How to Marry a Marble Marquis(9)

Silas

By the time he returned to Basingstone from visiting with Lady Derrybrook, dawn was nearly about to break. He felt ready to sleep for a hundred years, trudging up the staircase in the chapel, a twisting spiral of white marble veined in black, the reverse of what he was about to become.

He was eager to return to London, the desire to do so itching at the back of his neck the same way the thought of Miss Eastwick had itched in the back of his mind for half the week. He’d had Lady Derrybrook on her knees, pumping into her from behind, his knot kissing the mouth of her sex insistently when the realization came to him. The lady of the manor was vocalizing her pleasure in a way that brought to mind the ululation of a group of yodelers he’d seen perform at a theater in Paris, the same night he’d taken in a cello concert and performance of a heartrendingly lovely song cycle, sung by a soprano with delicate features and wide brown eyes.

His back arched as the memory coalesced — a vision of Eleanor Eastwick in a long, beaded gown, a spray of feathers in her hair as she sang — and a spray of his seed over the back of Lady Derrybrook, the memory coming to him as he came across her skin, his knot throbbing as his cock jerked, spurting white ropes of his release as he remembered the way Miss Eastwick had kept him and every other attendee of the concert at rapt attention until the last note wavered from her golden throat and applause split the air. Lady Derrybrook wasn’t nearly as elegant as she howled at her peak, and Silas slumped, his cock spent and his head heavy.

It was a small miracle he made it back to Basingstone on his feet, and now he wanted to do nothing more than sleep and restore himself, eager to set his affairs in order for the spring season, ensuring Maris had everything she needed as she prepared to deliver her egg.

“Traveling abroad, she said,” he mumbled to himself, dropping into his stone throne unceremoniously. The top of the moon chapel was secluded and safe, always a spot of respite, and that night was no exception as the sky lightened. Tomorrow needed to be an extremely productive night, for he had much to do to ensure the manor and his sister were cared for, leaving him free to return to London and the intriguing Eleanor Eastwick.





Eleanor





“Is a marquess a higher rank than an earl, Eleanor?”

The twisted edge of her latticed pie was not crimping particularly evenly. Eleanor wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing wrong, but after undoing and re-doing the braided dough several times, she still found it to resemble a lumpy sack of boots and gave up. The girls were particular when it came to the parts of a bird they were willing to have on a plate before them, she had learned. If the meat was too dark and oily, Coraline would push it around her plate, building elaborate sculptures in hopes that Eleanor would be satisfied with her architectural ingenuity and not insist she eat. If the shape of the poor fowl was still discernible, Lucy would pretend to swoon, insisting she couldn’t possibly bear to eat an innocent little pigeon.

Eleanor wasn’t willing to let a single scrap of good meat go to waste, and she had discovered that with the addition of peas and pearl onions and a gravy made from the pan drippings and handful of flour, the girls were far less picky with their pigeon pie the following night. Her pies might not be pretty, but they were obviously palatable, and Lucy and Coraline would both clean their plates without complaint.

Sighing, her eyes rolled up to the ceiling at the question. Lucy had been thoroughly consumed with thoughts of the nobility and their obnoxious visitor since the night he had come for tea. She asked questions about the different titles and stations the nobles held, how lands and titles were passed from son to son, occasionally breaking her educational learnings to sigh over how handsome the Marquis of Basingstone had been. Eleanor had not heard from Silas Stride since that evening he’d come to call, and with each day that passed, she reminded herself and Lucy alike that he had mentioned returning to Basingstone that same week, and besides, the assistance of noblemen was not assured. He was more likely to forget they even existed during his out-of-town absence as he was to come back prepared to assist.

“There’s only one way to find out, dear. There’s a book on the peerage on the lower shelf there.”

“Do you suppose the marquis is also attending the ball, Eleanor? Although,” Lucy sighed dramatically, “he’s so handsome, I’m certain he already has a betrothed.”

Far more likely that he has a different ladies’ bedroom he visits every night, with a few brothels thrown in for good measure. Eleanor had done what she felt was her due diligence in looking into the reputation of one Lord Silas Stride. Hettie took the High Tea from the kitchen of the other family she visited each week, leaving them for her grandmother to read over breakfast the following day, and they had amassed a tidy stack of the scandal sheets, handy to use for kindling.

Adroit spectators may have noticed a certain duchess absent from her own soirée for more than just a few passing dances this past weekend. We have it on good authority that her sheets were thoroughly tumbled by a gentleman of rakish repute whose stony heart is no stranger to avid enthusiasts of our piping pot. One wonders if the duke is aware that his bride is paying more attention to the rooftop statuary than to her marital bed.

She had shaken her head in disgust, recognizing the thinly-veiled reference to Lord Stride. And then, only a few issues into the stack was another:

Eligible gentlemen hoping to land themselves a lady with hair as brilliant as an autumn sunset will have two fewer prospects to choose from this season. When last seen, this pair of identical copper pennies in silk slippers were in a carriage headed to the coast, disgraced after being found in flagrante delicto with a gentleman who was certainly not their escort. We have no doubt their devilish partner in this three-backed beast took wing before the early birds, leaving these sulking sisters to face the sun alone.