She flirted with the idea of flaying her with wit and fleeing to Africa, but decided against it.
What did Lisbeth want? Did she even know? Or was she just a vehicle for the desires and ambitions of her influential family and the marquess?
“I think . . .” Lisbeth tipped her head back and a dreamy smile drifted over her face “. . . nothing could be more glorious than to be married to him. He’s very . . . very . . .”
She paused, seemed lost in a reverie.
Yes, he is. Very.
“. . . sweet.”
God, no. Did she ever have the wrong end of the stick.
Phoebe accidentally snorted. Then turned it into a discreet cough. Lisbeth stared at Phoebe with mild concern and something like curiosity. She’d never do anything so gauche as to snort. She was probably wondering how it was done.
But perhaps he was sweet to Lisbeth. And treated her with deference and kindness and delicacy, the way one would a well-bred prospective wife or an expensive Chinese vase.
Other women were for flirting with. And making love to.
“And he’s impressive,” Lisbeth added. “He is quite the best catch in all of London.”
“He is impressive.” Catch? You make him sound like a mackerel.
Lisbeth perhaps caught a whiff of something too enthusiastic in Phoebe’s tone. She looked up at her from her embroidery and regarded her with mild bemusement.
“That is, from what I can tell.” She’d decided echoing Lisbeth was working out nicely, for it saved her from expressing opinions or lying.
“And everyone knows he will settle only for the very best,” Lisbeth added.
Settle. Did one actually “settle” for the best?
“Is that why you admire him, Lisbeth?”
She looked up, earnestly surprised. And almost reproving. “Don’t you think it’s why he admires me?”
Implying that naturally she was the best that could be had.
Clearly she’d thought Phoebe had gotten the wrong end of the stick.
After dinner, another one in which Phoebe was installed at the nether end of the table and forced to listen to intermittent bursts of laughter from the other end while the elderly neighbor squire next to her dozed quietly, his chin tucked into his chest, the women and men separated politely, as they normally did—to recover from each other’s company?—and then the lot of them were ushered into the smaller ballroom, where chairs, at least a hundred of them, were aligned in rows, and guests, local aristocracy, Londoners who had made the trip to the country, and people of whom the Redmonds were simply fond, began arriving, milling about excitedly. Phoebe wore one of the two finer gowns she owned—it was a dove gray silk, and entirely frill-free apart from a shining silver cord beneath the bosom—and her fine gloves, which she liked to think rather elevated her ensemble to something close to what all the other glamorous guests were wearing.
The small ballroom was very warm, but then the temperature in the house was generally sultry, at least by contrast to the conservative way they heated Miss Marietta Endicott’s academy.
The marquess, who had been at dinner and seated by Lisbeth again but who seemed unusually distracted, remained noticeably missing even after the rest of the male guests reappeared.
Lisbeth seemed to have noticed it, too. She was waving the damned fan about as if she could invoke his presence with it, as if to remind herself that he had indeed given it to her. She smiled politely for all the guests, and exchanged pleasantries, but she was clearly growing increasingly agitated.
Which is probably why she said, “Phoebe, would you please run and fetch my shawl?”
“Run” and “fetch.” Phoebe spoke five languages fluently, and this girl was asking her to run and fetch.
“Perhaps you’ll want your own as well,” Lisbeth allowed, magnanimously. “Fetch that, too.”
It sounded like a bloody whim to Phoebe, as the house was warm as the inside of a closed hand.
Phoebe regarded Lisbeth evenly.
And said nothing.
Lisbeth stared back at her, pleasantly anticipating her dash to do her bidding.
When a man appeared and began to settle sheet music against the pianoforte, the crowd rustled and murmured with anticipation. Phoebe didn’t want to miss a note of the music.
“Of course,” Phoebe said at last. And sighed inwardly.
She spun on her heel. She half stalked, half ran up the stairs and retrieved Lisbeth’s Chinese silk shawl from Lisbeth’s Abigail. And then she dashed down the stairs, slipped with cat-like speed across the foyer and stepped out into the chilly night to dart across the courtyard to her own room. Bloody Lisbeth.
“Where are you going in a tearing hurry, Miss Vale? Dare I hope the salon is on fire and the musical evening has been canceled?”
Chapter 8
She came to an abrupt halt and whirled, looking for the voice.
“Here,” he said helpfully.
Ah! There he was. He was really not much more than a shadow leaning against the pillar, illuminated by a sliver of moon and the chandelier light pouring out of the windows. A few lamps were hung amongst the eves along the courtyard walls to aid the passage of servants and staff through the dark, each hardly more brilliant than a firefly. He was moodily smoking a cheroot near one. A few hapless insects circled it, moving in and out of the nimbus of light.
“Yes,” she said. “The house is all aflame, and I’ve decided to abandon the lot of them to their fates.”
He laughed softly.
“Don’t you like sopranos, Lord Dryden?”
“Oh, on the contrary. I like them very much indeed.” He sounded darkly amused.
He sucked at the cheroot as though it were the source of all oxygen. Finally the tip glowed like a demon eye. He exhaled a stream of blue smoke toward the flawlessly clear night sky.
She coughed melodramatically as it drifted back down again.
“My apologies,” he said insincerely.
“If you love sopranos, then if I may be so bold as to ask, Lord Dryden—”
“Fancy you asking permission to be bold.”
“—why are you out here alone smoking a cheroot? I thought things among the Redmonds were usually done in a proper order. Which means that after dinner the gentlemen retreated for manly drinks and cigars whilst the ladies talked about you, and now we’re to reconvene to listen to a singer.”
“Talked about me,” he repeated. “Amusing.”
“It was.” No one had said a word about him, at least within Phoebe’s earshot.
He smiled slightly. He seemed to be pondering his answer.
“I am smoking,” he finally said, “because I needed an occupation while I stood out here.”
She laughed.
He stirred, turned toward her, smiling, as though turning toward the sun. And then he went so still, and the smile faded. And that bemusement, that tension they always created between them, settled in. If she peered hard enough, doubtless she could see galaxies reflected in his clear eyes. The moon was now scarcely a presence in the sky, obscured by cobwebby clouds, but stars were flung thickly all over that blue-black canvass.
And as he wouldn’t relinquish her gaze, she seemed unable to move past him.
Her shawl would have to wait. Ironically, she began to wish she had one and was tempted to sling Lisbeth’s round her. The air nipped at her bare arms. “She is the finest soprano on the Continent, they say. Signora Sophia Licari.”
“She is at that,” he agreed with grim amusement. “She also . . .” he exhaled more smoke “. . . has excellent aim.”
Excellent . . .
Oh!
She struggled not to laugh. “I think I begin to understand, Lord Dryden. Pray tell, did she once say something to you along the lines of, oh . . . ‘ciò è che cosa penso al vostro regalo’?”
It was Italian for “this is what I think of your gift, you son of a whore!”
She suspected he knew. He was worldly, indeed.
&n
bsp; “You weren’t lying when you said you spoke a number of languages, were you, Miss Vale? Perhaps you should forgo Africa and offer to spy for the crown.”
He was irritated.
She was greatly entertained. “Are you afraid she’ll hurl one of the Redmonds’ heirlooms at you should she get a look at you? There are so many to choose from in the parlor.”
“I shouldn’t like to tempt her. Though it was years ago, mind you, and perhaps she has forgotten me.” His tone, and his roguish smile, implied that this would in fact be impossible.
She shook her head slowly in awe of his arrogance. Still, it was very difficult not to smile.
He sighed. “In truth, I wouldn’t want to be the cause of an awkward scene, and the possibility exists that Signora Licari might be tempted to . . . express herself . . . in something other than song. And I shouldn’t like any of the guests present to recall my involvement with her and introduce the topic after one too many glasses of port. It is not my wish to humiliate . . . anyone.”
“Anyone,” of course, being Lisbeth, who would disintegrate in horror and bewilderment should the marquess’s former mistress—an actual mistress present!—begin hurling things and shouting in Italian.
Nor would he want to jeopardize a promising future as a partner in business with Isaiah Redmond.
And as usual when it came to him, a dozen emotions competed for her attention. Curiosity got the better of her. “What did she throw?”
“Do we need to continue to discuss this?” He was uncomfortable, which merely made it funnier.
“Well, it’s not so much something I need, as something I want. And when I want something . . .”
He gave a soft laugh. “It was a humidor. It was over in seconds. The corner of it shaved a strip from the side of my hair.”
“It didn’t!”
He grinned. “Of course not. But I’ll admit to a skipped heartbeat when I saw it go sailing by. Fortunately, my sense of self-preservation was honed during the war. I ducked; it struck a vase, which shattered, and which my man Marquardt subsequently swept up without a single change of expression. And then Signora Licari stormed out. I’d given her a very handsome necklace along with a polite speech about how it was time to part ways, and she threw a humidor. What do you make of that, Miss Vale?”
She took a moment to picture the scene, enjoying particularly the notion of the graceful marquess diving in defense, maybe throwing his hands up over his head, taking cover behind a settee . . .
Only what he deserved, likely.
“Lord Dryden, it strikes me that—”
“Interesting choice of word.”
“—you consistently . . . associate . . . with women—”
“Associate!” He found this very funny. “What a delicate choice of euphemism.”
“—who are possessed of fiery temperaments. Which is interesting, when yours is so very . . .” she searched for just the right word “. . . contained.”
His reaction was immediate and wholly unexpected. He went rigid. His head turned toward her so swiftly she took a small step backward.
When he spoke, it was so coldly she was reminded uncomfortably that he was titled, wealthy, feared, and respected. For very good reasons.
“Very what?” Each word was given equal anvil weight and delivered slowly. He pronounced the H in what perhaps a little too emphatically.
“Contained,” she repeated bravely, matching his gravity, wondering why on earth he should find this troubling. For it wasn’t untrue. And it wasn’t an insult. Necessarily.
He stared at her for a moment. Then narrowed his eyes, which was unnervingly like being viewed through crossbow slits.
And then turned away from her and of course reacted by remaining . . . contained.
His posture, even as he mimed holding up the pillar, was flawless. No sloping shoulders for him.
He drew deeply upon the cheroot.
He spoke after he exhaled more smoke. “Explain.”
“Have you considered it’s the very thing causing the women to react so . . . profoundly? The containment?”
He gave a short humorless laugh. “I’m entertained by the care you take with choosing words, Miss Vale. I’m still not certain of your meaning.”
“If you are so very . . . cool all the time . . . very poised, if you will, very controlled . . . Well, consider . . . for example, consider how a fire must burn hotter and higher to compensate for a cold temperature in a room. So if you bring an association to an end very coolly and politely, as you’ve just said, shall we say, tempers may . . . boil over. Things may be thrown.”
“And that’s what I am?” he asked sharply. “Is that what you think? I’m cold? Hard? The broadsheets think so.”
“No.” The word was emphatic and immediate and soothing; she sensed she’d drawn blood, hurt him somehow. But in truth, it was a thought she’d entertained about him before. “No.” Instinctively, she softened her voice. “I do know the difference between . . . cold . . . and an abundance of caution.”
More carefully chosen words.
He was a clever man. But he wouldn’t tolerate the implication that he was vulnerable, that he was self-protective, for everyone knew he was invulnerable. Impenetrable. His nerves were steel, his heart was a fortress, his mind was a trap, and et cetera. His legend was built upon it.
He exhaled shortly. It wasn’t quite a sigh.
“I’m hardly dispassionate, Miss Vale.”
“Oh, I didn’t think for a moment that you were.”
He looked sharply. He knew her innocence was feigned, that it was provocation cloaked in careful words.
He smoked thoughtfully for a moment. She rubbed at one arm. It might be tropical inside the Redmond house, but it was most definitely autumn here in the courtyard.
“You see, Miss Vale . . . I was responsible for a great deal at a very early age. I was seventeen years old and still at school when my father died, leaving me with debts and enormous responsibilities and everyone in the family flailing and looking to me, like so many baby birds with their mouths open, to save them. I needed to make decisions, important ones, difficult ones, on behalf of my family and . . . impulsiveness was a luxury. One learns things when the circumstances are dire. One learns precision, for one thing. And timing. For a wrong move could have brought it all crashing down. And I paid the debts. I built the fortune. I ensured everyone associated with my name thrived.”
The marquess was trying to explain himself to her.
Estates, she’d said mockingly. Suddenly she saw them for what they were . . . ballast. Slung about the neck of a seventeen-year-old blue blood. Huge tracts of lands, great houses, and families, for that matter, didn’t run themselves profitably through magic. He’d cared for everyone from the beginning. He’d managed. He’d looked out for everything and everyone associated with his name and done them proud. And he’d never stopped.
She was ashamed she’d teased him.
“The wrong man could have brought it all crashing down,” she told him. “A different man might have collapsed under the weight of the responsibility.”
He widened his eyes in surprise, as if the option to allow it to crash down around him had never occurred to him. Then he gave a short laugh. No humor in it, but it was a bit wistful. “It was like walking a tightrope at times,” he said absently. Perhaps reflecting on that time.
“And now?”
“And now . . .” He tipped his head back in thought. “Now it’s almost second nature.” He gave another abbreviated almost-laugh. “Doing the right thing at the right time for the right reasons.” He glanced sideways at her. “Almost,” he added cryptically.
The man who never put a foot wrong. Who was grace personified. Who was particular and “lucky” and “reckless.” Who’d become a legend as a result of all of these things, who was admired and imitated but never matched.
No one understood what his legend had cost him.
Her stomach knotted. She felt the sides of the
box he voluntarily occupied as if it had been lowered over the two of them. And for an infinitesimal moment she felt grateful not to be him.
“You must have been frightened at times.”
He seemed to consider this. He shrugged with one shoulder. And then he reached up, deftly captured a moth in one hand before it could dash itself to death in the lamplight.
“I think it’s remarkable,” she added softly. “What you’ve done.”
“Perhaps. But you see how amusing I find it that I’m considered reckless. I am never . . .” He freed the moth with a wry twist of his mouth, knowing it would try for the light again, as it was its nature. “. . . reckless.”
She saw how very true this was. How a juggler, a tightrope walker, must learn precision and timing . . . or perish.
“You should be very proud,” she said softly. Surprisingly, vehemently. “Of everything. Your family is fortunate indeed to have you.”
“I am,” he said offhandedly, after a moment. Sounding surprised that it was ever in question. “And they are.”
He turned to her with a half smile.
It made her shake her head. She was certain, somehow, the arrogance was native, not something he acquired along the way. She liked it.
“I promised my mother I’d restore all of the lands that had been sold to pay off debt. Little by little, over the years, I’ve rebuilt my family’s legacy and honor. How fragile it is, really, when what was built over centuries can be torn asunder by one man. Only one more tract of land remains to be reacquired—an expanse of Sussex not entailed to the title that my father lost in a card game. The estate that occupies it was part of my mother’s dowry, and her childhood home. I wonder if you can guess who owns it.”
She didn’t have to guess. She knew it must be Redmond property.
“Is there a condition associated with the land?”
He looked up at her sharply, surprised at the astute question, perhaps. He smiled, faintly, and the smile seemed almost bittersweet. “Of course. Little in life is unconditional, and naught is unconditional when it comes to Isaiah Redmond. But I’m a man who understands actions and consequences and business. I can’t in truth object. And the condition . . .” he paused “. . . it’s not an onerous one.” He turned to her, and delivered the words carefully. “The property is attached to another dowry.”
How the Marquess Was Won Page 8
