In the Arms of a Marquess(50)

Chapter 13

To TOUCH. When a ship’s sails first begin to shiver, either occasioned by an alteration in the ship’s course, or by a change of the wind.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine

The gentlemen remained at the dinner table long after the ladies retired to the drawing room. When they finally appeared, the party lacked several lords. Tavy forced her gaze away from Ben and waited for Marcus to come through the doorway. But he did not.

“Thoroughly cup-shot by now, I’ll merit,” Lady Fitzwarren mumbled at Tavy’s side on a satin sofa. “Not the ideal moment to cry off, my dear.”

“Cup-shot?”

“He took four glasses of wine with dinner, two before, and port after. Not far ahead of the others, though. Must be a celebration of the final night of their holiday in the country in such grand style. Men of business take their leisure very seriously, don’t you know.” She selected a sugarcoated delicacy from the tea tray, poked it between her lips, and chewed thoughtfully. “Dear girl, you must begin to notice such mundane details or you will be lost in society. But I suppose you only ever had eyes for the wonderful and fascinating.”

The wonderful and fascinating.

Tavy only had eyes for the Marquess of Doreé, and she was indeed lost. She tried to ignore the pounding in her blood, but at dinner she had only heard his voice amongst the many. She had eaten little, spoken less, and in general behaved like an absolute ninny.

He had invited all these people to Fellsbourne because he trusted in what she had told him at his house in town. He withheld the truth from her, made her feel like a fool, tempted her into indiscretion, and then treated her poorly. Her cheeks were hot, hands damp, tongue numb.

“Where do you suppose he has gone?”

“He is right over there, of course.” The dowager gestured across the drawing room with a scented puce kerchief, directly at Ben.

Tavy’s face flamed. She darted a glance about the chamber, but the others were all busy in conversations. Several of the gentlemen were indeed bleary-eyed. Lord Gosworth laughed too loudly. Even St. John wavered upon his feet. Tavy could not look at Ben to see if he was foxed too. She had clearly lost the knack of hiding her thoughts.

She stood like a top popping, upending her tea plate. “I will go check on Jacob and Alethea, and then retire.” She set the plate back upon the table with a little clatter.

Lady Fitzwarren rolled her eyes upward, brows steepled. “My dear, tomorrow we depart.”

Tavy hid her quivering hands in her skirt. “Yes, yes.” She could practically feel Ben in the room with the tiny hairs on her skin, like some insect’s antennae. It was unendurable.

Lady Fitzwarren examined Tavy’s twisted skirt.

“Are you certain you wish to go up just yet?”

“Of course.” She covered a pretended yawn with her palm, nerves jittering. “Today’s events overset me rather more than I like.” More than anything in years. Seven years. “I am perfectly fagged. Good night, Aunt Mellicent.” She swung around and nearly smacked into Lady Constance.

“Octavia, dear, are you leaving us so soon?” Her lovely azure eyes seemed to ask more. Or perhaps Tavy’s imagination invented it. Her head spun with guilt and confusion and edgy, unfocused anticipation.

“I am truly done in for the evening.”

Constance grasped her hand. “But won’t you remain and sing while I play for you, then we can end the holiday upon a more comfortable note, quite literally.”

Tavy snatched her fingers away. “No. No, thank you. You play so beautifully I would only ruin it with my indifferent voice. Good night.” She dipped a curtsy and fled.

Heart speeding and legs shaking, she hardly knew where to go. Her bedchamber loomed like a prison offering nothing but an endless night of pacing.

She hurried out through the parlor’s terrace doors into the garden, to the pebbled path. Peeking from behind thick, black thunderclouds, a corpulent moon lit the formal beds and walkways, illuminating every leaf, petal, stone, and flower in silvery-blue brilliance. Tavy walked quickly, and far. Exertion would work the fidgets from her blood and clear her head.

She came to the covered trellis where Ben had kissed and touched her, and her labors fell to ruin. Standing within its shadow, she felt everything again, his heat, his intimate caresses, the pain from his words.

She whirled about and rushed back to the house.

Bed. She would go to bed and tomorrow she would be free of his impossible presence again in her life. After that she would avoid places he might be, a simple enough task given the wives’ gossip. He was not universally received in society. Tavy could manage her life perfectly well without ever encountering him again.

Windows were dark as she neared the house and entered through the parlor. She paused. Marcus sat hunched over in a chair near the sputtering fire, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The terrace door snapped shut but he did not respond until she stood before him and spoke his name.

“Octavia?” His eyes were streaked with red, his aristocratic face pale, thick hair mussed from his fingers raking through it. Even his cravat was askew and crushed.

“Marcus, are you unwell?”

He grabbed her fingers.

“Stay with me. Do not leave.” His voice was clotted, and the pungent scent of wine soaked the air.

She tugged at her hand but he held it fast.