In the Arms of a Marquess(74)

“I visited a time or two, but I never liked it.” Styles spoke with measured calm. “After Arthur’s death, in his absence, I found it . . . difficult.”

“Yes. You told me then.” Ben allowed that to sit. Constance had seen him, and every few moments her gaze flickered to him, then to Styles. A gentleman by her side bowed and proffered her a glass of champagne. She wrapped him upon the shoulder with her closed fan with a smack Ben heard yards away despite the orchestra. Her suitor’s eyes went wide, but he smiled. Constance was a Diamond, and Ben had seen this before, pulling her away from such company just as many times as she wished.

“Haven’t you any desire to separate her from her swains, then?” he asked casually, as though every cell of blood in his body weren’t trained upon the reply.

“Not any more than you, I’ll merit.” Styles’s gaze shifted across the ballroom. “Not given the present company.”

Ben followed his attention. Octavia stood by the shallow stair ascending to the foyer. Her gown caressed her perfect curves with a gracious touch. Her soft skin lit with the chandelier’s glow seemed pale, her eyes especially dark at the distance, her tempting mouth a straight line.

Ben met Styles’s interested regard. The back of his neck prickled.

“The fair Miss Pierce still appeals, I see.” The baron’s blue eyes glinted.

“She is tolerably attractive.” Ben forced a grin. “Why, my friend? Hanging out these days for fresher fare than the demi-reps at Hauterive’s?”

Styles’s eyes narrowed. “You know, just there for a moment you sounded like your old self again. Did our evening at the club last week have a positive effect on you after all?”

Ben thought of Fletcher James, of his lovely chair-ridden wife and the foundling hospital, of Singh and the knobby scars on his ankles and collar from where iron manacles had bound him to oar and bench, and he replied, “Yes.”

Crystal shattered. Constance’s brittle laugher cascaded above the crowd. One of her admirers produced a handkerchief with an elegant flourish. She snatched it from his fingers with a mock pout and dabbed at her skirts, champagne shimmering upon the floor at her feet.

Ben had seen enough. If he were another man he would cross the ballroom to the woman who captivated him, take her arm, and not release her for the remainder of the evening—at least not until he asked her about the journal clippings. And much more. But he was not that man. He was, in fact, finally beginning to understand precisely what sort of man he could be. Perhaps the man Octavia had waited for years ago.

From across the ballroom her warm gaze was trained on Constance, worry etching her brow.

“Good evening, Styles.” He nodded farewell to his companion. He had sown the seeds. He must now allow them to germinate.

Constance met Ben’s approach with wide eyes glistening with merriment upon the surface and distress beneath.

“Why, Lord Doreé,” she tittered, “you have only now missed the opportunity to be covered in champagne like Mr. Anders and Lord Scott here.” Her gaze circled her admirers. “But perhaps one of you kind gentlemen would supply me with another glass, and this time you can cast wagers upon whose shoes I will more thoroughly douse.” She leaned toward Ben to speak sotto voice. “Wager on Lord Scott. His pumps are marvelously shiny, so I shall aim for him.”

Lord Scott laughed, possibly as intoxicated as Constance, at least by her beauty and attention. Mr. Anders chuckled with less amusement, unhappy to be bested. Ben took Constance’s hand and drew it through his arm.

“Come now, my lady. I will convey you home and you can throw all the champagne you wish onto your own shoes.”

“You are ever so amusing, my lord,” she giggled, but did not resist. “Adieu, gentlemen.” She waved her fan in their direction. Ben pressed through the crowd. Her grip on his arm pinched. “What took you so long?” Her tone was entirely altered, her breath stained with wine. “I was wretched and you were not here.”

“Hush,” he murmured and drew her up the stair. Octavia stood there still, watching them.

“Darling Octavia.” Constance grasped her friend’s gloved hand. “I am sorry you did not arrive earlier. I should have had a much better time tonight if you and Ben had not both abandoned me.” Tears teetered at the cusps of her eyes.

Octavia’s gaze darted to Ben. “You are taking her home now, I hope?” she asked quietly. He nodded.

“He is rescuing me, you see. He likes to rescue people. He does it all the time, you know.” A tear rolled over the spot of crimson on Constance’s cheek.

“Yes. I do know.” Octavia released her hand and looked at Ben again. “Go quickly now.”

He bowed and drew Constance away and to her carriage. Once within, in the company of her hired companion, Mrs. Jacobs, his childhood friend sobbed into a handkerchief, speaking of her unhappiness only in tears. He held her hand and murmured words of comfort, but his thoughts swirled.

He had never told a soul who he truly was. His servants knew only what they must to perform their duties. Even Creighton, who kept Ben’s books, did his correspondence, interviewed captains, and examined each ship upon arrival and departure, understood only a portion of the projects Ben’s wealth and network of allies allowed. Ashford knew somewhat more, but still not all.