In the Arms of a Marquess(34)

Tavy could not help but laugh. Lady Constance was precisely her age, with the appearance of a goddess and the character, apparently, of a girl not yet out of the schoolroom. She, obviously, had not struggled for years to quash that girl. Or if she had, she’d done a poor job of it.

Tavy nodded gravely. “It is always best to have a plan.”

A twinkle lit the beauty’s eyes, and just like that, despite herself, Tavy gave over her affection. It would no doubt prove horridly inconvenient when he married her. But she had never been very wise in that way.

Tavy was reminded precisely how unwise immediately. Ben entered the drawing room and his gaze came to her and Lady Constance. Shivers of heat and cold passed through her.

“Miss Pierce,” Lady Constance said, “may I call you by your given name? My father says I am always wretchedly overfamiliar, but may I tell you a secret?”

Tavy nodded, her stomach tight.

“I feel terribly out of place here amongst all these Company people and would be grateful for a friend.” Her gaze flickered about the chamber, a fretful light in it for a moment.

“My name is Octavia.”

“Lovely. And you will dispense with the title and simply call me Constance. Ben calls me Connie when he is unhappy with me, but I do not care for that at all.”

“I cannot imagine that he is unhappy with you often,” she managed, swallowing back a wretched lump in her throat. He had kissed her, in his house, with this beautiful woman beneath his roof. It had been the best and worst thing Tavy experienced in seven years. Marcus, the man who had proposed marriage to her, possibly knew. But only now did she feel like a betrayer.

“Oh, well, no. You are correct.” Lady Constance smiled, but not as brightly. “He is very patient with me.”

The butler announced dinner. Marcus approached, a blithe smile upon his face, and drew Tavy’s hand through his elbow.

“Lady Constance, may I take you in to dinner upon the arm that my fiancèe does not occupy?”

Constance’s gaze slewed to Tavy, her winged brows lifted.

“Thank you, Lord Crispin. And may I congratulate you, Miss Pierce, on your betrothal?”

Tavy could say nothing. Marcus pressed his elbow to his side, trapping her fingers against him like he was trapping her into marriage with these public statements. He wished to force her hand. Perhaps he feared she would discover the secret of his blackmailer and refuse him.

Her gaze darted about the chamber as guests headed toward dinner. Amidst the ten titled proprietors of the East India Company, at least one must have information that could lead her to answers about Marcus’s blackmailer. Their wives were a mixed lot, some tradesmen’s daughters, others like Lady Nathans impoverished noble daughters sold to the highest bidder during their come-out seasons. Tavy would interview them all and discover information to confront Marcus, either to help or refuse him. And if a refusal made her into a jilt in the eyes of society, that must be the price she paid for once again giving a man her trust.

Tavy tasted dinner, but her stomach would not unwind. At the foot of the table, Lady Constance rose, and Tavy welcomed the ladies’ retirement. Slipping onto the sofa beside her sister in the drawing room, she watched Constance move to the pianoforte and draw back the lid.

“Why do you suppose Lady Constance and Lord Doreé are not yet married?” Alethea whispered. “I understand it has been some time since they were expected to wed, and she must be quite a few seasons out of the schoolroom.”

“I suppose one is not truly on-the-shelf when one is nearly spoken for,” Tavy murmured as the gentlemen entered the drawing room from their port. Ben came last, beside the man who had spoken to Tavy during the dance at Lady Ashford’s. Lord Styles spoke with an easy smile. The marquess’s hands were clasped behind his back as he listened. His gaze shifted to Lady Constance at the piano and then he went to her.

“Will you play for us, Lord Doreé?” Lady Nathans said in the perpetually silky tones Tavy had already learned to dislike. “I understand you have a marvelous talent.”

Ben cast her a glance, smiling slightly, and seated himself beside the goddess at the instrument.

“Schubert, my lord?” Lady Constance inquired.

He nodded. “As you wish.”

They played beautifully. Tavy tried to drag her gaze away but could not.

“They are a gorgeous pair,” Alethea whispered.

A gorgeous pair, indeed, ideally suited, her golden beauty, his dark perfection. Why weren’t they wed?

Perhaps because he was a faithless cur who left women crying for him four thousand miles away then years later kissed them like he would swallow them whole? Because with a woman like Constance Read waiting faithfully to marry him, why hurry matters when other opportunities beckoned?

Tavy’s gaze slipped to Priscilla Nathans. The glint in the lady’s emerald eyes as she watched Ben was positively proprietary. A woman would not look at a man that way unless she had reason for confidence in his attentions.

In the seven years since her abrupt initiation into sensual pleasure, Tavy had educated herself about such matters, eavesdropping more assiduously than ever, still listening at doors and cracks but with a more mature interest. She had learned one important lesson through these endeavors: Ladies like Priscilla Nathans were not uncommon, and gentlemen who took advantage of them apparently did so without hesitation or shame.