In the Arms of a Marquess (9 page)

Her stomach careened against her lungs. “They say you are quite wild.”

“Do they say it convincingly?”

She stared. Then laughed.

He quirked a grin. “Well I wouldn’t wish to make so much effort all for nothing.”

She giggled, trying to rein in her delight. Aunt Imene called her overexuberance her greatest fault. Tavy suspected her mother and father had agreed to send her abroad for the same reason. They loved her, but she was far too plain spoken for their comfort, and she laughed aloud far too often.

“All for nothing? But I suppose it must be enjoyable, after all, I mean to say, er—whatever it is you do that makes the gossips chatter.”

His expression sobered. “No.”

“No, it is not enjoyable?”

He shook his head, furrows forming in his brow beneath the fall of satiny dark locks.

“Then—” Her heart beat peculiarly quick. She had the uncanny sense that he had revealed to her a secret, something no one else knew. But that was a ridiculous notion. “Then what do you do for enjoyment?”

His gaze scanned her face, sliding along her neck and shoulders then lifting to her eyes again. “I am enjoying myself now.”

Tingles of pleasure skittered up the insides of her legs—of all places. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her parasol.

“You know, I am not yet out in society, not until next month, at least, when I turn eighteen. I haven’t any idea how to flirt.”

His ebony eyes sparkled. “That makes two of us.”

“Really?”

“I only speak the truth.”

“Then I will make certain to only ask you questions for which the answer is indisputably pleasing.”

“Ah, but I will be fashioning all my speech so that it pleases you.”

She laughed. “That is absurd. Whatever for?”

He stepped forward, closing the space between them to much less than was strictly proper. “Because,” he said in a quiet voice, his gaze fixed on her mouth, “I admire your smile and wish to see it often.”

Her lips quivered. “It?”

He lifted his gaze to hers, gloriously dark. “You.”

After that day he was at the bazaar each time she went there, twice the first week, then again the following, and after that. She shopped and he walked along beside her, commenting on her purchases and sampling foodstuffs as she recommended and occasionally required.

“You know, Genghis Khan had a royal taster to test for poison slipped into his dinner by assassins,” he said mildly as he discarded the remains of a mango she demanded he try before she purchased any.

“How convenient for him.”

“Tasters, I should say. He had many enemies.”

“Emperors often do. Lucky for you I am just a lowly nobody.”

He slanted her an unreadable look. “Lucky for me, indeed.”

They spoke of everything and nothing, of India and war and of passing, insubstantial matters—the varieties of flowers for sale, the unlikelihood that the sari mender’s husband had moved an inch from his sleeping-slouch in the corner of the shop since the previous week, the obvious mistake the Anglican vicar’s wife had made in attaching faux robin eggs to her hat brim. Tavy never asked him of his family or the society he kept, and he never asked of hers. There seemed to be no need.

“He won,” he murmured as they stepped away from a particularly spirited barter she had engaged in with a spice vendor.

“Yes, I know.”

“Then why do you look so pleased?”

“Because last week I told him I would let him win today.”

A crease dented his cheek, a look of frank admiration upon his handsome face. “Remind me to ask for the same consideration should the need ever arise.”

Tavy laughed. “I will.”

His gaze seemed to still in hers, then to grow warm. His smile slipped away. Tavy’s throat went dry.

He moved off and she followed, unable to tear her gaze from his lean, muscular form, hints of the leashed energy beneath his skin revealed in the careless grace of his every action, a young, beautiful man at once sublimely at ease and restless in his body. He wore European clothing with cavalier elegance and eastern flare, expensive trousers and boots, soft-as-silk linen shirts of pristine white, fantastically gold-embroidered waistcoats, and a ring upon his left hand, a large gold tiger’s head with ruby eyes. Lord Benjirou Doreé was art and nature combined to perfection.

Pausing at the nut seller’s stand, he palmed a handful of almonds from a barrel-sized sack. He proffered them to her, the thick gold band glinting between his fingers as he leaned back against a table.

She shook her head. “You never purchase anything.”

“I have no need.” He withdrew his hand and slipped an almond between his lips, his eyes watchful upon her.

“And yet here you are so often, and always precisely when I am.”

“Perhaps a coincidence.”

“I doubt it. Unless, of course, you simply spend entire days here.”

He smiled.

“Perhaps,” she said, ducking her chin but still meeting his gaze, “we should make an appointment for the next occasion, so that you will not be obliged to guess.” Her heart pounded.

They met the following day as planned, in the hottest heat of the afternoon. They wandered from stall to stall, laughing and tasting the vendors’ offerings—spiced pistachio cakes, chapatis, and sugar-coated delicacies.

That afternoon he kissed her for the first time. She hadn’t known she longed for him to until he did. But when in the deep shadow of an awning behind the falconry he touched her cheek, ducked his head and brushed his lips against hers, everything in her awakened. Then she wanted nothing else but more.

He drew back, gazed at her for a long, silent moment then smiled gently. They walked on. She hardly knew of what they spoke or if they spoke at all until they parted, as always, just beyond the market entrance.

That night in her bed Tavy burned, feverish beyond the heat of the August night, her body and heart filled with strange, strong yearnings.

The next day the house was in chaos readying her birthday celebration, her formal introduction into society. Tavy floated through the hours in hazy anticipation of seeing him again, imagining how he would ask her to dance, his black eyes glimmering with quiet pleasure as they always did when he looked at her. She dressed with care she had never before taken in her appearance, donning a simple white gown with pearled beads on the bodice, and arranging her hair elegantly, all in a daze of excitement.

The party went on, and on, and still he did not arrive. Near midnight, heart in a heated twist, she approached her aunt and asked if Lady Doreé had sent word she could not attend.

“That family was not invited,” Aunt Imene replied, face gaunt from her long convalescence.

Confusion flooded Tavy’s young, earnest breast.

“They were on the list,” she said through a tight throat. “You asked who I wished to attend and I gave you a list.”

“I altered it as I saw fit.”

“Oh, of course, you did not invite them because they are in mourning,” she said, her disappointment heavy.

“I did not invite them because you may not associate with them. You do not fully understand matters, but now that you are out in society you will learn. Tonight, however, we will not discuss it.”

Face flaming with mingled shame and fury, Tavy barely made it into the garden before tears spilled onto her cheeks. Pressing her face into her palms, she leaned against the vast spreading banyan tree and sobbed.

“Someone forget to bring a gift?” a soft, deep voice came through the darkness.

She whirled around. Ben stood a yard away, his mouth curved into a gentle arc at one side, eyes teasing. Tavy’s knees turned to jelly.

“N-No. I—I only—” She could not grin in response. She could not even speak. He was here. He had come and her world seemed suddenly complete and bottomless again at once.

He stepped closer, tilting his head curiously.

“You look a bit unsteady. Too much birthday champagne,
shalabha
?”

“None.” Her intoxication came solely from him, his gaze, his nearness.

She should have anticipated this. She had dreamed about him from that moment two years earlier when he swept her onto his horse, rescuing her. Over the past weeks she had merely pretended otherwise, and his lovely, undemanding companionship lulled her into familiarity.

But there was nothing familiar about the heat he stirred now in every corner of her body as he gazed at her and his smile faded.

He reached forward and ever so lightly brushed the moisture from her face with his thumb. His hand lingered, fingertips light upon her jaw. Holding her breath, Tavy leaned her cheek into his palm. She stared at his beautiful sensitive mouth, unable to look higher to his eyes to discover what she feared, that her longing was alone, that he did not feel it too.

“What has made you weep,
shalabha
?” His voice soothed, but the agitation in her blood would not be stilled.

“I wanted you to come,” she whispered. “To be here tonight. But my aunt—”

“I am here now.” His other hand came around her face, tilting it up. The onyx depths of his eyes seemed lit from within, sparks dancing there as bright as the yearning inside her.

She placed her palm upon his chest. He took in a quick breath, his heartbeat fast beneath her hand. Inside Tavy something seemed to open, to shimmer with yearning.

She whispered, “Kiss me again.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he slid the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. She felt it all the way to her toes. He lowered his head and touched his mouth to hers.

Sweet, sweet heaven, was this what it was to kiss a man one was in love with? Like jumping off a cliff and coming home both at once. He lifted his mouth and her entire being rushed to the place where his breath feathered across her lips. His shoulders rose in a heavy inhalation.

“Octavia, I—”

“Again.” She trembled. “Please.”

He did, bending to her and kissing her softly, repeatedly, and she melted. He felt familiar and new at the same moment, his strong hands, his scent and texture. She offered her lips and he teased them gently, as though still hesitant. But inside her a spark ignited, growing and expanding as he touched her with beautiful tenderness, holding her face in his hands like the finest porcelain he feared to break.

She wanted to touch him too. She laid her hands upon his arms. Beneath the finely woven linen he was hard and contoured, like nothing she had ever felt, and a wash of sensation rushed through her, funneling from her chest in a V-shape downward. Her lips parted on a breath of surprise.

He brought their bodies together and pressed her lips open with the pressure of his. His heat poured into her, his long, lean frame against her, and the kiss changed. She felt him at the edges of her mouth, touching her inside, and she got drunk with it. He licked at the inner line of her lips, using his tongue as though he were tasting her, kissing like he might shortly eat her, and Tavy gave up all pretense of modesty. She followed, letting him touch her so intimately, widening her lips so he could do it more, her body rushing with sensations wholly foreign and dazzling. She had never imagined a kiss could be like this, hot and all consuming, mouths and bodies fitting to each other as though fashioned to be one, completely on fire.

He kissed her throat, her jaw, and lips again, their breaths mingling fast and mouths hungry. She clutched at his shoulders, needing to be closer, hot and aching everywhere, frantic in her skin.

He grasped her arms and pressed his cheek to hers. His chest moved hard against her breasts, his body rigid as though with hard-fought control.

“I will call upon your uncle in the morning.” His voice was rough. His hand slipped up to her neck, sinking into her hair to cradle her head, and it seemed that his fingers trembled, but she shook so hard it must be her. “May I?”

“
Yes
. Oh, yes.” Her heart slammed against her ribs like it would break through. “But don’t go yet.” She twined her arms about his neck and went onto her toes, sliding her body along his and feeling him everywhere, taut, sleek muscle against her thighs and hips and the sensitive tips of her breasts. He gripped her hard beneath the arms, pulled her against his chest and covered her mouth.

He kissed her deep, then deeper with each stroke of his tongue inside her. His hands sought and her body shivered, pleasure in each caress. Somewhere in the recesses of her awareness she knew she should not be doing this, but his touch generated a craving in her young body as wonderful as it was alarming, and she could not stop. She wanted more. More of his hands on her waist and hips, more of the heat of his mouth, more of his big, hard maleness against her.

“Shalabha,”
he said against her neck, his voice husky, perfect. “Let me touch you.”

She didn’t know what he meant. He was already touching her in places no man ever had, not even her dancing master who had once showed her the rudimentary maneuvers of the waltz. But she wanted him to continue doing it, as he was now, caressing the sensitive skin of her throat with his wonderful mouth, the sensation echoing between her legs where she was indescribably warm.