In the Arms of a Marquess(98)

The beauty’s lips curved into a sad smile. “No doubt it would have made things quite a bit easier for me if I could have convinced him to marry. But he would never agree to it.”

Tavy stared into her friend’s brilliant eyes. “Did you wish to?”

Constance twisted her slender shoulders in a movement that might have been a shrug or assent. “For companionship, yes. Safety and comfort.”

“You never . . . ?”

“Desired him?” Her slim brows lifted. “I tried to kiss him once.”

A lump clotted Tavy’s throat. “And?”

“It was years ago, after that endless period of mourning. I needed to know if we would suit, if I could run away to him and not grow to regret it, or estrange my closest friend by forcing a faithfulness upon him he did not want.”

“What happened?”

“He let me make a fool of myself.” A rueful curve shaped her lips. “He was very kind at first in putting me off, then he said it was like kissing his sister, and I remember throwing something porcelain at him, or perhaps marble.” Her grin crept into a private smile of memory. Then her gaze lifted to Tavy’s. “But sometimes I have found myself wishing it were otherwise, when I look at him and see what you see.”

“What do I see?” Tavy barely whispered.

“A beautiful man in every way. A man without equal upon this island or any other. Octavia, I have known him since he was thirteen and I have never seen him look at a woman the way he looks at you.”

Tavy’s heart ached so hard she was obliged to press a hand to her chest. “He is dishonest with me.”

“His life is a masquerade. But you know that, don’t you?”

“I thought— When you said you had betrayed me, I thought you meant with him.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “I simply cannot go on like this, imagining and fearing and not trusting but wanting to trust. I am not fashioned for that.”

Constance said softly, “I don’t believe he is either.” Her smile was gentle.

Raw hope battered Tavy’s insides.

Constance reached for her hand. “You are more observant than you know. I have been so heartsore. But since I learned of his perfidy, I am more sorry for him than anything else.”

“His perfidy?”

“His lies to Ben, to me, and everyone else.”

“Whose lies?”

Constance shook her head. “Octavia, what—”

“Who lied to you and Ben? Marcus?”

“Lord Crispin? Why, no. It was Walker. I thought you understood—”

“Lord Styles? What did he lie to you about?”

Constance’s eyes glistened. “About the fire at the hunting box seven years ago. Ben did not tell you?”

“No.” But apparently he told everyone else everything.

“Walker set the fire.” Her voice quivered. “The fire that killed Jack and their father.”

“No. Oh.” Tavy could say no more. Her heart ached far too much, for him and for herself. He had kept this from her. How long had he known? Surely this morning when he sent her away from his house. “Why did Lord Styles lie about it? Wasn’t the fire an accident?”

“Ben does not know yet. He intends to discover the truth.”

Tavy’s breath caught, hot and sharp alarm darting through her. Her fingers scrabbled for her reticule and the envelope within.

“Marcus said that I was in danger, but that it was all in Ben’s hands now.” She pulled the letter from her reticule.

“He said you are in danger?” Constance’s face blanched. “But how could Lord Crispin know that?”

“Lord Styles blackmailed him. Ben said he had important business to attend to today, but I was so—”

Icy fingers dug into hers.

“Octavia, I told Walker about you and Ben. I am so sorry.”

“What did you tell him?” Tavy spoke to prevent herself from breaking for the door. She told herself she would know if he came to harm, that something inside her would feel it. But dread blotted out all else. He must have gone to confront Lord Styles.

“I told him of your mutual affection. Walker wishes to use you to hurt Ben.”

“He didn’t need you to tell him that,” Lady Fitzwarren interjected. “Anybody can see it plain as day whenever they are around one another.”

Tavy shook her head. “He let me believe it was only about that awful business, which is albeit quite an important matter, but—”

“What awful business?”

Tavy’s fingers tore at Marcus’s letter until the pages lay open in her hands. She consumed the words.

Dear Lord.

“Is it about the fire? It was arson, wasn’t it?” Constance’s voice was strained.

Tavy disentangled her fingers and patted her friend’s hands, releasing a big breath and fixing a relieved look in her eyes.

“No. Not at all. I have figured it all out. This letter explains it.” She waved Marcus’s pages about. “There is nothing to worry about,” she lied, as though she did it every day with perfect ease. It was not her news to tell, she understood now. And she could not share with her friend the panic sluicing through her, the weakening fear. Not unless she discovered concrete reason to.