The Making of a Marquess

by Lynne Connolly

  Honoria was the spark that had lit the fuse.

  Still outrageously beautiful, despite giving birth to two children, Honoria might have stopped time. Only by close scrutiny could Ben detect the clever powdering of her face and reddening of her cheeks. The current fashion was for artifice, but here in the country, people attended to à la mode less than they did in the fevered atmosphere of town. However, Honoria still used it.

  Unable to stop himself, Ben lifted his hand, crooked his index finger and ran the back of it along her soft cheek. A light skim of powder dusted the tip. “You don’t need this, Honoria. You are still as beautiful as ever.”

  She glanced down, avoiding his gaze, before flicking her eyelids up to meet his eyes once more. The unerringly flirtatious gesture reminded him of the arrow she’d left in his heart. He would never forget it—or her treachery.

  “I have learned more since we parted.” Her voice, low and intimate, should have sent shivers of desire through him. It always had. Even the sight of her on his return to this house had stirred him. But not now. Something had changed. Unaware of his thoughts, she continued in the same tone. “I am a mother; I have children to protect.”

  “If you have a son, he could be the next marquess,” he pointed out.

  “Yes, he could. And I could be a marchioness, even if Louis is refused the title.”

  She said that last part so softly he couldn’t believe he’d heard her properly. “Are you unhappy with Louis?”

  Turning her head away, Honoria did not answer for a few, fraught seconds. “No, of course not.”

  When she turned back to him, he caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “But I did not love him the same way I loved you. Losing you broke my heart.”

  He’d heard enough. Whether she was telling the truth or not didn’t interest him in the least. But if she thought she had any chance with him after what she’d done, she must be living in a different world from him.

  However, telling her outright seemed pointless. She would probably not listen. She skillfully avoided inconvenient truths. But he would make one thing clear. “Honoria, the night I asked you to marry me, you said I’d made you the happiest woman in the world. But you’d already given yourself to Louis. Hadn’t you?”

  She stared at him, unmoving.

  “You were already with child, were you not? Little Helen is seven years old. Do you think I can’t do simple arithmetic?”

  No reaction. Just a stony stare.

  “Did you try to seduce me that night to persuade me I was responsible for the child Louis had fathered? To win the greater prize?”

  When Hal had written to him about the birth of Honoria and Louis’s first child, the chains tying him to his lost love had fallen away. At the time he’d thought she had fallen into bed with Louis very quickly, but she had not. She was already there.

  Tears in her heavenly blue eyes, Honoria lifted her face to his. “It was always you, Ben. I succumbed to Louis in a moment of madness. I went to him because I thought you would not have me after that awful argument we had, and he took advantage of that.”

  Ben couldn’t remember an argument. If there had been one, it would have been slight. No, she had wanted to keep the two of them dangling, forming her court. Ladies of fashion collected admirers, and the more they had, the more successful they were considered, but few went to the lengths Honoria had taken.

  He wondered about that seduction. Had she appealed to Louis, claimed an argument Ben could not remember? Knowing she had Ben in hand, she could have allowed herself to be seduced by Louis.

  Would she have enjoyed foisting Louis’s child off on Ben? Those kinds of games engendered a disgust in him, and he would never have suspected her of playing like that before he left the country. But now he knew Honoria could give an actress lessons.

  She continued, her lovely eyes glistening with tears. “But then there was that terrible duel, and I couldn’t reach you. I would have gone with you, if I could. You must know that.”

  He had severe doubts about that. “I know nothing of the kind.”

  None of her wiles touched him. Only disgust that she should consider him such an easy target and that she had fooled him before. He had learned much, and come to his senses. Thank the lord, he remained in the same frame of mind. Honoria had no hooks in him now, and if she’d lodged an arrow in him, it had long rotted away, leaving no trace behind.

  “Madam, while you remain the wife of my cousin and heir, you may visit this house, but I would advise you to look to your own estates now. I am here, and I will become the next marquess.”

  “You’re so sure?” A smile touched the corners of her pale pink lips. “Do you have no doubts?”

  “None at all.”

  But her expression was knowing. “I might know something that would interest you. It might affect your inheritance of the title.”

  Another ploy, no doubt. Ben had no interest in what she had to say.

  He stepped back, bowed, and walked away.

  He was done with her, but he would not tell Louis of her attempts to win him. Even though Louis had his faults, he would never have sent his wife to seduce Ben. No, Honoria was playing her own game. What precisely she hoped to gain he wasn’t sure. Perhaps she wanted to draw him back into her net. Perhaps she wanted to bear the next heir to the title. If Ben thought there was any possibility of her next child being his, he might prefer not to marry at all, but to let her child inherit his title. The answer to that was easy. He would not have an affair with her.

  If Louis was borrowing heavily, she would want those debts paid. Perhaps she would offer to earn their price in bed.

  Tomorrow Ben would see Sir James and confirm his accession to the title. Enough of this nonsense. Time he moved on and accepted his lot. And found himself a partner to cut out Louis and his designing wife.

  Dorothea would make him a fine marchioness. When he thought of her, arousal stirred in his groin. Entirely absent where Honoria was concerned, his interest was most definitely piqued. She would bear him a fine child, too. When he’d touched her, he’d discovered a firm body beneath the plain fabrics, her skin silky, begging for his touch. Oh yes, he wanted her, and before too long she would discover it.

  But he would make a child within the sanctity of marriage. Nobody would ever call his heir a seven-month baby, even though they could say that about Louis’s older daughter.

  * * * *

  She had not meant to witness that tender moment. On her way to her room, Dorothea had crossed the large corridor leading from the east wing, and she’d seen Ben touch Mrs. Thorpe’s cheek. They were so close. Kissing distance.

  He had wanted her once. Perhaps he wanted her still. He’d told her she was as beautiful as ever.

  The expression in his eyes had disturbed her. He would never look at her with that utter devotion. The intensity of his gaze had rocked her because he’d never regarded her in that way.

  He didn’t talk much about Mary, his wife, but that in itself demonstrated that he found discussing her painful. He’d been devoted to her, fallen deeply in love, and her death had torn him apart. That one word when she’d asked him if he’d loved Mary, that “yes,” had pierced her to the heart.

  The rare times he talked about her, it was in hushed, reverent tones, with a sorrow she couldn’t deny. Dorothea had never caused a man to love her, and nobody ever would. It suited Ben to have her, that was all, and when Laurence had found them together in her room, he’d reacted in the only way he could.

  Dorothea had always been second best, disregarded. She had responded to his flattering attention. She should have known better. How many times did she have to be hurt before she learned that she was not made for love? He’d offered her affection and friendship, but not love.

  She could accept his offer and live in this lovely house, even bear his children if God willed it. But she must a
lways remain on guard, knowing she could never win his love. Hold herself apart lest he dealt her the cruelest cut of all.

  Finally reaching the safety of her room, Dorothea slipped inside and closed the door, leaning her back against it. They had not seen her, at least, he had not. Mrs. Thorpe had glanced around and maybe caught sight of her, but that didn’t matter. She would hardly take note of her lowliest guest.

  How could she ever have imagined that Ben wanted her for herself? She would write to Angela and tell her the whole. Nothing but the truth. Her fee had been agreed upon, and Angela would pay it into Dorothea’s new account. Money of her own, a life of her own, to do as she wished. Because she could not marry him and then watch him walk away, back to Boston and the life he had there, which would never include her.

  Perhaps she would find a companion among the ladies of the SSL, share an establishment. Ladies did that all the time, if they had the means. Why should she care what people said? She would continue to sit at the sides of the ballrooms, but she would be her own woman and make her own choices, trivial though they might be.

  Buying her own home and living quietly was her answer. And now she had the means to do it, together with an interesting way of earning a little more money. Because seeing Ben with the woman he’d fought for had clarified a few things. If she stayed, she would fall in love with him. And she couldn’t do that because he would never fall for her in return.

  Tears rolled down her face as she forced herself to own the truth. No romantic fantasies for her, only hard, cold facts. From now on she’d put a guard on her senses, and she would make her refusal clear to Ben.

  * * * *

  “Will you accept?”

  Another stroll in the garden the following day brought Dorothea into contact with her sister-in-law. She had been agitatedly pacing along the paths she’d strolled with Ben the day before. “Accept what? Oh, that.”

  “Yes, ‘oh, that,’” Ann said with a grin. “The marriage proposal. I will not give you my opinion unless you ask for it.”

  Dorothea clasped her hands tightly together. “I won’t accept his offer. I’m not made to be a marchioness. I shall take my portion and buy a small house somewhere. Sussex, I thought. I may find someone to live with. I have a few friends in mind. Retire into the country, not too far from London, and continue to work for Childers’s Bank when the fancy takes me.”

  Ann wrinkled her nose. “Are you serious? You’d turn down a great future for that?”

  “But I would be on my own, you see. I could do as I pleased.” Even when she said it aloud, the idea didn’t appeal. In the last twenty-four hours, her enthusiasm for becoming a spinster of the world had palled. She would have to obtain guides and companions for everything.

  “You can do that as the Marchioness of Belstead.” Ann gave a most unladylike grin. “And anything else you want. What is unacceptable in a single lady of moderate fortune is completely unexceptionable for a marchioness and an arbiter of fashion.” Turning serious, Ann touched her arm. “Don’t wring your hands, dear. People will know you’re concerned.”

  “He’s with Sir James,” she said. “Showing him the evidence. It seems conclusive, but still...”

  “And you’re worried about him?”

  Yes, she was, but nothing would bring her to admit it. “Sir James is a man of habit. He belongs to the establishment and the status quo. Although Benedict is undoubtedly the last marquess’s son, I’m concerned, yes. This house is beautiful, the estate is still substantial despite what Mr. Thorpe has done. It deserves a better curator.”

  Ann shot a knowing smile at Dorothea. “I think you have answered your own question. You would love to restore this estate, to oversee its recovery. Would you not?”

  Dorothea didn’t have to give her answer, but Ann’s words made her understand. Yes, she wanted to take on this task. But more than that, she craved its master far too much for her peace of mind. And that consideration still gave her pause.

  “And Mr. Benedict Thorpe, lately Lord Brocklebank, and soon to be the Marquess of Belstead. Do you want him, too?”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with him,” she said lightly.

  “But he knows what to do with you. At dinner he can hardly take his eyes off you. He doesn’t even try to hide it.”

  They were gossiping. Of course they were. But what she’d seen yesterday would not leave her mind, and she would do well to remember it. He had never looked at her with that intensity.

  * * * *

  The first person Ben thought of was Dorothea. Although his mind was spinning after his interview with Sir James, he wanted the stability of the woman he’d proposed to. The woman he was already thinking of as his wife in all but name.

  He found her coming into the house in the company of her sister-in-law. After she’d doffed her hat and gloves, she glanced up the stone staircase, past the wall paintings of paradise, straight into his eyes.

  He smiled. She smiled back, bringing intimacy to this huge space. They were in the south entrance, which to him sounded vaguely obscene, but that was what his ancestors had called it. The walls and ceiling were painted in what the artist considered an image of paradise. He wasn’t looking at that now.

  She started up the stairs. He met her halfway and took her hands. “Will you talk with me?”

  She pulled her hands away. “I’m talking to you now.”

  “Come.”

  He took her back up the stairs and into the last room in the state enfilade, the state bedroom. He closed the door behind him.

  Two exquisite cabinets stood to either side of the great bed, the cupboard fronts and myriad doors behind them decorated in pietra dura, semiprecious stones set into the rich wood of the frame. He ran his finger over the top part of the cupboard as he always had since he was a boy, relishing the total smoothness under his skin, appreciating the skill of the unknown artist.

  Before she could speak, he drew her close and kissed her, needing to hold her, to take something of her before she could speak. After his encounter with Honoria yesterday, he wanted her more than ever. He’d gone to her room and stood outside the door like a loon before deciding not to show her his vulnerability, his need of her.

  His lips met hers and he drank her in. Waiting for a push against his chest, he braced himself, but no shove came. Instead, with a small sigh of surrender, she slid her arms around his waist and nestled in.

  Relief surged through him. With a touch of his tongue, he opened her mouth and plunged inside. Her taste roused him even more, and he drew her closer, roaming over her body with the flats of his hands, instinctively searching for skin.

  When he dragged her fichu free, he found soft, silky warmth. Not nearly enough, but some. Tucking his finger under the neckline of her gown, he ran it down, desperately seeking a way in. A pin fell free. Then another. He groaned into her mouth and received an answer of a sort. She pressed closer, her upper breast crushing against his palm.

  Reaching up, she tugged at his neckcloth. A loose knot lay between her hands and his throat. It stood no chance. She pulled at it, it fell to the floor, and she curled a hand around his neck, pulling him back down to her.

  He wasn’t about to refuse that invitation. His cock pressed against his underwear and the front of his breeches, but all he could find was fabric. Although she wore a hoop, it was a small one, little more than two modest cages on her hips, holding the fabric of her gown away from her body. He could lift those skirts. Underneath lay heaven.

  The surge of emotion, mingled relief, delight, and most of all, desire, overwhelmed what little sense he had left. He pulled at her gown until the front came free and he could slide it off her shoulders.

  The fabric fell to her feet in a whoosh of silk. Now more of her was available to him. But tapes and ribbons and hooks still lay between him and what he sought. He rid himself of his coat, letting it fall to join her g
own.

  Drawing back, he looked at what he’d done. Her skin gleamed, pearly in the slanting sunlight, and her cheeks were adorably flushed. Her stays and shift were all that lay between him and paradise now. Somehow the tapes of her hoops and pockets had gone, and her outer petticoat. He wanted more. He wanted it all. “Dorothea?”

  She looked up at him, eyes bright. “Yes,” she said, her voice a mere breath. “Ben, yes. Make love to me.”

  Chapter 12

  Dorothea’s common sense vanished with that first kiss, her determination melting away as if it had never been. He’d given her the same look as he’d bestowed on Mrs. Thorpe yesterday, and she wanted that so much, his burning, desirous gaze, richly deep, all his attention trained on her. Once, just once she wanted this, to revisit the dream before she thrust it away forever. She could not resist him, God help her.

  “Now, here, just this once, I want you.”

  “Then you shall have me,” he promised, and bent to pick her up.

  Dorothea gasped, both at his strength and the ease at which he lifted her. He made her feel small and delicate. He carried her to the bed, up the two steps to the platform that held the draped monstrosity where nobody ever slept. All the time he gazed at her in the same way he’d looked at Honoria. Or perhaps not. She wanted to know his gaze was for her alone. Oh, how much she wanted to know that!

  When he swept back the crimson gold-embroidered bed cover, a cloud of dust flew up. She buried her head against his chest to stifle her cough, but stayed there because he smelled so good. He laid her down. “We have sheets.”

  “I don’t care.” Spreading her hands, she felt the smooth linen beneath her. “Does someone sleep here?”

  That would be unusual for a state bedroom.

  “We will.” Leaning down, he planted his hands either side of her. “I want you, Dorothea. I will do my best to ensure you are safe, but the way I feel now, I can’t be sure.”