In the Arms of a Marquess(69)

She was laughing aloud with forced exuberance at one of Constance’s witticisms when they entered the house and her gaze met Ben’s. He stood arrested upon the third step of the staircase leading down from the second story, his hand on the rail. He wore riding breeches and his boots were streaked with dirt. His color was high.

“I have just been to your house,” he said directly to her without preamble or any sort of greeting to either of them, and Tavy’s fragile commitment to thorough indifference simply dissolved.

“Well, good day to you too, my lord.” Constance made an exaggerated curtsy, brows tilted high.

He seemed to recall himself. “Good day, ladies.” He bowed and glanced at her, but his gaze returned immediately to Tavy. “I hope you are well.”

Tavy nodded and curtsied. She could manage no more. He looked perfect, and tired, and so handsome, and somewhat strange. Lines flanked his beautiful mouth, not of pleasure but tension.

“We have come to see Lady Ashford, as you will imagine,” Constance said, taking Tavy’s hand. “So if you will step aside we will be on our way up.”

“Of course.” He came down the stairs and Constance pulled her past him. “Will you return home after this visit?”

Her throat constricted. It should not be this difficult. But something in his eyes seemed odd. Constance drew to a halt halfway up the stairs, allowing her to respond.

“Yes.” Brilliant. What a wit. What a composed, clever society ingenue.

He nodded, the brightness flickering into his gaze once more. Taking his hat and coat from the butler, he departed. Tavy forced air through her lungs.

In the parlor, Valerie sat amidst a chaos of open books, maps, writing paper, pen and ink.

“How lovely,” she exclaimed, and drew them to a cluster of seats removed from the disarray. “I thought I would not see you until tonight at the ball.”

“Whatever was Ben doing here?” Constance plopped down onto a satin ottoman, casting a glance at Valerie’s abandoned project. “Are you insisting that handsome lords pay court to you while your own handsome lord is absent from town?”

Valerie chuckled, but her gentle gaze slipped to Tavy. “He was here seeking out Steven, of course.”

“Are they well acquainted?” Tavy asked. She knew so little about the Marquess of Doreé, so little of what he did in London, how he spent his time and with whom he associated other than Baron Styles. He was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger still. She’d told herself that countless times over the past four days, but it had not made a dent in her unhappiness.

Valerie studied her for a moment. “Yes, they are. Quite well acquainted.” She turned to Constance. “Now, Constance, I have it on excellent authority that your father is coming to town next month.”

“Really? He has not told me. But he never bothers with that.”

“Fathers can be trying, it’s true,” the viscountess agreed.

Tavy stared at the door. She had nothing to tell him, no new information to impart, not even that she was no longer betrothed. The day after Lady Fitzwarren’s party, Marcus sent her a note announcing that he was suddenly required to leave town to see to his property in the country. He had not contacted her since. Just like Ben.

“See? She is entirely unaware that we are speaking of her.” Constance’s voice came to her slowly.

Tavy righted her thoughts. “What are you saying, then?” She blinked. “Have I a smudge upon my face or some such thing?”

“No, you are lovely.” The viscountess’s eyes were kind. “Only a bit preoccupied, it seems.”

“You should go home.” Constance smiled, a light sweet look. “We have already had quite a day of it and I am perfectly fagged. You must be as well.”

“If you wish.” Tavy rose. Constance did not. “Well?”

“Oh, go along without me.” Constance bussed her upon the cheek. “Valerie was telling me the most diverting tale while you were daydreaming and I must hear the end of it. I will call a chair when I have need.”

“Well, I like that. It seems I am being dismissed.”

Valerie chuckled. “Never. Now, go before you worry a hole in your reticule.”

Tavy released the pressure of her fingers around her purse. “All right. Thank you, I think. But I was not daydreaming. I was merely—”

Constance’s gaze dipped, hiding the expression in her azure eyes.

“—thinking,” Tavy finished lamely.

“Go think at home.” Constance looked up, her gaze uncustomarily vague. When Tavy hesitated, she waved her fingers, gesturing her away. Tavy gave Valerie a crooked smile and hurried to her carriage.

By the time she reached the house dusk had begun to fall. Too late for callers. Alethea and St. John had already departed for a dinner engagement. A footman was lighting lamps throughout the house. Tavy went to the nursery and looked in on her nephew, tiny, sleeping so peacefully, as yet wholly unaware of the tumult of life beyond the cradle. Lal crept across the chamber’s threshold. Before he could make a noise, Tavy stole back into the corridor.

Restive, her skin oddly tight over her flesh, she descended to the parlor. A maid was lighting the fire. She bobbed a curtsy and went to the windows to draw the curtains against the falling night. When she left, Tavy moved to a table before the darkened window and touched the embossed leather cover of the book there. A thick volume, pages frayed from constant use, William Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine had been Tavy’s bible for years. When her father first gave it to her, she was no more than fifteen, aching for adventure and travel, longing to follow her dreams.