How the Marquess Was Won

by Julie Anne Long

  Dryden wondered if this was a calculated statement. For it seemed very wrong to want to call Waterburn out, but the impulse burst into flame and he felt his hand curl tightly around his port, and his lungs tighten with anger.

  Beautiful. Jules once thought he’d understood what the word meant. He now believed it overused. Some word needed to be kept in reserve for the rare, the arresting, the surprising . . . the magical. Or a new one invented.

  Phoebe laughed at something then. It made him immediately restless. He wanted to be near her and feel the laugh pour like tiny sparks over his senses. He suffered, because he wanted to be the one who’d made her laugh.

  “Precisely,” he said to Waterburn absently.

  Waterburn’s curiosity was now flourishing. He was staring thoughtfully at Phoebe, too, with not a little bemusement. He called to mind a museum patron told he ought to appreciate a particular painting.

  “Ahhhhhhh!”

  Waterburn drew it out into two syllables. So suddenly Jules jerked his head toward him. “Do you know, Dryden . . . I think I see now. Yes, I think I do.”

  “See what?” Jules said irritably.

  “Why, my partner for one of the waltzes this evening. And I salute you, you clever devil. I never would have had an inspiration if not for you.”

  He eased away from the mantel with those words and merged with the crowd.

  And when Waterburn passed a mirror, he paused. Then drew a lock of his blond hair down over his brow, studied himself, and nodded in satisfaction.

  Chapter 15

  Phoebe never suspected her trip to the ratafia bowl would turn out to be one of the most eventful trips she’d ever taken in her life. She’d been sent by Lisbeth, of course, but she hoped to eat a tiny sandwich while she was there, too, because the dancing would begin shortly. And she was certain Lisbeth would expect her to hold her ratafia and accompany her to the withdrawing room when beckoned and hear her assessment of her partners and the music and she’d hardly have time for a sandwich.

  The events began with Lord Waterburn, whom she’d begun to silently refer to as Hadrian’s Wall. A little bit of schoolmistress humor. He seemed to be a vacuum of the sort where amusement went to disappear.

  For days she’d watched his expression twitch between boredom and disdain and back again, broken only by the occasional fleeting smile, which one might be forgiven for mistaking for gas.

  He was smiling now.

  She eyed all those teeth suspiciously. She’d never seen them bared in her direction before, and she was wary, as she’d done nothing in particular to earn it. He also, suddenly, sported a forelock. She stared at it, puzzled.

  And he was so close she could see dimples, a small crescent nestled inside a large one, at the corners of his mouth, and the lines at the corners of his eyes. Not unattractive. Still, she felt strangely uncomfortable viewing his face in such detail.

  “Good evening, Miss Vale,” he said with a bow.

  “Good evening, Lord Waterburn.” She curtsied.

  He didn’t continue on his way to wherever he’d been going before he intercepted her. He remained still, neatly blocking the view of the rest of the assembly and the ratafia and the tiny sandwiches.

  It occurred to her then that she was his destination.

  And now she was beginning to feel uneasy, since he’d obviously viewed her as something little better than an object until now. She wanted to peer around him yearningly toward the little piles of food, but considered it might be rude. She prepared her polite social smile, since she could hardly offer him a neutral expression while he was beaming at her. It was as useful as her old gray cloak, that smile.

  On it went.

  Until he cleared his throat. “Miss Vale, I wondered if you might be so gracious as to do me the honor of . . .”

  Her smile congealed in shock.

  “. . . dancing the first waltz with me. The orchestra is meant to play three of them this evening, I understand. If it isn’t . . . too much trouble, I should be happy indeed if you would accept.”

  Trouble? Had Lord Waterburn been knocked on the head?

  He waited. The smile remained.

  A waltz. A waltz with a viscount. Not only that, but he’d requested the first waltz . . . suggesting it would be just one of the three she would be graciously, strategically bestowing throughout the evening. As though he might have competition for the others.

  It occurred to her for one wild moment that the marquess might have mentioned she was giving out kisses at this house party, and that Waterburn hoped to get one by waltzing with her, and then maneuvering her out into the garden.

  No. The marquess wouldn’t dare compromise his dignity or reputation by admitting he’d kissed a schoolmistress.

  Not only kissed her, but liked it.

  Perhaps this day simply had a theme: the sudden and inexplicable.

  Which would explain how she answered. “I believe I will be that gracious,” she said carefully, slowly.

  This pleased him, judging from the way the smile grew.

  “And Lord Waterburn . . . it shall not trouble me at all.” Unless you intend to talk to me during it.

  She smiled, too, cautiously, whilst she peeked surreptitiously at the glass he was holding. It appeared he’d been drinking the port. How much of it? she wondered.

  Or perhaps his request was a result of a . . . dare?

  Nevertheless.

  She was more than equal to anyone’s dare, as she could not be maneuvered out into the garden for a bit of fondling or whatever the dare might entail; she was far clever for that. And knew just where to trod on or kick his person to, er, discourage him.

  But she rather looked forward to dancing a waltz. She would simply account it another experience to entrust to her journal, a once-in-a-lifetime type of thing, and simply enjoy the waltz with Hadrian’s Wall the way she might enjoy a ride in a high flyer. Or in his case, something considerably larger. A landau, perhaps. With four shiny black horses harnessed to—

  “Thank you, Miss Vale.”

  He was studying her almost . . . avidly, if she had to choose a word. Absently, she brought a hand up to rub between her eyes, to ascertain whether she had sprouted a third one, or perhaps a horn.

  With an effort she brought it down again. She struggled not to frown, as he likely needed to be encouraged to smile. His smile lit his eyes. And they were pretty eyes when they were lit. There was indeed a person, perhaps a not entirely intolerable one, lurking behind them.

  Next he’ll compliment my complexion.

  “Until we dance,” he said instead.

  “Until we dance,” she agreed solemnly.

  If he noticed her eyes glinting wicked humor he showed no sign. He bowed and stepped aside, and as though he were a great boulder rolled away from the mouth of a treasure cave, the marquess was revealed. He was leaning against the hearth directly across from her, a good ten feet or more away. In contrast to the beaming viscount, he appeared darkly preoccupied and unfortunately incongruous, as the hearth was covered in carved cherubs and they cavorted just above his head. “Satyr with cherubs,” she might have titled it, if he’d been a woodcut. The expression on his face hinted that if they’d been real cherubs buzzing about he would have shot them out of the sky with a bow and arrow.

  Her heart stopped. Then resumed beating considerably more quickly.

  His hair was pulled rakishly down over his pale brow. A puzzlingly devil-may-care decision, given that devil-may-care was the last thing he was purported to be.

  When their eyes met her social smile faltered. Because as usual she didn’t see him so much as feel him, like a hand brushed over the fine hairs on the back of her neck. The parts of her he’d touched seemed to tingle with the memory of it, and the parts he hadn’t touched ached at the oversight. The result was she was very likely flushing, at least judging from her temperature.

  She offered a tentative smile. She contemplated offering a cheery ironic wave. She doubted he would appreciat
e it.

  For a moment she worried he was simply going to brood in her direction, and she suspected no one brooded with more potency than he did.

  But then his mouth tipped slowly up at the corner. Rueful, enigmatic. As though he wasn’t ready to commit to feeling a particular way.

  She’d kissed that mouth this very afternoon.

  She suddenly felt feverish and shy and awkward, as if all of her limbs had grown two sizes. She was aware she’d dressed her own hair, that she owned no jewelry, that her dress had a spot near the hem, that her slippers were thinning at the soles.

  She glanced sideways, guiltily, at Lisbeth, who was awaiting ratafia. The coronet shone in her dark hair like a substitute halo. She was chatting gaily to yet another friend who had come to pay homage.

  When Phoebe glanced back at the marquess he swiftly lifted that rogue lock of hair, pointed at his forehead and mouthed:

  Good aim.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth. Dear God, he was sporting a bruise! So that’s where she’d clocked him with his hat!

  And this explained the forelock.

  He grinned, swiftly, just like a boy. Oh, God. That grin might as well have been a lariat looped around her heart.

  But she pulled her hands away from her mouth. Her eyes were watering with mirth, which was probably wicked, when she really ought to have been mortified she’d maimed him. She bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  He dropped his hair again and put a finger against his lips.

  She took another step, a tentative noncommittal one that could have taken her toward him or toward the ratafia table. A test of sorts.

  He visibly tensed. His smile faded and a strange wariness set in.

  She halted. Her spirits plummeted into awkward uncertainty.

  And then to her astonishment he vanished. Obscured from view by another pair of dark coats and fluffy cravats.

  She tilted her head back and discovered Jonathan Redmond and another gentleman she hadn’t yet met, though she’d certainly noticed him, as it had been impossible not to. Handsome, even more dazzling than Argosy, and a dandy, this one, in a waistcoat striped in gold, a cravat tied in the fashion equivalent of a Gordian knot, and chestnut curls as loose and abandoned as his trousers were snug.

  It was the trousers she’d noticed when she’d first arrived in the salon. Or rather, what was contained therein. He’d been the recipient of so many sidelong glances since he’d stepped into the parlor she doubted anyone would be able to relate the color of his eyes, but would have been able to accurately estimate the size of his masculine blessing.

  “Miss Vale. I don’t believe I’ve introduced Sir Geoffrey d’Andre to you yet this evening.”

  As if an introduction of this sort had been an inevitability. What on earth was happening tonight?

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Vale,” he murmured. He drawled, as though he had a mouth full of something thick and delicious, perhaps honey.

  She curtsied and held out her hand for him to bow over. When he moved to bow over it a waft of scent came with him: expensive and spicy and yet still pleasantly male and exotically—to her, anyway—aristocratic.

  “I am quite pleased to meet you, too, Sir Geoffrey.”

  She stared at him. His face was sharp at the chin, prominent at the cheekbones, hewn at the jaw. He was preternaturally handsome, as though his ancestors had bred with nothing but other beautiful people specifically to arrive at him.

  “Ah, well. It’s my understanding you’ll be joining the dancing this evening, Phoe—Miss Vale?”

  This came from Jonathan, who looked as mystified as she felt. She had the sensation that he’d been enlisted specifically to make this introduction. She wondered if he, too, thought it might be the result of a dare. She was his sister’s paid companion, after all. Albeit one who’d smelled of cheroot smoke the other evening.

  “To my great delight, yes. I will be joining the dancing.” She tried not to sound defiant.

  Sir d’Andre smiled at this. He looked . . . Well, for some reason her answer seemed to enchant him, if the sparkle in his eyes was any indication. This seemed a rather extreme reaction to what she considered a simple statement.

  It could hardly have anything to do with her dress, which she’d worn innumerable times to mostly resounding indifference. Maybe once a woman is thoroughly kissed by a marquess she radiates a certain je ne sais quoi, she thought. Something only aristocratic men could sense, the way the highest of pitches were said to disturb the ears of dogs.

  “I wondered if you would be so kind as to share one of the dances with me, Miss Vale. In fact, do I dare hope you’ll favor me with a waltz?”

  Favor me. How they did talk, these titled men. Did they think it was expected of them, all these “dares” and “favors” and so forth? Such a lot of words to issue a simple request.

  She couldn’t say she disliked it. It had the ring of ceremony, if not sincerity. And in truth, though her life hadn’t lacked for order since she was ten years old, it was sorely lacking in ceremony.

  “You may do more than hope, Sir d’Andre. I’d be quite pleased to favor you with a waltz. The second one, as my first is taken.”

  It was the first time she’d ever uttered that sentence in her entire life. It was rather astonishing how quickly and easily she took to pomp.

  And though her gravity was almost entirely comprised of irony, he didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps he considered it all a part of the ritual. Or perhaps in his experience all women spoke just that way.

  And that’s when a certain giddiness began to creep into her spirits. She felt like an actress in a play who’d decided to recklessly veer from the script.

  Ah! Perhaps that was the theme of the day. Recklessness.

  Or perhaps veering from the script?

  “I shall look forward to it, Miss Vale.”

  Trousers bowed, gifting her with a slow smile on the way down, and then gracefully backed away with Jonathan Redmond, leaving her path to the ratafia clear again, and once again revealing the marquess against the hearth.

  Who was no longer smiling. Who in fact looked rather saturnine.

  She darted a look about the room to ensure no one was watching her. And then she surreptitiously turned her palms up, a gesture of wonderment, and widened her eyes: Aristocrats are descending upon me!

  He gave a quick, involuntary smile. A quirk at the corners of his mouth.

  She took a deep breath. And tried another brisk confident step forward toward him.

  She froze. For his smile faded again. And his expression took on something that looked very like a warning. It was subtle.

  But she felt it like a slap.

  He never would have dared aimed that expression at Lisbeth. Or any of the other women in the room. She was to keep her distance, apparently.

  And then he vanished again. And this time he disappeared courtesy of a bemused-looking Lisbeth, who was flanked by two identical brunettes wearing white.

  Four brown eyes beamed not entirely benign curiosity at her. Two pairs of bow-shaped lips turned up in identical enigmatic smiles. Their hair was intricately dressed up and decorated with shining combs and curls bobbed playfully at their temples. Since she hadn’t yet imbibed a single drop of ratafia, she must in fact be seeing two separate girls. Identical twins.

  Oh, good heavens! These must be the infamous Silverton sisters!

  They were beautiful as a pair of pixies.

  They curtsied, and she did the same.

  “I wondered where you’d gotten to, Phoebe! I came to fetch my own ratafia.” Lisbeth smiled. But her tone was the same tone Phoebe had used before on her pupils when they did something disappointing.

  She contemplated a strategy. “Forgive me, Lisbeth, but I know you’ll be delighted to hear why I was waylaid. I’ve been asked to join the festivities!”

  “But . . . weren’t you already doing that?”

  She sounded genuinely confused. Phoebe contemplated telling Lisbeth that w
atching her dance did not qualify as participation, necessarily, and wasn’t nearly as diverting as Lisbeth might think.

  “Well, you see . . . it’s a funny thing, but I’ve been asked to dance. The waltz. Twice. I thought it would be impolite to refuse.”

  This was met with more silence. “But do you know how to dance the waltz, dear?”

  Dear? Lisbeth had landed rather hard on the D. One might have thought she’d said it through clenched teeth.

  “Of course, dear.” Well, she was certain it would come back to her, anyway, once she got the waltz under way.

  Lisbeth’s teeth appeared and yet her eyes seemed entirely unaware that she was smiling. It reminded Phoebe unnervingly of the first time she’d met Mr. Isaiah Redmond. She didn’t think there was ever a time when Isaiah Redmond wasn’t . . . planning. That his mind invariably efficiently rolled along on an entirely different yet parallel track from the one his conversation took, and very few people noticed.

  Two throats cleared prettily and simultaneously.

  “The Silverton sisters have asked to make your acquaintance,” Lisbeth remembered, and sounded bemused, and a frown shadowed her brow.

  “This is Lady Marie Silverton.” The girl on the left curtsied.

  “And this is Lady Antoinette Silverton.” Lady Antoinette curtsied.

  Marie . . . and Antoinette? Oh, good heavens. And why on earth would the infamous Silverton sisters ask to meet her?

  It was then that Phoebe decided simply to surrender and treat the entire day like a dream. In dreams, events happened for no discernible reason and in no logical order. One simply drifted through until the chime of a morning clock ended it.

  So she made her curtsy a particularly pretty one, deep and graceful, because she was beginning to enjoy the theatricality of the event.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance,” she said to both of them.

  “Mama wasn’t being whimsical or macabre when she named us Marie and Antoinette,” Antoinette explained. “She’s just rather stupid.”

  Phoebe was speechless.

  Their eyes glinted at her. Like animal eyes, shiny and inscrutable above their smiles. She couldn’t read their intent. And there seemed to be one, or a test of some sort. The silence was the waiting kind.