In the Arms of a Marquess(3)

“Uncle, what does shalabha mean?”

Chapter 1

HORIZON. That circle which seems to bound our view, or limit our prospect, either at sea or on land.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine

Madras, 1821

Miss Octavia Pierce came fully into her looks at the advanced age of five-and-twenty, several thousand miles away from England and in the midst of a monsoon.

Lounging in a shadowed parlor, hand wrapped around the stem of a fan in an attempt to stir the moisture laden air, her elder sister, Alethea, noticed the softening of Octavia’s sharp jaw, the gentler curve of lips no doubt due to less biting upon them, and the lengthening of fine, red-gold hair that should never have been cut short to suit fashion. She noted too the elegant, stiff set of her sister’s slender shoulders, the once-wild chestnut brows now plucked into perfect submission, the smooth cheeks and rather too temperate brown eyes.

“Tavy,” Alethea said, “when did you stop laughing aloud?”

Octavia’s gaze remained on the letter in her hand. “What on earth are you talking about? I still laugh aloud.” The sheet of foolscap was crossed and recrossed with their mother’s spindly scrawl. Her brow beetled.

“No, you do not. I wonder when it happened.”

“During some monsoon over the past eight and a half years, I daresay.” Tavy glanced up again. “This is the third time this week you have asked me some silly question like that, Thea. The rain has sunk you into the dismals. Would you like me to fetch a glass of tea for you? Cook made some with mint and fennel this morning.”

“You have become a beauty, Octavia.”

Tavy lowered the letter. “Oh. You’ve gone batty.”

“You have. Look at your elegant gown straight from Paris, your shining hair, your lovely figure. And it is not only your appearance. Everyone in Madras adores you.”

“They pretend to because I am the only one who tells the truth around here, and they are all afraid I will tell the truth about them someday too. Behind my back, they crucify me.” She wrinkled her nose. “Now, you are making me ill with this line of commentary. Cease.” She put a hand to the shuttered window and pressed it open to allow in more light along with a whorl of damp air. Returning her attention to the letter, she took her lower lip between her teeth. “Thea, what did you write to Mama about me most recently?”

Agitated chatter an octave higher than either woman’s voice erupted from the banister along the covered porch. Tavy extended her arm through the open window and a tiny black and brown ball of fur and limbs streaked up it, settling atop her shoulder.

“Hello, Lal. You are back early. Did you find anything tasty in Lady Doreé’s kitchen today?” She stroked the monkey as it curled its spindly arms around her neck, and glanced at her sister again. “What did you write, Thea?”

“She asked me how you were getting along.”

“She asked why I am not yet married.”

Alethea’s fanning slowed. “It is time to go home, sister.”

Tavy stilled, not allowing her reaction to show—the jump in her pulse, the frisson of panic across her shoulders. Her sister was correct in one respect. She had grown nearly expert at hiding her emotions. On the outside.

“Why now? Finally?”

“There is malaria in the old quarter.”

“There has been malaria in the old quarter before, and the new. We did not leave then.”

Alethea’s palm slipped over her abdomen. “This time I have greater reason for caution.”

Tavy’s mouth popped open. Alethea smiled, hazel eyes sparkling. Tavy threw herself across the chamber and her arms about her sister.

“Finally. Oh, finally.” She pulled back, gazing with delight and wonder at Alethea’s lap. “When did you know?”

“March.”

“March?” she exclaimed. “And you did not tell me? But that would explain St. John’s distraction lately. Well, more than his usual distraction.”

“After so many years, it seems too good to be true.”

Tavy grasped her sister’s hands. “I am so, so very happy for you. For St. John. For me! I shall be an aunt. How positively lovely. But you will have this baby on board ship.”

“Perhaps. The doctor is coming along, and we will make few stops. St. John is seeing to the arrangements now. There is something to be said for one’s husband having influence over a number of fast vessels.” Alethea’s gaze sobered. “You will not mind going home?”

Tavy stood and moved toward the window again, an odd restlessness slipping through her. She reached to her shoulder, and Lal curled his tail around her fingers, a comforting gesture. But she did not need comforting, she reminded herself firmly. She had always known she would someday go home.

“When Father allowed me to come to India, it was only to be for a year or two, living with Aunt Imene and Uncle George,” she said with forced lightness. “That I remained so much longer after you and St. John came astounds me as well as anyone.”

Alethea took up the letter Tavy had set down on the sofa. “I see Marcus Crispin has been awarded a title.”

“For his service in that Singapore affair.” Tavy told herself not to chew on her thumbnail then did so anyway, cringing when her sister’s gaze narrowed.

“He called upon Papa?”