How to Marry a Marble Marquis(49)

The High Tea





Society Papers





Greetings, sweet sippers!

Kettles are whistling with all the buzz from the Monsters Ball, dear readers! Our keen eyes have spotted none other than the Marquis of Basingstone in attendance at this first bête monde soirée of the season —— our all-seeing serving spoons have told us he’s come to claim the heart of none other than one of the failed diamonds of the season, not a stranger to these pages. Could she be the mystery woman this unrepentant rake was entertaining over these last weeks? Is our favorite stony-hearted libertine ready to trade in his ever-rotating dance card for a marriage license?

Do mind the temperature and sip slowly as this story unfolds, dear readers!

Lady Grey





Silas





She had dampened her dress. He might have laughed at the audacious brazenness had he been the lone recipient of the after-effects. As it was, he’d hardly been able to pull his eyes away from the creamy round globes of her beautiful breasts, her heavy, luscious tits that he loved so much, that place between them where he wanted to live forever, on display and advertised for the lascivious enjoyment every other lord in the room.

It was his own fault. He had told her, in the beginning, that she would need to be bold, that she would need to secure the favor of one of these noblemen by way of their cock. She was bright and witty and sparkling, and he had no doubt that all of the other charms she possessed would win over whoever set their sights on her, but in a crowded playing field with other women of the same aim, she would need to be bold to set herself apart. She’d taken his words seriously.

That was, of course, before he loved her. To be given the opportunity to rewind the past month, he would’ve encouraged her to dress like a vestal virgin at the ball, to behave modestly, to have a chaperone with her at all times, and to never, ever allow one of these desperate dandies to put their hands on her. Now it was too late. She had put her beautiful curves on display for the highest bidder in this chattel auction, and she would likely be fielding offers all night.

“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here, Stride.” The laconic drawl had come from the trollish lord beside him, the second son of a baron, whose elder brother had recently taken ill, according to the High Tea. “I do hope you’ve not come to simply sample all of the ladies in attendance before flitting off. I believe the Countess has strict rules over her ball being used as a catalog for common rakes.”

Silas grinned. He was here to claim his bride, but he still had a reputation to keep up. “Good to see you, Morrington. My condolences to your family. I hear your brother is not doing well at all. I see they’re officially calling in your spare card.” The troll glowered, and Silas’s smile stretched. “As another member of the second son’s club, I welcome you to the fold. But I do hope you are going to explain to whichever young lady you set your sights on that you are merely the emergency option.”

She was ascending the steps, and he no longer had an interest in the troll. Their eyes locked, and Silas desperately wished he could have said that hers were full of joy at the sight of him, but that, too, would have been a pretty lie he was telling himself. She looked shocked. Shocked and angry, but he reminded himself that was to be expected. The rest of the ladies were called as they came down the steps, but he paid attention to none of them. The only woman in the room he was interested in was having her hand kissed by some minotaur, and his blood boiled.

The presentation and then dinner, a brief respite for the ladies to change, and then the masked ball, that was the agenda for the night. He would claim her at dinner; no sense in delaying what needed to happen. These balls were a tricky social maneuver. Chatting with a lady over dinner was only polite; giving her your undivided attention, however, was a marker of clear interest shown. To dance with a lady at the ball was, again, a nicety that was observed by all in attendance. To dance with her a second time immediately after was to stake a claim, an announcement to all in attendance that you were an interested party, and they should keep their distance. Silas was prepared to enter the dining room and stake her out, claim the chair next to her, and not allow another lord in attendance to so much as blink in her direction . . . but fate was not smiling at him that evening.

“Lords and ladies, please pay attention to your place settings. We have designed tonight’s seating chart specifically and would appreciate adherence.” The master of ceremonies was a beaming man with the shining eyes of a shifter of some sort, and finding his place clear across the table from Eleanor’s, Silas desperately wanted to fling his water goblet in the man’s direction.

“It’s so ridiculous that they have allowed such rabble in this year,” sniffed the woman seated beside him. She was tall and thin with a long neck and dark hair, and a permanently sour expression, he thought. She was seated across from a man who looked to be her age or maybe just a year or so older, clearly a relation, likely her chaperone.

Silas was too busy staring across the table at Eleanor, who was now being chatted up by a lagomorph to her left. Morrington was across from her. That’s a small favor, at least. He doesn’t have a pot to piss in. “Why, just this afternoon, I was asking one of the servants to bring me some tea, only to find out that it was actually a guest! She was dressed like a scullery maid. I don’t see how it’s appropriate to trot out a chit like that in front of genteel society. And I’ve heard there are second sons in attendance who don’t even have titles of their own. Really, must we stoop so low?”