In the Arms of a Marquess(58)

“I will need assistance with my corset and gown, if you will.” He had made short work of removing them the night before. She had no doubt he possessed sufficient experience with the opposite.

She tugged the chemise over her head and stood to don the rest. Settling the stays about her ribs, she turned her back to him. His fingers brushed hers as he laced. Before she could reach for the gown, he took it up and helped her into it as handily as any lady’s maid, except that his height made it a great deal easier. Tavy’s stomach hurt. Everything inside her hurt.

His hands stilled upon the fasteners, moved to her shoulders, and he drew her back against his chest. He inhaled deeply and she steeled herself against the swell of warmth within her. It was not real.

Gently he gathered her hair and pulled it aside, his breath tender upon her neck.

“Why did you ask me about Constance last night?”

“She is my friend. I did not wish to betray her.”

He was silent a moment. “And yet—before—you had no qualms about your fiancée.”

Tavy held her breath. He needn’t know about the sham quality of the betrothal. It would only shame Marcus, and it would make no difference to Ben. He wanted her, but he would not have her for more than temporary enjoyment. Just as before. He had now made that perfectly clear once more.

He stepped back, leaving her cold again.

“Tell Crispin that you will marry him.”

She pivoted around. “What?”

“Tell him your acceptance is conditional upon him divulging to you the blackmailer’s name and purpose. Then, when he gives you that information, tell me.”

She choked down her rising gorge. This could not be happening.

“You are who I thought. You are your uncle’s heir.”

He did not respond, his sober regard never wavering. Gone entirely was the tender man who had watched her while she slept.

“You would do anything to accomplish what you must, wouldn’t you?”

For a moment he did not reply. Then he nodded. They stared at each other, Tavy’s heartbeat labored.

Ben moved close again, lifted her chin with his fingertips and placed a soft, perfect kiss upon her lips. Then another, this time lingering. Perhaps a last kiss, but when he drew away his eyes were warm, gentle once more. Another of his pretenses, or truth, she had no idea.

“Now, go.” His voice was low. “Go make amends with your betrothed.”

Tavy wanted nothing else than to throw herself into his arms and beg him to never release her.

She straightened her shoulders, slid her feet into her slippers, and went to the door. No candle lit the corridor, but she did not need light to guide her way. She was lost, and no material illumination could help her now.

Ben stared at the closed door, numb to his marrow. He had done what he needed, as he always did, and he hated his dead uncle, his family, and every person across the seas that depended upon him, more than ever before.

But he had spoken the truth. He should have been more careful of her—of her virtue, then of the future. He’d told himself that a woman who welcomed a man’s touch while betrothed to another could not be a maiden. A neat, believable excuse to take what he wanted, what he had wanted since nearly the first time he set eyes upon her. Then he had lost himself in her beyond the point of safety, easily, willingly. Intentionally. Because part of him wanted to bind her to him permanently, to make her his regardless of the consequences.

If she found herself increasing, he would wed her. But then he would never know the truth.

Distress had flashed in her lovely eyes when he had spoken of caution. She tried to mask it, but in this she was a poor dissembler. But perhaps that moment simply marked a quick shift in her approach to securing a titled husband. A rapid recalculation in the face of his resistance. Her honesty in passion told him he was wrong to believe it. But a woman who sought to dissemble was not after all entirely honest. When he instructed her regarding Crispin, her eyes had shone with astonishment, but also guilt. She had not told him everything about her arrangement with the baron.

Secrets. Dissembling. At one time he had thought Octavia Pierce incapable of such things. But that time had been brief, little longer than the night that had just passed in which she had given herself to him as to no other man. The blood on the bedclothes proved it just as his experience of her body did.

But before she had, she made certain he hadn’t already chosen a bride.

He knew not what to believe, only that he wanted her more than air, more than the life he had been given. Now, with the sweetness of her hunger still upon his skin, he could no longer do what he should have done the moment she stepped out of his house in London: forget she ever existed. Whether by design or simple nature, she had ensnared him, and he was bound. It only remained for fate to play out his hand.

Ben had no delusions of winning. The riches of the world were already his, wealth and influence beyond what many kings enjoyed. That he only wanted one thing, the simplest and yet most impossible to assure for a man like him, was his own eternal folly.

Chapter 16

BREAKERS. A name given by sailors to those billows that break violently over rocks lying under the surface of the sea.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine

At Sunday service in the chapel, Marcus appeared his usual self, all smiles and charm for the ladies and pleasantries for the gentlemen. But when the carriages arrived on the drive preparing to depart Fellsbourne, he came to Tavy with a sober brow. His eyes showed tiny rivulets of red and his skin seemed pale.