Eastwick. So it is. Now just to ensure I’m keeping the details straight, Lord Ellingboe sponsored your season. A season that I’m assuming is now over, thanks to Lord Pemberley’s valet, more’s the pity, my dear.”
“Not over quite yet, my lord,” she bit out, ignoring his jab. “I shall be attending the Monster’s Ball. Uncle Efraim sponsored my season for the same reason he wrote to you on my behalf.”
She hesitated, watching his eyebrow raise in expectation. She felt as if she were standing in the center of the stage, a limelight casting her in a halo, holding her breath before the music began. That was always the most fraught moment, the most vulnerable. Just her alone, standing before a sea of onlookers she couldn’t make out. She was just as alone now. Heat crept up her neck, and Eleanor had the terrible feeling she was near tears. Her eyes fought away from his, disliking their cold appraisal . . . but all around her were the reminders of why this meeting was so important. The empty shelves where a library of books had once stood, books she’d sold one by one, the missing furniture. Her sisters would wind up as seamstresses and governesses, never enjoying a home of their own at this rate. You don’t have a choice.
“I-I don’t know what I’m doing, Lord Stride. Obviously. I have proven to be,” she sighed forcefully, “a bit of a hopeless case. Lord Ellingboe thought you would be admirably positioned to instruct me to increase my chances of success.”
“Instruct you?”
“On how to win a husband at the Monster’s Ball. I’ve not had fair fortune with men of my own species, let alone navigating the social waters within a community in which I am completely inexperienced. I am not able to pay you to do so, but I’m committed to making up for the use of your time in any way you deem necessary. I am hoping you will be amenable to the request, but I understand, my Lord, if you find it too peculiar.”
Silence stretched between them, the marquis still appraising at her as if he were waiting for her to burst into flames. Eleanor felt her heart sink like a stone within her. This was all a waste of time. You may as well pack up the girls now and try to find employment in some lord’s country house. If you’re lucky, you can all stay together.
“Traveling abroad, you mentioned . . . most unusual. Do you often take tea in the middle of the night, Miss Eastwick?”
His question was unexpected and his tone overly casual. Eleanor floundered. She was grateful for the break in the topic, for it allowed her to suck in a breath and push back the tears that had been hovering just beneath the surface of her composure, but the question itself left her feeling unmoored. “I-I beg your pardon, my lord?”
He gestured to the full afternoon tea service before them before lifting his cup, taking a long swallow before resuming. “Do you often enjoy afternoon tea at nearly two a.m., Miss Eastwick?”
Eleanor snapped her mouth shut after a moment, realizing she had opened it in shock at the audacity of such a question. Of course not, and he bloody well knows it. “I don’t, my lord, no. Although, I am often up at this hour. Sleep does not find me easily these days, and I’ve always been a bit of a night owl. I’ve never entertained company of the nocturnal persuasion, and I only sought to make your visit more comfortable, Lord Stride. My sincerest apologies if we failed in our attempt.”