Tempting the Marquess (15 page)

“Believe what you like, my lord.”

He cocked his head to one side. “I do believe you’re serious. You aren’t set on a love match. Why? Do you aspire to be a duchess?”

She shook her head. Just then, she didn’t aspire to be a marchioness, either.

“Wealth, then.”

“No, but please continue guessing. My character has not been so maligned since last I saw my older brother. This barrage of insults is making me feel quite at home.”

“It is not my intention to offend,” he said stiltedly.

“Is it not? You, my lord, are a cynic.”

“Brava, Miss Weston, you have figured me out.”

So she was back to being Miss Weston. It seemed the evening was off to a poor start.

“It wasn’t meant with admiration,” she informed him crossly.

“I would rather be a cynic and have my feet firmly planted on the ground than be a hopeless dreamer drifting among the clouds.”

“My feet are as firmly planted as yours. Just because I acknowledge the existence of love, the power it holds, does not make me weak and pitiable.”

“No,” he agreed. “Those adjectives are best reserved for the poor saps who believe themselves in love. Come, we are not allowed to quarrel until tomorrow, remember? Now, if I recall correctly, compliments are in order.”

He looked at her, really
looked
at her, his eyes traveling from Alice’s handiwork down her body in a slow perusal and then back up again. His gaze caressed her, leaving every inch of her alive with excitement. She was seized with the urge to press her body against his and wondered what it would be like to kiss him now, with her body feverish and yearning for his.

Was she wicked enough to ask him to kiss her again?

Yes.

It seemed every moment she spent in his presence made her a little more wicked.

How extraordinary . . .

What to say? Beautiful was apt, but trite. The word was also too boring and pallid to properly describe her. Beautiful didn’t encompass her sharp wit, her charming naiveté, her compassionate spirit, her compelling vivacity, her maddening persistence, or any of a thousand other remarkable traits she possessed.

Remarkable. The word suited her, but some masculine instinct for survival warned him that “remarkable” was not what a woman wanted to hear in this situation. He was about to go ahead and tell her she looked beautiful, and if she thought him lacking in creativity, so be it, when he suddenly knew just what to say.

“If you ever again refer to yourself as ordinary, Olivia Weston, I will take you over my knee and paddle your backside.”

Oh, Lord. He should not have let himself go there. Now he was assaulted by visions of his hands gliding over the firm, satiny flesh of her arse. Her radiant smile was worth every second of his discomfort.

“I believe that is the nicest compliment I have ever received. Certainly the most inventive.”

“Telling a woman she looks beautiful slips off a man’s tongue without thought. You deserve better than a glib line.”

Her smile widened, and she practically glowed with happiness. His breath caught in his chest, and his throat grew tight. His emotions, only held in check by an increasingly frayed leash, slipped free and ran riot.

When he’d entered the room, he had been thrown to see Olivia at the vanity. He was not upset by her presence in the Marchioness’s Chambers. Laura’s presence was everywhere in the castle, a constant aching reminder, but no more so in this room than any other. When he was married, Laura had always shared his bed. He had a few vague memories of his mother here, but they were such distant echoes, they barely impinged on his conscious.

Any number of people had suggested he leave Arlyss, especially in that first year. He had other estates, places he had never been with Laura, but Jason refused to consider moving. He didn’t want to uproot Edward, for one thing. More than that, though, whether it was a blessing or a curse, Arlyss was tied to Laura and he would not—could not—move on. He needed to remember to keep himself from being hurt again.

He needed to harden his heart against the domestic scene he had walked in on. To tell himself that it hadn’t felt natural. Unfortunately, he was hardening in other places.

He had been lusting after Olivia since their kiss, but he had braced himself before he’d entered the room. Of course, nothing could have prepared him for what he found. She looked stunning. And she knew it. There was a newfound confidence about her.

“Jason!”

“What?” Damn, he had either lost track of the conversation or said something inappropriate.

“I asked you if it would be equally dissembling for a woman to bestow that compliment upon a man.”

“Ah, er, that is, I don’t suppose so,” he babbled, not really knowing what she was talking about.

“Oh, good. You look beautiful, Jason.”

She thought he looked beautiful?

Her eyes were a warm, rich blue, like the sky on a summer evening. He wanted to lie back and stare into them, watching and waiting for the twinkle of a shooting star. . . .

Christ, what in blazes was wrong with him? He had never spouted such twaddle in his life. Not even when he was young, foolish, and in love. Perhaps this isolated existence was adversely affecting him.

“You always look dashing,” she continued, “but tonight you are just splendid. Women will probably swoon when they see you.”

“I hope not,” he grumbled.

“I remember one of Izzie’s most devout suitors was prone to impromptu verse. Do you suppose men will compose poetry when they catch sight of me?”

Despite the teasing glint in her eyes, Jason’s hands curled into fists at his sides. If he heard so much as a rhyming couplet praising any part of Olivia, he would take the fellow outside and beat him to a bloody pulp. Or maybe he would simply shoot him. One advantage of this relative isolation was that disposing of a body was far less trouble.

“Olivia,” he began.

“Won’t you call me Livvy?”

“No, in this I shall call you Olivia, or, better yet, by your full name. I want you to listen to me, Olivia Jane Weston. Whatever romantic notions are in your head, I pray you will act sensibly this evening. Duels over a lady’s honor are far less thrilling than your books doubtless make them out to be.”

She flitted forward and rested her hand on the sleeve of his coat. Her hands were delicate and graceful—an artist’s hands. Her long, slender fingers were so white next to the black wool of his coat. What would they look like, what would they feel like against his skin—No. This evening would be interminable if he kept allowing his mind to wander these forbidden paths.

She squeezed his arm. “If I decide to forgo good sense tonight, Jason Traherne, you will undoubtedly be the first to know.”

Since his good sense seemed to vanish in her presence, he was somewhat less than relieved by the prospect of Olivia forgoing hers. If neither of them displayed good sense, he had a very bad sense about how the evening was liable to end.

As she had no desire to dance again until her feet were recovered, she made her way to the refreshment table, which had been set up at the far end of the Great Hall, off to one side of the enormous fireplace. She selected some sweets for the children as she had promised, though Edward would be lucky to receive so much as a bite with Charlotte around.

Charles came up beside her. “You look ravishing, my dear. It’s a pity you’re so stuck on my brother- in-law.”

She batted him with the fan in her free hand. “Keep your voice down. Someone will hear you.”

He laughed. “With the way you’ve been watching him I doubt there’s a person in this room in question of your feelings, except perhaps Jason.”

“Have I truly been that obvious?”

He regarded her a moment. “No. I suspect I am overly sensitive since I wish those languishing looks were directed at me.”

“You’re only saying that to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

She shook her head. “I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I?”

“It’s not too late to convince everyone that you’re madly in love with me instead,” he joked.

Olivia eyed him speculatively.

Charles took a step backward, his palms raised as if to fend off an attack. “I wasn’t serious.”

“Then you shouldn’t have suggested it.” She smiled sweetly and placed her hand on his shoulder, gazing up at him with what she hoped was as languishing a look as those she had apparently been bestowing on Jason.

Who was he dancing with now? She glanced around the room in search of him.

“Livvy, my love, your admiration for
me
becomes less believable when you turn to look at
him
.”

“I can’t help doing so. He hasn’t asked me to dance. Wouldn’t you want to dance with a woman you found desirable?”

“Maybe he wants to avoid singling you out,” Charles suggested.

“Then he’s going about it the wrong way,” she growled. “I am practically the only female here he hasn’t danced with, and I’m meant to be the guest of honor. More of a statement is made by his avoidance than there would be if he danced with me.”

“Perhaps he wants to give you the chance to dance with other men. You certainly haven’t been lacking in partners. This is the first dance you’ve sat out.”

“But it isn’t as if most of these men are prospective suitors. Nearly all are married. Besides, he would hardly be pushing me at other gentlemen if he wanted me for himself,” she argued.

“Ah, but if you were attached to another man, you would be off- limits. Then he would be safe from temptation.”

“I shall never understand how the male mind works.”

He grinned. “We’re simple creatures. Our thoughts revolve around women and food.” He picked a piece of toffee off her plate and popped it into his mouth.

“Stop that,” she scolded him. “These are promised to the children. Do you want me to tell Charlotte you ate her sweets?”

“Heaven forbid!”

“That’s what I thought. If my aunt asks for me, tell her I’ve just gone to place these in my chamber.”

“Why not let a footman see to it? We can’t have the guest of honor disappearing.”

She leaned close. “If you want the truth, the guest of honor needs to make certain Sir George did not break any of her toes.”

He laughed and nearly choked on his toffee. “Go on with you, then. I’ve a fair notion to escape myself.”

Once she was in her room, Livvy allowed herself a few quiet moments to relax. She frowned at the thought of the lecherous stares that had been directed at her by Sir George and other men of his ilk. Worse, though, were the even more predatory gazes their wives cast in Jason’s direction.

These women were less the swooning sort than the pursuing sort. A pack of bloodhounds that had scented something they liked. Perhaps the setting had incited some ancient compulsion to hunt and conquer; the Great Hall dated back to the days when the mighty Marcher Lords had sought to subdue the native Welsh. Livvy wanted to tell all of them that Jason was not a tasty bit of meat to be slavered over by a pack of hungry dogs but, if he had been, he was her prize morsel.

It wasn’t true, of course. She had no claim on him. Except she couldn’t quite persuade herself of that. Ever since she had found that first clue leading to the brooch, Jason had been hers. Her special secret.

She felt she knew him on some higher plane, understood him on some deeper level. This wasn’t to say that she didn’t find him puzzling and aggravating a good deal of the time, because she did. But she couldn’t shake the growing feeling that they had been brought together, and that her coming to Castle Arlyss was all part of some greater plan.

And perhaps she was trying to convince herself that all this was predetermined—that Jason needed her—because she was beginning to fear he was necessary to her future happiness. She had never dared hope she’d find a man able to live up to the hero archetype that had gradually taken shape in her mind. Over the years, with each new novel she read, the ideal had been refined and rewritten, like a palimpsest, until only the very best attributes remained.

Jason obviously didn’t entirely fit this image of perfection. He was too knowledgeable about Shakespeare’s canon for her comfort, and he tended toward grumpy and withdrawn over gracious and welcoming. She shouldn’t, by her reckoning, have been at all tempted by so clearly flawed a specimen. Perfection was her standard, love her divine inspiration.

Was she ready to accept the idea that a perfect love didn’t have to be, well,
perfect
? Could she admit that desiring a fallen angel had greater appeal than worshipping one on high from afar? Was it possible for love to be at once sacred and profane?

And why was she bothering to ponder these questions when she had yet to answer the most important one? How would she ever figure out if what she felt for Jason was love or some other confused emotion?

She had never questioned her sister’s insistence that James was the only one for her. He was the love of Isabella’s life and that knowledge was as much a part of her as her fingers and toes. More so, really, since her sister could survive without fingers and toes, but without James she had lost the will to live. Livvy accepted what was between Izzie and James as a fact of life. Like moths and flames or stars and the moon, they simply belonged together.

But because Isabella had always been so certain of her feelings, Olivia had never thought to ask her
how
she knew James was the man she was meant to be with. And Livvy guessed that even if Izzie was standing right beside her so she could ask, her sister would shrug and say: “I just knew.” Which would really be no help at all because Livvy never
just knew
anything.

She didn’t have that same trust in her feelings or the ability to leap without knowing where she would land. She thought Jason might be her match, but thinking it wasn’t the same as knowing it. There were moments when she
thought
she knew, like when he smiled at something she said although he clearly didn’t want to. Sometimes as she watched him with Edward and Charlotte she imagined him playing with a child of theirs and it seemed less like a daydream and more like a vision of the future.

But what if Jason had
known
that Laura was the only one for him? Was it possible to love that deeply more than once in a lifetime? If it wasn’t, was she prepared to accept always being second best? And did that mean she was actually jealous of a dead woman?

Yes.

How lowering. Love—or whatever these mixed-up feelings were—certainly didn’t seem to be making her a better person. But at least she wasn’t a married woman ogling a man other than her husband. She was unmarried and thus well within her rights to ogle. Perhaps if she ogled long enough she would know. That was, if she even wanted to know. She was certainly safer not knowing, but she was having an increasingly difficult time remembering just why she wanted to be safe.

To know, or not to know: that was the question.

Oh, heaven help her, she was quoting Shakespeare, or misquoting in this case. Now she knew one thing for certain. She
knew
she was going mad.

Olivia headed back to the party, taking a shortcut by using the stairs off the solar, which was being used as the ladies’ retiring room. She had just opened the door to slip inside when she heard voices and realized the room was not empty. She opened her mouth to announce her presence so as not to startle the other women, when one of them said something that stopped her dead in her tracks.

“You know I hate to speak ill of anyone, but that niece of Lady Sheldon’s is really too much. Did you see the way she was watching the marquess?”

Livvy’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Jealous, Callista?” the other woman asked.

Callista. That was Lady Vernon, Sir George’s wife. Olivia hadn’t liked her on sight. Not because she was beautiful, and not even because of the come-hither looks she had cast at Jason all throughout dinner. No, Livvy disliked her because she so obviously thought herself superior to everyone around her.

“Jealous? Of that little innocent? Hardly.”

Her barking laugh grated on Olivia’s raw nerves.

“In any case, I have no need to be jealous. I’ll have Jason Traherne in my bed before the month is out.”

“You had best be careful with that one,” her companion warned. “He’s got the look of a lean, hungry wolf.”

“Then he’ll need a woman in his bed, not a girl,” Lady Vernon declared with no small amount of satisfaction.

“And what makes you think you’re the woman he wants?”

“I sat by him during the meal. Believe me when I say I have irrefutable proof of his desire.”

Olivia felt sick, yet she couldn’t walk away.

There were whisperings back and forth that she couldn’t make out, and then a startled gasp.

“No! You didn’t! Really? And. . . ?” the other woman inquired.

“A lady can be assured of a good ride with a mount like that.”

The two women burst into gales of laughter.

Olivia couldn’t stand to listen to another word. She forced her legs to function and rushed back the way she had come. Her eyes were filled with tears, so she did not see the person standing in front of her. She slammed up against a hard masculine body.

Hands came up to grasp her shoulders. Steadying her. Trapping her.

She knew at once it was Jason.

Fate wouldn’t be so kind as to let it be anyone else.

Besides, she had been in contact with any number of men that night, and not one of them had produced the sort of thrill that ran through her body when she touched him.

“There you are!” His voice was angry. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

“Charles knew where I was,” she said woodenly, keeping her eyes fixed on his shoulder.

“He disappeared as well. Damn it, Livvy, if you’ve been with him—”

She couldn’t believe he had the gall to accuse
her
of sneaking off with Charles—
Charles
, for heaven’s sake—after what she’d just heard. She wrenched herself free of his grasp and took off running.