In the Arms of a Marquess(49)

Ben saw her coming and stepped away. The irony of it weakened her. Her heart raced for him alone.

She touched Marcus’s arm. He gripped her hands. His face looked pale, eyes peculiar. Not relieved. Frightened.

“The leathers snapped.” His voice came forth unsteadily. “He bolted.”

“You kept your seat commendably. Can you walk now?”

“I daresay my horse needs it. He is usually such a good-tempered fellow.” He drew her toward the animal, and she wondered if he forgot that he held her hand. He released her to take the reins, turning back toward the house in the distance. Heavy clouds spread across the far horizon, presaging rain.

Alethea and St. John approached upon horseback.

“Will you walk or shall we call a carriage?” Alethea’s eyes were warm.

Marcus went on as though he did not see them. Tavy mouthed Walk and continued at her betrothed’s side across the bumpy terrain, silent as the riders spread out, heading back, ancient ruins forgotten now. She scanned the field. Not far distant, Ben and Constance stood close, her hand in his, his head bent and their brows nearly touching. His lips moved as he spoke words Tavy could not hear. Words of comfort, no doubt.

The fear in Constance’s eyes had mirrored the terror in Tavy’s heart. She understood perfectly the need for such comfort, and it hurt more than she could bear.

By the time she and Marcus reached the house and he handed his horse’s ruined reins to a groom, the others had gone inside.

“I will check on my horse, Marcus. I don’t even know where it got to.” She pasted on a smile, but he did not return it.

“Of course, my dear.”

Tavy looked into his hazel eyes and saw nothing she recognized. Without another word, he moved toward the house.

She paused in the stable doorway, listening, then went forward along the long passage. A groom tugged his cap as she passed the box with Marcus’s horse. Stripped of saddle and bridle now, it hung its head low.

Ben stood just inside the tack room, leaning against the wall. The chamber smelled of leather and boot blacking. The saddle from Marcus’s horse sat in the center of the floor, beside it the ruined reins and bridle.

Tavy halted in the door frame. Without acknowledging her, Ben lifted his fist and his fingers uncurled. Upon his palm rested a spiny chestnut burr.

“It was beneath the saddle, wasn’t it?” she said.

“Under the blanket. Far forward, so as not to be a bother until the rider leaned into a gallop.”

“And the snapped reins?”

“Old leather. Mere unfortunate coincidence.”

Her heart felt odd in her chest, too large and heavy and empty at once.

Finally he met her gaze. His black eyes glinted in the remnants of daylight filtering through the window.

“Change your mind already? Not trying to do away with your fiancée before the vows are spoken, are you?”

“How can you jest about this?”

“I don’t know that I am entirely jesting.”

A shiver crept up her back, slow and bitter. “Why did you suspect foul play?”

“Because you told me to.”

A moment of silence spread between them. Slowly, Tavy’s eyes widened.

“When I came to your house in town?”

He nodded. Her heart turned about so hard she felt dizzy.

“You invented this shooting party because of what I asked you?”

“Clever idea, wasn’t it?” He tossed the burr into a waste bin. “Skilled beaters always rouse sluggish birds.”

Emotion boiled in her tight chest, everything she had felt since she saw him at the theater, every moment of confusion and anger, elation and hurt. She stepped into the room.

“Will you still deny to me who you are?”

He straightened, pushing away from the wall.

“I am a proprietor of the East India Company with an interest in maintaining peace and accord between my fellow proprietors and Parliament,” he said with perfect ease.

“Do you know,” she said, barely able to move her lips, “at times I think I could hate you.”

His gaze returned to hers, half lidded, the languid dip of his eyes accentuated. “I have always admired your candidness. But I am encouraged by your use of the conditional. Could hate is a good deal better than simply hate.”

Her throat tightened. “Can a person hate someone and want him at the same time?”

He regarded her steadily. “I should say so, when it is entirely possible, after all, to hate oneself.” He moved to the door, pausing beside her. “It was meant only to frighten your betrothed. He is too fine a horseman for his mount’s scare to have harmed him. If the leathers had not snapped, he would have brought the animal to heel on his own.”

She breathed him in, his nearness and scent and warmth. Despite everything she knew of him, nothing seemed to matter but the longing he created within her.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Let us just say habit.”

“You cannot prevent yourself from rescuing people.”

He laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “Something like that.” He lifted a hand between them, toward her shoulder. She closed her eyes, willing him to touch her again, even the slightest, most innocent contact. Aching for it. But none came, and when she opened her eyes he was gone.