In the Arms of a Marquess(86)

“I—” she choked out. “I am so in love with you.” Trembles shook her, of fear and fullness. “I have always been.”

His throat worked, his eyes a storm of darkness. But he did not speak. Tavy’s heart pounded, joined by an echo, a staccato rapping on the door.

“Milord?” The hushed voice came urgently from the other side of the panel. But in Tavy’s heart another voice spoke, cold and sharp, Aunt Imene telling him to take his hands off her. The expression in his eyes now was the same as then, warmth rapidly withdrawing into distance.

He drew a hard breath. “Blast.”


“An understatement, perhaps.” She pulled out of his arms.

He grasped her wrist and with his other hand stroked back her hair. Then he released her, pulled on his trousers, and went to the door, closing it behind him.

Tavy tugged a bed linen around her body and sat motionless. She suspected his servants would not disturb him like this unless absolutely necessary. But her heart spun around the seven-year-old memory of waiting for a man who never returned. And he had not said he loved her.

The door opened and Ben came across to her. He bent, wrapped his hand around the side of her face and tilted her mouth up to his. The kiss was too sweet, too perfect, and far too brief.

“I must go out now.” His voice was low.

“Now?”

“I must attend to a bit of business.”

In the middle of the night. Business as only this man would have.

She managed to nod. “All right.”

“I will return shortly. Don’t leave.”

“Don’t—”

“Stay.” He backed toward the dressing room door.

“Stay?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, the dent appearing in his cheek. “Stay.” He went into the other chamber. He reappeared shortly, dressed with a careless elegance that stole Tavy’s breath, and crossed to the door. He paused. Then he returned to her, scooped his hand around the back of her head and kissed her hard.

“Stay.” He broke away and departed.

Tavy stared at the door. Finally she crawled up the bed to the pillows, lay down on her side and tucked her hands beneath her cheek. But without his body to heat her, she was chilled. She rose and went to the fire to stoke the coals. Their clothing lay scattered upon the floor. She draped her gown and undergarments over a chair.

With ridiculous shyness she gathered Ben’s discarded clothes too. His chambers were understated and masculine, done in dark woods and jewel-toned fabrics. She glanced about, hoping to find hints of India, but it felt like prying to look too closely, so she laid his clothing on the dressing table. She hesitated, then took up his cravat and shirt again and pressed them to her face, breathing in deeply. Her legs got wobbly, of all things.

She set down the clothes, her fingers brushing over a stiff square in the pocket of his waistcoat. She yanked her hand away. If it was prying to look around his chambers, then it certainly would be a greater intrusion to dig into his pockets.

Instinct and something more than curiosity drove her. The note unfolded easily between her fingers. Take particular care of your loved ones.

The air of the chamber seemed to grow colder. Was that where he had gone? Were his loved ones in trouble now, in the middle of the night? Who? Constance? Lord Styles?

Tavy stuffed the paper back into the pocket, her stomach sick and heart racing. She crossed the frigid chamber to the bed, climbed in and pulled the blankets up to her neck.

She did not sleep, eyes wide to the deepening black of night as the coals in the grate died to embers, then to ash, and still he did not return. Again. In the darkness, her body strung with mingled fulfillment and dread, Tavy began to understand about all those years ago and a beautiful young man who, perhaps, simply could not return to her. Who, with the world’s troubles as his daily responsibility, might never be able to. Just as he might never be able to tell her everything she longed to know. Or, even, to love her.

Finally, she understood. And it made her feel very small indeed.

Chapter 22

DESERTION. The act of forsaking a ship or boat, or running without leave of absence.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine

“He’s counting his last minutes, milord, or else I wouldn’ta bothered you like that.” Sully’s thick brow furrowed as he climbed aboard his cob.

“How long ago was he shot?” Ben pulled Kali around.

“An hour, I ’spect. Jimmy’s watching him now, but he ain’t no surgeon. If the bully-back kicks a’fore we get there, I wouldn’t blame the lad for it.”

Ben rode fast, pressing Kali through the dark streets, her hooves striking cobbles then hard-packed dirt when they accessed the narrower alleys. He pulled the mare to a halt before the mews in the most familiar street to him this side of Mayfair, threw the reins to the stable hand, and went inside. The scents of horses and gin met him in the chill air.

Sully pressed open a stall door. “In here, milord.”

Beside a prone form, a hulking youth with half-lidded eyes crouched against the wall. He stood and pulled the brim of his cap.

“Bloke’s frightful bad off, milord.”

“Thank you, Jimmy. That will be all.” He gestured the men out then knelt in the straw beside Sheeble.

He was a small man, dark-whiskered, and wiry like most sailors. Now his weathered face shone ghostly pale in the lamplight, his lips gray.