In the Arms of a Marquess(24)

He had not forgotten how to, though. And now he had paved that path in case it should be needed.

He started toward the stairs.

“My lord,” his butler said, “Sir St. John’s carriage arrived in advance of Lord Nathans. The lady appeared interested in the house, so Mrs. Scott offered a tour in your absence.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scott. Where might I find them?”

“I suspect by now they will have reached the east wing, sir.”

Ben changed his direction, heading along the corridor to the public chambers. His housekeeper’s voice became audible as he crossed into the drawing room. He stopped short.

Octavia stood on the opposite side of the chamber in a pool of pale sunlight, her hair lit with a sprinkling of gold, face averted. A gown of winter white caressed her gentle curves and long slender legs, rendering her like the sylphlike image of Athena in the clouds, shoulders back, her stance perfectly at ease. The goddess come to life.

In his house.

Again.

“My lord.” His housekeeper’s voice came to him as though through cotton wadding. “The gentleman and his lady have retired to their chambers with the infant. I was showing Miss here the portrait of your brothers.”

Octavia’s head came around, her lips parted, brown eyes wide with honest dismay, and Ben knew himself to be, upon this occasion, thoroughly abandoned by all the gods.

“Good day, Miss Pierce.” He bowed.

“Lord Doreé.” Tavy could say nothing else, nor bring her shaking legs to manage a curtsy. She had not imagined she would meet him first alone at his house, or alone at all.

He was, impossibly, even more handsome than four nights ago at Lady Ashford’s, garbed now in clothing suited to the country, a loose coat, burgundy waistcoat, breeches that hugged his lean, muscular thighs, and top boots sprinkled with mud, a pair of gloves in one hand. His ebony hair was tousled as though he had just removed a hat, his face aglow from riding and his languid black eyes bright.

“It is quite a good likeness,” he said in an odd tone.

She could not form words. Or, apparently, thoughts.

He gestured behind her. “The portrait. My brothers were but twelve and thirteen at the time, but the artist captured them well.”

Tavy’s tongue would not unstick from the roof of her mouth. The housekeeper rescued her.

“How well I remember it. Masters Jack and Arthur could not be still through the sitting, fidgeting about like boys will do, like you all did once you came to live here, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Scott.” He smiled. “Has Miss Pierce yet seen the gallery?”

“No, my lord. We were to go there next.”

“Allow me to complete the tour, then. Lord and Lady Nathans have arrived and I suspect they would be best served by your capable ministrations.”

Mrs. Scott curtsied and departed. A pause ensued during which Tavy’s heart beat uncomfortably like the wings of a hummingbird and they stared at one another. Finally he filled the silence.

“The gallery offers a number of fine works.” His voice still sounded peculiar, but he moved toward the door in easy strides, motioning for her to precede him. “Including several of royals who visited Fellsbourne in one century or another.”

She tried to wet her lips enough to speak. “How interesting.” She stepped from the drawing room into a chamber lined with marble statuary.

“My father did not have a taste for European art,” he said close behind her, sending a skitter of nerves glistening along her spine. “My eldest brother expanded this collection. He was quite fond of classical subjects.”

“I see.” She did not pause to study the pieces, catching only a glimpse of a reclining Gaul, his impressive musculature covered by a minuscule loincloth, and an amorous Cupid and Psyche locked in an embrace in which the god’s hand rested upon his lady’s breast.

Tavy squeezed her eyes shut. This could not be happening. How could she have agreed to this? Any of it?

Cheeks aflame, she strode to the opposite door. It opened onto a ballroom. Pristine white walls rose to the second story, a carved balustrade running its length offering a view from above. A chandelier draped from the whitewashed ceiling, hundreds of tiny crystals reflecting the sunlight filtering through the windows, sparkling upon floorboards like a thousand diamonds. It was a spectacular chamber, but in all its glory, cold as ice.

She turned. He stood at the threshold, watching her.

“I beg your pardon,” she said quickly. “I am sorry to intrude on your party. You did not invite me and I cannot imagine that—”

“You needn’t be sorry.”

“My sister begged me to accompany them. With their son so new, you see, she is quite anxious and requires a great deal of comforting. I could not refuse her.”

“You are welcome here.”

Her throat went dry. “I am?”

He nodded.

Of course. Why would it matter to him whether she was in his house or in Timbuktu? He hadn’t cared for her whereabouts for seven years. He certainly would not care now, as his calm demeanor suggested. The anxious anticipation Tavy had nursed for days abruptly deflated, leaving only the awful, humming awareness of his presence.

He did not advance into the chamber, but his gaze remained steady upon her. Tavy’s heartbeat sped, her hands damp. She should have remained in London. She could not bear this, the memory of wanting him beside the newness of knowing him again so perfunctorily. And he was not making it any easier on her, his black eyes intense and distant at once.