In the Arms of a Marquess(29)

The next day the house was in chaos readying her birthday celebration, her formal introduction into society. Tavy floated through the hours in hazy anticipation of seeing him again, imagining how he would ask her to dance, his black eyes glimmering with quiet pleasure as they always did when he looked at her. She dressed with care she had never before taken in her appearance, donning a simple white gown with pearled beads on the bodice, and arranging her hair elegantly, all in a daze of excitement.

The party went on, and on, and still he did not arrive. Near midnight, heart in a heated twist, she approached her aunt and asked if Lady Doreé had sent word she could not attend.

“That family was not invited,” Aunt Imene replied, face gaunt from her long convalescence.

Confusion flooded Tavy’s young, earnest breast.

“They were on the list,” she said through a tight throat. “You asked who I wished to attend and I gave you a list.”

“I altered it as I saw fit.”

“Oh, of course, you did not invite them because they are in mourning,” she said, her disappointment heavy.

“I did not invite them because you may not associate with them. You do not fully understand matters, but now that you are out in society you will learn. Tonight, however, we will not discuss it.”

Face flaming with mingled shame and fury, Tavy barely made it into the garden before tears spilled onto her cheeks. Pressing her face into her palms, she leaned against the vast spreading banyan tree and sobbed.

“Someone forget to bring a gift?” a soft, deep voice came through the darkness.

She whirled around. Ben stood a yard away, his mouth curved into a gentle arc at one side, eyes teasing. Tavy’s knees turned to jelly.

“N-No. I—I only—” She could not grin in response. She could not even speak. He was here. He had come and her world seemed suddenly complete and bottomless again at once.

He stepped closer, tilting his head curiously.

“You look a bit unsteady. Too much birthday champagne, shalabha?”

“None.” Her intoxication came solely from him, his gaze, his nearness.

She should have anticipated this. She had dreamed about him from that moment two years earlier when he swept her onto his horse, rescuing her. Over the past weeks she had merely pretended otherwise, and his lovely, undemanding companionship lulled her into familiarity.

But there was nothing familiar about the heat he stirred now in every corner of her body as he gazed at her and his smile faded.

He reached forward and ever so lightly brushed the moisture from her face with his thumb. His hand lingered, fingertips light upon her jaw. Holding her breath, Tavy leaned her cheek into his palm. She stared at his beautiful sensitive mouth, unable to look higher to his eyes to discover what she feared, that her longing was alone, that he did not feel it too.

“What has made you weep, shalabha?” His voice soothed, but the agitation in her blood would not be stilled.

“I wanted you to come,” she whispered. “To be here tonight. But my aunt—”

“I am here now.” His other hand came around her face, tilting it up. The onyx depths of his eyes seemed lit from within, sparks dancing there as bright as the yearning inside her.

She placed her palm upon his chest. He took in a quick breath, his heartbeat fast beneath her hand. Inside Tavy something seemed to open, to shimmer with yearning.

She whispered, “Kiss me again.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he slid the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. She felt it all the way to her toes. He lowered his head and touched his mouth to hers.

Sweet, sweet heaven, was this what it was to kiss a man one was in love with? Like jumping off a cliff and coming home both at once. He lifted his mouth and her entire being rushed to the place where his breath feathered across her lips. His shoulders rose in a heavy inhalation.

“Octavia, I—”

“Again.” She trembled. “Please.”

He did, bending to her and kissing her softly, repeatedly, and she melted. He felt familiar and new at the same moment, his strong hands, his scent and texture. She offered her lips and he teased them gently, as though still hesitant. But inside her a spark ignited, growing and expanding as he touched her with beautiful tenderness, holding her face in his hands like the finest porcelain he feared to break.

She wanted to touch him too. She laid her hands upon his arms. Beneath the finely woven linen he was hard and contoured, like nothing she had ever felt, and a wash of sensation rushed through her, funneling from her chest in a V-shape downward. Her lips parted on a breath of surprise.

He brought their bodies together and pressed her lips open with the pressure of his. His heat poured into her, his long, lean frame against her, and the kiss changed. She felt him at the edges of her mouth, touching her inside, and she got drunk with it. He licked at the inner line of her lips, using his tongue as though he were tasting her, kissing like he might shortly eat her, and Tavy gave up all pretense of modesty. She followed, letting him touch her so intimately, widening her lips so he could do it more, her body rushing with sensations wholly foreign and dazzling. She had never imagined a kiss could be like this, hot and all consuming, mouths and bodies fitting to each other as though fashioned to be one, completely on fire.

He kissed her throat, her jaw, and lips again, their breaths mingling fast and mouths hungry. She clutched at his shoulders, needing to be closer, hot and aching everywhere, frantic in her skin.