In the Arms of a Marquess(45)

He could not. Not tonight or any other night, and not only because of the cuckolded tosspot in his library. He could not do it because of the woman sleeping elsewhere in his house. Not even for her sake. It felt too much like a betrayal. A betrayal of a woman who should mean nothing to him yet for whom he designed his every action and word.

He scrubbed a hand across his face. If he had truly left behind those days of bowing to his uncle’s will, he must leave them all behind. She was marrying another man and yet she kissed him with a hunger equal to his, like Priscilla Nathans giving herself to him while the man she owed her loyalty to slept nearby.

He pushed away from the door, disgust roiling through his gut, for the woman he had just left panting, for the one he wanted, and for himself most of all. For years he had avoided this tangle of regret and desire by avoiding anything that would remind him of the young man he had once been. He lived quietly on the peripheries of society, and damn it, he’d been happy. At least content.

Then Octavia Pierce stepped back into his life.

He strode down the corridor, blind, but not from the dim lighting. Blind, confused, and angry because after seven years he was a puppet once more dancing to another’s tune. But there was no puppet master at whom to direct his anger now. Only himself.

Tavy clamped a palm to her mouth and willed herself not to be ill. Why hadn’t she remained in the nursery for a minute longer? Then she would not have seen him. Her. Him kissing her. Her hand upon his—

She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and willed away the image, throat thick.

She must not cry. Foolish girls cried. Foolish girls who believed a man’s pretty words. And now she hadn’t even pretty words. He had kissed her the day before, touched her, but never said he wanted her. Not this time. This time he had done it to hurt her.

The corridor was silent. They must be in her bedchamber now. Tavy’s knees shook. She had been quick enough to steal back into the darkness of the adjacent corridor as soon as she glimpsed the tableau around the corner. But now she lacked the steadiness of nerves to move.

She must. She remembered so well her own cries when he had given her pleasure. She could not bear it now if she had to hear—

She shoved away from the wall, ran along the corridor and threw herself into a shadowed alcove. Sinking against the wall, she covered her face with her palms.

“What am I doing?” she whispered, wanting Lal’s arms about her neck, his soft comforting croon in her ear. For years he had been her sole confidant, holding her secrets silently. Nearly seven years, since she began keeping secrets.

“What have I already done?” She should not have allowed the betrothal to last even these few days, not with her heart full of another man. Ben touched her and she came alive. He spoke and something profound and powerful inside her swelled. He caught her staring at him and she hadn’t the strength to look away.

She pressed her face into her hands. She must escape him. Perhaps she could go to the countryside with Alethea. But St. John’s work kept him in town. Perhaps a seaside cottage alone? She could hire a companion. Or back to India, four thousand miles away? Uncle George still lived in Calcutta.

All foolishness. No distance would suffice. It never had.

He was not the man she wanted to want. He took what he wished without regard for others, as he had done with her years ago. But she could not live the rest of her life in that shadow. Tomorrow she must end her betrothal. Then she would apologize to Alethea for abandoning her and Jacob, and she would leave.

Chapter 12

To UNRIG a ship is to deprive her of the standing and running rigging, &c.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine

“Your beau seems distracted, Octavia.” Lady Fitzwarren bit into a lemon biscuit. “Have you given him his congé? That would explain it.”

Tavy’s hand jerked upon her teacup and tea splashed onto her skirt. “His what?” Her voice cracked.

Alethea’s head came up from her sewing.

“His rejection, dear girl,” the dowager said.

Tavy set her thumbnail between her teeth then withdrew her hand and bit her lip instead. She glanced at her sister. “I intended to this morning.”

“You did?” Alethea sat forward, setting her work aside.

“Aha.” The dowager’s gaze sharpened. “Then why haven’t you yet?”

“He has made himself scarce.”

“Nonsense. He was in the breakfast room and went out shooting with the gentlemen after that.”

“Scarce from me,” Tavy specified.

“Perhaps he senses your intent. But more importantly, what brought you to this point?”

Alethea’s soft gaze seemed to repeat Lady Fitzwarren’s query.

“I cannot really say.”

“No matter. Tomorrow we will all return to town and—”

“Tomorrow?” She wanted precisely this. But her stomach tightened.

“Tomorrow.” Lady Fitzwarren drew out the word, peering at Tavy above her teacup. Her gaze shifted to the parlor doorway.

“There you are.” Marcus entered. “I have been looking for you all over this cavernous place.”

Tavy allowed him to take her hand but she withdrew it momentarily.

“You are dressed for riding. Are you leaving?” All morning her thoughts had been muddled, head heavy from lack of sleep. What had seemed such a practical plan in the middle of the night seemed like wretched cowardice in the light of day. Walking earlier with her sister and the baby had convinced her that she could not bear even the thought of deserting Alethea now.