How the Marquess Was Won

by Julie Anne Long

  And when she was finished, he seemed made of darkness and flame, angles and hollows, which was ironic for a man whose nickname was Lord Ice.

  She quickly turned the page, hiding him from herself, and tucked the sketchbook into her trunk again.

  Two hours later Phoebe dutifully took herself downstairs and followed the sound of voices to the salon, a big warm room dominated by a hearth carved with cherubs and autumn vegetation, and sprinkled about with a variety of settees and a few gas lamps, as Isaiah Redmond liked the modern innovations.

  She donned her neutral social smile and slid into the room surreptitiously, hugging the wall. It was crowded with guests, all of them dressed in the first stare of fashion. The first person she saw was patriarch Isaiah Redmond. He was tall and older and handsome but had eyes sharp as chisels. He had a reputation for being an unforgiving man, she knew, and it was generally assumed he was dangerous if crossed, but these qualities were gilded in deceptively easy charm. She’d heard the murmured rumors—who in Pennyroyal Green had not?—about the lengths he would go to in order to achieve his ends. The mutters were particularly voluble when it had come to Colin Eversea’s near-demise on the gallows. Some even said he’d driven his oldest son and heir, Lyon, to disappear. But most everyone in Pennyroyal Green laid the blame for that at the feet of Olivia Eversea and the legendary curse that claimed an Eversea and a Redmond were destined to fall in love once per generation—with disastrous consequences. Olivia Eversea herself laughed it off as nonsense, but not even Waterburn ventured to record a single whimsical wager regarding the likelihood of a wedding in the betting books at White’s. He was as fond of winning as anyone else, and he knew the odds were against him. The beautiful Olivia appeared to be aspiring to spinsterhood.

  Phoebe scanned the room, grateful there was no chance of seeing Olivia here. She saw Jonathan Redmond at once, for he looked more like his brother Lyon every day. Next to him was the familiar handsome face of his friend Lord Argosy, a frequent guest in Sussex, and who often joined Jonathan at the Pig & Thistle and at church.

  Her heart accelerated when she saw the big bored blond hateful Waterburn . . . for if Waterburn were here . . .

  She rubbed her palms along her skirts, as they’d gone damp. He’d said to the marquess that he suspected they were invited to attend the same party. She hardly dared look, but she sensed him before she saw him. Or rather, saw his unmistakable . . . back. Jonathan and Lisbeth were perched on a striped settee, and Lisbeth appeared to be talking. The marquess was leaning toward her, the better to hear what she had to say.

  He turned slightly, perhaps sensing the intensity of a particular gaze between his shoulder blades.

  And when he saw her he turned abruptly. Straightened slowly to his full height.

  And went still.

  Lisbeth merrily laughed at something then, perhaps her own joke, and the sound echoed in Phoebe’s ears like shrill cascading bells. And noticing the marquess had turned away from her, Lisbeth gave his arm a playful tap . . .

  With a cream and ivory fan.

  Scattered all over it were pale pink blossoms and twining, fine green stems.

  Phoebe stared at it until it blurred before her eyes. A ringing started up in her ears. And for an instant—a bloody ridiculous instant—it felt as though the bottom had dropped from beneath her world and she pressed her back against the hard wall to feel something solid, to keep from sliding to the ground.

  Well, of course. The marquess purportedly wanted only the finest. The most beautiful and rare and singular.

  And he was rumored to be seeking a wife.

  And according to the letter she’d written to Phoebe . . . Lisbeth had a surprise to share with her.

  Apparently his silence and inattention had gone on too long. For Lisbeth looked up at the marquess, and then sharply followed the line of his gaze.

  A momentary puzzlement flickered over her face, but then she must have decided that the marquess was staring because Phoebe looked decidedly out of place. Because Lisbeth beckoned cheerily with little scoops of her hand.

  Phoebe remained rooted to the spot. Her feet wouldn’t seem to carry her forward.

  Lisbeth beckoned with more vigor.

  And somehow Phoebe got to the other side of the room, step by step. She felt like a recalcitrant bull being dragged by a rope and hoped it didn’t look that way.

  “Phoebe, would you be a dear and fetch my reticule for me? It is upstairs in my bedchamber. I want the one I left atop my bed.”

  What the devil . . . ?

  Phoebe stared at her.

  Lisbeth gazed back at her. Her face pleasantly expectant. And when Phoebe remained silent, her expression became just a trifle insistent.

  She wasn’t a servant. She hadn’t been hired to run about and fetch things. At least, this hadn’t been mentioned in the letter.

  She suspected Lisbeth knew this full well. Clearly she was testing her social power. Or making a point about Phoebe’s presence to the marquess.

  “I’m Lord Dryden,” the marquess said, when it seemed Lisbeth would forget her breeding and forgo an introduction.

  Phoebe curtsied. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord.” She heard her own even, pleasant voice as though she were hearing it through a layer of glass. “It seems Lisbeth wants her reticule. If you will excuse me?”

  She turned abruptly and departed the room the way she came in. Swiftly and unnoticed.

  By all but one person.

  A funny thing, but the moment Miss Vale left the room seemed darker. Though it was afternoon, and the sun was pouring profligately in through the tall windows, as if the Redmonds felt entitled to more sunlight than everyone else.

  Jules excused himself with no explanation, with a warm smile for Lisbeth, and promised to return. She looked beautiful holding the fan. She would have looked beautiful holding a hedgehog, but it satisfied him to match the gift so splendidly to the woman, and to give it to a woman who had been so blushingly pleased to receive it.

  He only fully realized where he was going when he turned the corner and stopped short in the entry, just so he could watch the back of the woman he hadn’t been able to forget.

  Miss Vale was heading toward the stairs, but appeared to be in no great hurry. Her hips swayed subtly when she walked. He watched them as though they were a mesmerist’s pendulum. Her dress was covered in minute faded gray checks. It was as serviceable as any day gown could be. He let his eyes travel the length of her, imagining her legs beneath them, and what manner of garters might be holding up her stockings.

  His eyes stopped at the fray at the hem, and the faint, very fine white line there created by hundreds of applications of an iron, and the picking out of stitches so she could turn the dress and re-sew it to get more wear out of it.

  And that thought bounced his gaze up and away and back to the walls. He frowned.

  He was baffled. She was a schoolmistress. If she’d ever laid claim to any gentility, likely it was a generation or more removed by now. England was aswarm with women just like her, a class existing on the fringes of the aristocracy and one incident of bad luck away from poverty, respectable but only just. And for heaven’s sake, every woman’s hips swayed to some degree. Apart, that was, from his aunt Lady Windemere’s. She trundled over ground like a miniature barouche and was considerably better sprung.

  She paused by an alcove window. Despite the fact that she’d been dispatched to fetch a reticule posthaste, as if she was a maid. He silently approved of her little rebellion. He couldn’t imagine what Lisbeth needed with a reticule during an afternoon soiree.

  Phoebe stared out onto all the rolling green she’d come to know over her years in Sussex, and thought: perhaps if she recited Marcus Aurelius in her head the sheer effort would intimidate misery from taking hold. She felt like a fool. And she never felt like a fool. Surely a fool wouldn’t know her Marcus Aurelius?

  Tucked into the alcove near the window, she could see and hear the gathering, but
they could not see her.

  She went still when she heard the footsteps behind her.

  “I didn’t know you’d be attending this house party.”

  She’d know the voice anywhere. In the dark, in a crowd, in a dream. Still, when she turned slowly, her heart bounced right into her throat.

  He’d followed her. She was certain of it. Misery vacated immediately.

  Heel, she told her heart sternly.

  “I suppose I am not so much attending as . . .” She changed her mind. “Well, I can’t imagine when I’d have an occasion to mention it to you. Lisbeth invited me.”

  “Hmm. Lisbeth is much too old to have a governess dancing attendance upon her, Miss Vale, and I know none of the Redmonds attended your school. Her mother isn’t present, and the Countess Ardmay hasn’t yet arrived, and I’ve known Miss Lisbeth Redmond for two seasons now, and . . .”

  The Countess Ardmay? Who the devil—

  Oh! Violet Redmond. Now married to an earl.

  “So. Am I correct in assuming that you’re a . . . shall we say, paid companion of sorts . . . for the next few days?”

  She smiled faintly. “You’ve managed to make that sound so . . . unsavory.”

  “Because I knew it would make you smile, saintly creature that you are.”

  She tried not to laugh. She really ought not. She ought to fetch a damned reticule.

  “You’ve the right of it. Lisbeth’s mother was unable to attend the festivities, and she thought it best Lisbeth have a companion near her age present. Lisbeth invited me. I once tutored her when she was younger, and we became friends after a fashion. And now I suspect my job is to protect her from the likes of you.”

  He liked that. His eyes brightened. “Ah. Are you a decoy? Like a wooden duck set free on a pond during hunting season?”

  “Are you suggesting that you’re drawn to me, Lord Dryden?”

  He smiled slowly.

  She smiled slowly.

  The two of them together . . . well, really. They spurred each other on, and it was surprising, and delightful, and very dangerous, really, how quickly it ignited.

  “You cannot be much older than she is, Miss Vale.”

  “Are you fishing about for my age? But again, you’ve the right of it. Imagine that! You’re clever as well as rich. But I am apparently deemed much wiser in the ways of the world and less likely to be lured into, shall we say, foolishness.”

  “Ah, now, that is a pity.”

  She tried not to smile, and failed. “It is quite true, I fear. I’ve had so many years of practice resisting foolishness, you see, it’s become second nature.”

  A warning. And a dare.

  He acknowledged this with one of those smiles, swift and crooked that snagged her breath.

  “So what do you do in the capacity of paid companion?” He leaned back against the wall, as if settling in for a chat.

  Oh, God. That would never do. She nervously darted her eyes toward the gathering. Then toward the stairs.

  And then, God help her, she leaned back, too.

  “Well . . . it’s not entirely clear. I expected I would primarily smile, make pleasantries, listen to Lisbeth and tolerate Jonathan. It’s an improvisational position, really. But she’s sent me to fetch a reticule. I fear this may set a precedent for my duties throughout the rest of the party.”

  “Lisbeth makes it a pleasure and not a duty,” she hastened to add. “She is very sweet and kind and charming.”

  “She is charming,” he agreed, after a moment.

  She wished he didn’t sound so fervent.

  “Perhaps you ought to go and speak to her, then.” A little too tart. Blast.

  He was amused by her irritation. “I have spoken to her.”

  “And you’ve said everything you have to say? That’s a shame. I was under the impression that conversation perpetuates itself, if done properly.”

  He looked back at the gathering, and spoke after a hesitation. “Nobody speaks to me the way you do.”

  He wasn’t bantering now. They were both surprised by his honesty, clearly, judging from the moment of silence that followed.

  “Perhaps because nobody else here will be going to Africa ere long and they all likely care what you think of them.”

  “Ah. Of course. I’d forgotten. You’re going to Africa. Heaven knows, the privilege of burning beneath the hot sun is a costly one, hence the reason you took up the extra work as a paid companion.”

  “Right you are!” she said cheerfully.

  “You see, Miss Vale? I do comprehend the principles of work.”

  “Perhaps you should cease troubling yourself over the concept of work, Lord Dryden, and stick to what you do best.”

  “And what do you imagine that is, Miss Vale?”

  Oh, God. She’d never known a grown man could . . . purr. His tone caused a series of vivid images to burst into bloom, all prurient, none of them suitable for sharing with anyone, ever.

  “I try not to imagine anything at all about you.” Her voice had gone a little hoarse. Damn.

  “Do you know what I think?”

  “I suspect you’re about to tell me.”

  “I think you haven’t stopped thinking about me since we discussed kissing.”

  In his mouth, the word kissing was a weapon. It pinned her like a butterfly.

  “Of course I stopped.” Long enough to dream about you.

  His little smile told her he knew she was lying.

  She glanced at the stairs again, and back at the gathering, where Lisbeth was deploying the fan with an air of secrecy and hauteur, as if she’d just been crowned.

  With great effort, Phoebe herded her scattered composure.

  He must have sensed she was about to bolt, because he said the very thing that would stop her in her tracks. “I’ve been wondering about you, Miss Vale.”

  She sighed. “Honestly, Lord Dryden, I will loan you ten pounds. It’s exhausting to witness you working so hard just to get a kiss.”

  She’d thought he’d be amused. His eyes flared something almost like exasperation, irritation. “I swear to you. I never officially took Waterburn’s wager. But if he should issue it again, Miss Vale . . .”

  And now he’d unnerved her. He sensed it, as intuitive as an orchestra conductor, he eased the conversation in another direction; he didn’t allow the pause to stretch.

  “And I’m the head of a large family, you know. Sisters, a brother, nieces, nephews, cousins. Many of whom are to some extent dependent upon me. I am essentially the patriarch. It’s work just to stay sane.”

  But he sounded as though he was making a point.

  She said nothing. She was watching the gathering. Jonathan must be teasing Lisbeth, because she’d gone a vivid shade of pink, and not in a fetching way, either.

  The marquess followed the direction of her gaze.

  “The fan reminds me of her,” she said abruptly. She’d wanted to impose a safe distance.

  “That’s why I chose it.”

  Somehow it was the worst thing he could say. The delicate pink, the grace, the fragility, the fine stems bearing the flowers—he’d thought of Lisbeth in detail, in terms of colors and character. She wondered what that might be like to be so cherished, so noticed.

  “Exquisite and pink and fair and rare?” she said lightly.

  “Delicate and particular and expensive.” He smiled faintly. “Oh, and everything else you said, of course. Hasn’t anyone ever given you the perfect gift, Miss Vale?”

  His tone was almost gentle, which made her irritable, because to her ears it smacked of condescension: Why should she have received a perfect gift, when she was a schoolmistress/paid companion?

  She considered the kid gloves now wrapped in tissue, tucked away in her trunk. They were the finest thing she’d ever owned, which was a mixed blessing, in that they made all of her other things seem rather plebian and really weakened her fortitude when it came to coveting things she could never afford to buy on a teacher’s
salary, which was in all probability how her lust for that one particular bonnet had seeped in. She would wear them this evening, feeling quite subversive, considering who had given them to her.

  Yet, as she stood here before the marquess, it was difficult to conjure the face of that man. She could not think of them as a perfect gift. She suspected the giving was more by way of a whim from someone who had passed through her life like a shooting star, brilliant, fleeting, furtive, gone, than an expression of true ardor.

  Nevertheless, they were cream-colored kid, for heaven’s sake. She’d never seen anything near as fine or anything quite like them in Postlethwaite’s. She liked them very much, indeed.

  “I suppose that depends on the spirit in which the gift is given. I suppose I should like a gift that makes me feel . . . known.”

  Instantly she felt abashed.

  The marquess seemed struck by the words. He turned to her. “Known . . . ?” he repeated, thoughtfully.

  “A gift . . . unique to . . . me, I suppose. To my tastes and interests. Not necessarily expensive. Just . . . something meant just for me.” She shrugged with one shoulder to dismiss it as nonsense. She felt shy and foolish to have said it.

  He was still thoughtful. “Do you think any of us ever really knows anyone?”

  “Philosophy, Lord Dryden? And yet it’s daylight and everyone is still sober.”

  He gave a short laugh. But he didn’t seem amused. “Do you know . . . I’m never reckless?”

  This surprised her. He sounded bemused, vehement. And yet it was a word the broadsheet enjoyed using in front of his name. To describe a wager, or a horse race, or an investment.

  What she wanted to say was, “What do you call standing near me and saying words like kissing while another young lady deploys your expensive gift?”

  “What about the horse race in which you wagered ten thousand pounds?”