In the Arms of a Marquess(46)

Marcus bowed to Alethea. “Lady Pennworthy, your husband requested a tour of the estate after Lord Styles mentioned some old Roman ruins on it. Our host suggested we go upon horseback.” His eyes smiled. “It seems Sir St. John hopes you will take the opportunity for fresh air, ma’am.”

Alethea stood. “I was awake most of the night with Jacob. I suppose a ride would do me good. Come, Octavia, let us go change our clothes.”

Tavy hesitated. “Perhaps I will remain here with Lady Fitzwarren and continue my—my . . .”

Everyone looked at her. Alethea’s gaze was gentle, Marcus’s curious, and the dowager’s unrepentantly skeptical.

Tavy sucked in a breath. “A ride sounds lovely.” She paused at the door. “Marcus, I should like the opportunity to speak with you privately while we are out, if it is possible.”

“Of course, my dear.”

Alethea asked her nothing as they climbed the stairs to their adjoined bedchambers. Entering the compartment, she squeezed Tavy’s fingers.

“St. John and I fell in love over a cluster of ancient ruins.” She smiled, but her gaze looked oddly intent.

“What on earth are you trying to say to me, Thea? That if I glance at a few moss-covered rocks with Lord Crispin my heart will finally be lost to him?”

Alethea lifted Tavy’s hand and seemed to study her fingertips one at a time. She released them. “No,” she said and crossed into her chamber. “Not him.” She shut the door. Tavy stared at it for a hard minute then continued to her own chamber.

She met the others in the stable. The sun sparkled, still high enough to promise hours more of bright daylight, and the sky shone crisply blue with a skimming of clouds upon the horizon.

“What a lovely day for an outing.” Lady Gosworth’s black curls bounced about round cheeks.

“I understand Doreé has an excellent stable,” her husband commented, peering into stalls. Tavy breathed in the earthy, comforting scent of the animals, and an arm stole through hers, slender and wrapped in cherry red velvet.

“You will ride my favorite mount here.” Constance drew her forward, halting before a stall door. “He is so sweet and smooth, one barely knows one is galloping until the road has quite disappeared.” The long-legged bay came forward to poke its head over the partition. “Isn’t he perfect?”

“Perfect,” Tavy rasped. Ben walked toward them along the row of stalls. In snug-fitting breeches and dark coat, hat and crop in hand, hair slightly tousled, and gaze fixed upon her, he stole her breath. Her thoughts. Her very rationality.

“Lady Constance has chosen well for you, Miss Pierce.”

“Of course I have.” Constance pursed her lips. “How could I have done otherwise?”

“Pray forgive me, madam.” He bowed neatly. “I forgot myself.”

“Never do it again.”

“I shall endeavor not to, but I may fail miserably.”

“No doubt.” Constance’s eyes twinkled.

Tavy’s palms were damp. She had never spoken with them together. Only a thorough cad could maintain such a light mien, relaxed stance, and roguish perfidy all at once.

“Now go.” Constance shooed him away. “Be off to mount your other guests as you see fit. Miss Pierce is mine.”

His gaze flickered to Tavy. “I will see you upon the road shortly, then.” He bowed once more and moved away. She looked after him. She could not seem to prevent it.

“Constance, I am glad I have come to know you this week.”

“Dear me, I hope not only for this week. You sound as though you plan to depart for some foreign clime again shortly.”

Tavy smiled and shifted her gaze back to the beauty. The red of Constance’s hat, gold of her hair, and high white collar surrounded her lovely face like an intricate frame.

“Will you accept Lord Doreé if he asks for your hand?” She had to know. She could not bear another moment uncertain.

“As you have accepted Lord Crispin?” Constance’s blue eyes widened innocently, but perception winked within them.

“No.” Tavy could not lie outright. She had never been able to do so with any success, and this woman who had shown her only friendship did not deserve it. “Not like that.”

Constance tilted her head.

“Miss.” A groom appeared. “Milord bade me saddle up this one for you.” He gestured to the gelding.

“I will fetch my mare and find you again upon the drive,” Constance said lightly and disappeared. The moment was gone. Tavy could not ask again. Nor would she. The answer, after all, should not matter to her.

Once the entire party was mounted, they started along the drive toward the road. Beyond an orchard of apple trees, the grass beneath speckled with fruit, a grassy field stretched obliquely toward the river. Lord Gosworth, St. John, Alethea, and several others headed across it. Content to remain far behind the enigmatic presence of her host, Tavy allowed her smooth-gaited gelding to lope along with the ladies’ rather more staid mounts until they slowed to a walk and entered upon the path across the field.

Lord Styles dropped back to bring his splendid white stallion alongside Constance’s mare, and the marquess accompanied him.

“Lord Doreé,” Lady Gosworth called, “this horse is delightful and your estate is ever so charming.”