In the Arms of a Marquess(65)

“But I started it all, didn’t I? I have no one to blame but myself for going to your house that day and asking for help. Nothing but”—another lie—“my foolish curiosity.” She had only wished to see him again. To know him once more.

“Rather, your desire to help him.”

The air went out of her. “The blackmailer’s name is Sheeble. He is demanding that Marcus sign a document that will allow illegal cargo to leave port without detection by authorities.”

The last of the guests left the drawing room. Only a footman remained at the doors to the foyer. Merry conversation emanated from the dining chamber. Tavy’s elbow nudged a glass upon the piano, the pungent aroma of its contents lifting to her. She took up the glass and drank the liquid in a gulp, coughing on the fumes.

“It won’t help,” Ben said softly. “Believe me.”

Her gaze snapped up. His eyes were so dark, so beautiful and intense despite their indolent dip. She could fall into them and never have the will to climb out again.

So she must not accidentally trip.

“It’s best that I be the judge of that.” She set down the glass with a jittering clack. A single black brow upon his handsome face rose. She pursed her lips and his gaze went to them. “Do not look at my mouth.”

“I cannot seem to prevent myself from doing so.”

“It makes me think things I should not.”

“I would like quite a lot to hear what things in particular.”

“I daresay you can imagine.”

“I daresay. Still, hearing them upon your tongue would please me.” From the brightness of his eyes, it seemed as though it would please him a great deal.

“It would put me to the blush. In any case, we should not be having this conversation.”

“Perhaps not here. And your blush is very becoming. Everywhere it appears.”

Tavy’s breaths came fast. “I do not think this is—”

He covered her hand still gripping the glass, peeled her fingers loose, and her skin seemed to melt to his. Her entire body. She ought to have worn gloves tonight. She ought to have worn a whole suit of armor, for heaven’s sake.

“I cannot stop thinking about you.” His rough voice rumbled across her senses.

She breathed fast. “Are you for some reason obliged to?”

The crease appeared in his cheek. But he released her. She nearly grabbed him back again.

She straightened her shoulders. “I intend to tell Marcus tomorrow that our betrothal is at an end. Again.”

He did not flicker a lash. “As you wish.”

“You do not want me to obtain any further information through this method?”

“No.”

Her insides crimped with panic. “Then I suppose we will not see one another again, since you go about in society so irregularly.”

Furrows formed between his brows. The slightest shadow of the day’s whiskers hinted about his jaw. Her body’s memory felt that roughness again upon her neck and the insides of her thighs.

“I would like to call upon you,” he said. “May I?”

“I have heard that request before. I do not quite believe it this second time.”

Emotions crossed her face in rapid play. Surprise and doubt. But also hope. Ben’s chest expanded, anticipation pressing against hot relief.

“Perhaps I do not deserve it,” he said, “but allow me the honor. Please.”

She hesitated a moment then nodded. Her gaze shifted to the dining chamber door. But Ben could not turn away from her. The candlelit angle of her jaw and the slope of her throat held him rapt.

“Octavia,” Constance hissed across the chamber. “You are missed.”

Without another word, Octavia moved around him and away. He leaned back against the piano, steadying himself. Constance took Octavia’s arm and drew her into the dining chamber. Lady Fitzwarren replaced them in the doorway.

“Doreé, I must speak with you at once.” She strode forward purposefully.

He bowed. “I am at your service, my lady.”

“Don’t play the pretty with me. You think you know what I have to say but you haven’t the slightest idea.” She halted before him, a swirl of violet perfume.

“I beg you to offer me enlightenment, ma’am.” He had known Mellicent Fitzwarren since his days at Cambridge. Ashford’s godmother, Lady March, had introduced him to the dowager. For what purpose, he hadn’t been wise enough at the time to understand, but he had quickly come to. Lady Fitzwarren knew everyone in town and was as sharp as a tack. That she and Lady Ashford seemed to be Octavia’s patronesses now was sheer . . . coincidence.

Ben did not believe in coincidence.

“That girl must marry soon,” the lady stated, “and I do not mean Octavia Pierce. Not at the moment, rather.”

No coincidences. Not in Ben’s life.

“You refer to Lady Constance?”

“Intelligent man. Like your father.” She snapped him on the chest with the tip of her furled fan. “Which is precisely to the point. I hoped to say this to you at Fellsbourne, but hadn’t the opportunity. Those graves are no longer fresh but the mystery surrounding your father and brother’s deaths still is. You must investigate it and put it to rest or that darling girl will never release herself from that tragic bond.”