In the Arms of a Marquess(9)

But she could not tear her gaze from him. It clung, quivering with the fear of looking and the even greater fear of looking away. Without her willing it, it consumed every line of his body, every lock of hair and detail of the only man she had ever particularly cared to stare at.

His head turned slightly, his face averted from his companions, as though he had become aware of being watched. Tavy’s blood seemed to fuse to her bones. How well she had memorized that profile, square jaw, high cheekbones, straight nose, the careless fall of ebony hair over his brow.

His shoulders shifted, turned, and his gaze met hers.

Nothing showed in it, nothing of surprise or even recognition in the languid black eyes. He looked at her for a moment then returned his attention to his friends.

Tavy blinked, a shudder of heat and alternate cold coursing through her, so internal, so deep, it buried itself before it was able to come to the surface.

Then numbness. No feeling at all.

She assessed her heartbeat as though from a distance. Even. Calm. Her breathing regular. After seven years of wondering and waiting, it was an astoundingly anticlimactic finale. But it was a finale, at least. She now had something to write in the margins of her Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine, both bible and diary to her since her fifteenth birthday. Perhaps under the heading “To Disembark.”

She pulled in a thin breath and shifted her regard to his companions, several elegantly arrayed gentlemen suitable for a marquess’s acquaintance, and a statuesque blonde with a good deal of cleavage decorating the bodice of her modish gown. The lady lifted a fawn-gloved hand and rested it upon his sleeve, and her gaze spanned the space to Tavy.

Tavy stared into the wide blue eyes. She was beautiful, all warm golden glory, luscious lips, and voluptuous curves. As gorgeous as her handsome escort. A perfect pair.

It must be the Scottish duke’s daughter. Lady Constance Read.

“May I escort you to your boxes, ladies?” Lord Crispin’s voice pulled her back.

“My party is just over there.” Lady Ashford squeezed Tavy’s fingers. “Octavia, I will call upon you tomorrow.” She moved away.

The baron took Tavy’s arm. “Are you enjoying the play?”

“The scenery is—” She flicked her gaze around, but the elegant party had gone. “It is interesting, my lord.”

“Miss Pierce, will you do me the honor of calling me by my given name?”

“If you wish, Marcus. We have been friends for two years, after all.”

“Octavia— May I call you Octavia?”

“Yes.” He already had.

“Octavia, I hope to be more than friends.”

“Thank you, Marcus. I know. My father told me, of course.”

“Of course.” He chuckled. “You are priceless.” He patted her hand and led her into Lady Fitzwarren’s box. The dowager had not yet returned. Marcus’s brow beetled. “I don’t like to leave you here alone.”

Octavia took another slow breath, this time of intention.

“Why don’t you sit with us for the remainder of the play?” she said. “I am certain Lady Fitzwarren would be happy for your company.”

“Would you?” His eyes glimmered with confidence. Life married to this man could suit her. She would have the freedom to do whatever she wished as a married woman, and an inestimable companion.

“I enjoy your company, Marcus. I quite like you, in fact.” The words felt strange on her tongue. But she did like him.

He squeezed her fingers. “I will bid my party adieu and return shortly.”

Alone, Tavy glanced at the unruly crowd in the pit, avoiding the boxes above. Apparently the fashionable set never remained through an entire play. Of course, she didn’t know anyone amongst that set, so really it did not signify where she looked.

She folded her damp hands, heart pattering behind her ribs. Like a caged bird’s wings. Her skin felt hot all over now and uncomfortably tight. Some sort of delayed reaction, no doubt. It had been seven years, after all. Quite a long time. Quite a foolishly long time.

Voices came from the other side of the partition, hushed and urgent, Marcus and another man. The conversation of the rowdies in the pit below had reached a clamor. As she’d done in the bazir and society parties in Madras for years, Tavy tried to focus upon the furtive conversation.

“I will not,” Marcus said. “I signed it once before because of our agreement—”

“And you’d better again, milord,” a scratchy voice replied, “assurin’ that ship leaves wi’out inspection, or you know what’ll happen to—”

“Don’t think you can threaten me.” Marcus’s voice crept higher.

“I just did, milord. You’d better agree or I’ll be visitin’ you at home the next time.”

“You would not dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

Footsteps sounded and Marcus appeared beside her.

“My apologies. I was detained by an acquaintance.” His face looked oddly blotched.

“Marcus, is everything all right?”

“Certainly.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “Especially now that I am with you.”

“I heard some of your conversation just now. It sounded like that man was threatening you.”

“Of course not. Octavia, I have a great many business associates, just as St. John. Some are less genteel than others, I’m afraid. But this is nothing to concern you, merely a typical transaction. Men’s business.”