In the Arms of a Marquess(70)

She ran a palm over the book’s smooth surface. She hadn’t questioned why her father bought it for her, simply dove into it, learning and memorizing week after week. Finally he explained. Soon she would be making a lengthy journey by ship, he informed her, thumbs tucked in his waistcoat, chest puffed out with pride. He wished her to be ready for any eventuality she might meet with at sea over the course of this journey. She was—he finished with gravity suitable to the moment—going to the East Indies.

Of the few treasures Tavy took upon her voyage to remind her of home and the sister and father she missed especially dearly, the dictionary was her most beloved. She wrote in the margins, using it as a diary of sorts, commenting on the people she encountered, sights she saw, all of her marvelous experiences abroad.

Two years later, after Ben broke her heart, such childish fancies had abruptly seemed foolish. But she kept the dictionary. She’d no idea how it had ended up on the table in the parlor. It belonged on the shelf stacked with the other works of reference that St. John kept for his business.

Not, however, including its current contents.

Tavy opened the cover and turned back the pages. In the center crease, the yellowed journal clippings crackled softly as she touched her fingertips to them.

A footstep sounded behind her.

Her head came up as hands surrounded her upper arms, large and warm and achingly familiar. She drew in a quick breath, his scent tangling in her senses—linen and leather and that ineffable essence that was Ben alone.

He bent and touched his lips to her shoulder alongside the collar of her dress. Hot, wonderful shivers stole through her. She breathed in deep and his mouth lingered. He kissed the curve of her neck, then the hollow beneath her ear, stirring the tendrils of hair that had escaped pins. She stretched like a cat, arching to encourage the seduction of velvet caresses, and a sigh escaped her parted lips.

His hands slipped along her arms, then to her waist. His body almost touched hers, a tantalizing nearness that sought to unwind the knot of doubt and pain born of the past four days.

“Do you know who is kissing you?” His voice smiled, low and intimate, swelling a bubble of joy inside Tavy. He brushed his lips across her shoulder again.

“I daresay it does not matter,” she replied, her grin feeling honest and so very good, “as long as he is quite, quite handsome and enormously wealthy.”

He went still.

Cold passed along her skin where his mouth had been. She swiveled in his embrace and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“And you.” She drank in the reality of him so close again, his strong hands upon her, his chest pressed against her breasts. That night at Fellsbourne had not been a dream. He was holding her now, again. But his eyes were troubled.

“I’m sorry.” She twined her fingers in his cravat. “That was a poor jest. I told you a long time ago that I am not good at flirta—”

He caught her mouth with his and all thought halted, all regret, everything but the sublime joy of being in his arms again. Like water after a long thirst. He wanted her and she let herself drown in it, the pleasure and happiness tumbling through her now almost worth the pain of the previous four days.

Almost.

She retreated from the kiss reluctantly and he seemed just as unwilling to let her go.

“You did not come,” she said. “I thought you would not.”

“I was obliged to leave town. I did not intend to be gone over a day.” He seemed to search her features, especially her eyes, lines forming between his brows.

“What?” She slid her palm along the edge of his cravat to feel his skin. He was so warm, his jaw rough with whiskers, the slant of his cheek smooth. She wanted to touch all of him again, to be free with his body as she had been during that brief moment at Fellsbourne. “You want to ask me something, I can see. What is it you wish to know?”

He shook his head. “I know too much already.” He leaned in, brushing her lips then bringing their mouths together fully. It was a seeking caress, deeper with each stroke of his tongue along her lips and inside. He sought and Tavy offered, helpless against the pull within her that sought him in return, that burned to entwine everything of theirs together, mouths and bodies and hearts. He dragged her hips tight to him and covered her behind with his hand, fingers spread, owning her again so swiftly as she dreamed and feared. She tasted the desire in his mouth, his possessing hands. Nothing in his touch spoke of caution, only questing, questioning need.

She broke away abruptly this time, her breaths coming fast, fingers tangled in his hair.

“Ask me, Ben.” It was the worst sort of heedlessness, but she could not halt her unruly tongue. “I am through with lying. Ask me what you wish and I will tell you.”

His gaze retreated even as it swept across her face, and he did not speak.

Tavy’s throat closed.

She had been right to mistrust again. He wanted only that part of her he could use briefly. She was unutterably foolish. Again. He had told her that night at the folly that he would not give her what she was looking for.

She backed out of his hold, and—the worst pain yet—he let her go.

“Why are you here now? I have no information for you, nothing of value in my possession.”

He was silent a stretched moment. “I wished to see you.”

She dashed her hand across her lips dampened by his kiss. “ ‘See’ is a broad term for you, apparently. My family is not at home tonight, as you clearly know. How did you come in here without a footman announcing you? Did you pay my brother-in-law’s servants to assure privacy?”