The Making of a Marquess Read online

  She caught the amused glint in his eye. Tea and gossip indeed! She had taken on a nobler cause, and something infinitely more interesting. She was positively glad Louis would not have a sniff of the marquessate. Not that she would dream of being so rag-mannered as to say so, but nobody could read her thoughts.

  However, that would mean the absence of the male contingent for most of the day, when they were gone. She could run wild over the house, or rather, concentrate her research. A sense of relief swept over her. And she must write that letter to Angela. Perhaps she would do it tonight.

  “Do you still hunt?” Lady Steeping asked Benedict.

  “Sometimes.” He paused, narrowing his eyes, assessing the company. A small nod, and then he added, “The quarry is somewhat larger and more dangerous in the colonies.”

  A hush fell over the company, and then, as if they had taken a collective breath, they came back at him. “What were you doing there?”

  Benedict turned a cool, gray stare on him. “Making a living.” But why had he not come back once he discovered he hadn’t killed his cousin? Why would he stay away?

  “You took ship for the colonies, then?” Louis asked.

  “I did. I made landfall in Boston and obtained a position there.”

  The collective indrawn breath told what the assembled company thought of that. Dorothea looked at Lady Steeping, a lady in late middle age who had been an arbiter of correct behavior since her marriage twenty years before. Dorothea had wondered what she was doing at this gathering, but now she knew. Her gaze passed over the occupants of the table. The guests, at initial glance a motley crew, a very mixed collection, had all been chosen carefully. They were here to ratify Louis’s accession to the title, and to spread the news as efficiently and fast as possible. Also, to lend their blessing to the occasion.

  But it wasn’t turning out that way.

  “You were in Trade?” Lady Steeping asked, quiet outrage in every note. Dorothea hadn’t realized that word contained quite so many syllables, and all with their separate intonation.

  Benedict seemed totally oblivious to the polite consternation he had caused by his dramatic appearance and subsequent confession. However, Dorothea would wager her best aquamarine necklace that he was fully aware of it. “Indeed. Although I fled in a panic, the journey led to a most interesting adventure. I proved that I do not need the wealth I was to inherit. I had very little when I sailed, but I managed to make a decent fist of my career in the colonies.” He sounded proud of his achievements. He should be.

  “Where you went by the name of Benjamin Thorpe,” Louis said.

  Calling himself Benjamin instead of Benedict was a mistake. Perhaps his real name was Benjamin, after all. He did not appear perturbed, but Dorothea didn’t know him well enough to be sure. However, no muscle twitched in his jaw in that telltale flick. “When I arrived, I said my name was Ben—you remember how everyone called me that? In my first position the man recorded my name as Benjamin, and I decided to stay with it.”

  That explained the change of name. It was entirely plausible that he would continue using the name people had assumed, rather than his real name. The use would help to disguise him, should someone recognize it.

  Dorothea took a mouthful of lamb chop, savoring the food while watching the scene carefully and keeping her conclusions to herself. Benedict had moved the discussion on the names to his advantage, but not decisively so.

  “What did you do in the colonies?” Ann said eagerly, giving voice to the question everyone wanted to ask.

  He dealt her a bone-melting smile. “I worked for a ship owner. Clerked for him. Eventually I had a ship of my own.”

  “You were a captain?”

  He shook his head. “I left that to the people with the best expertise to accomplish it.” Then he turned his attention back to his plate. “I engaged in other pursuits.”

  So the Marquess of Belstead had been in trade, and he hadn’t gained those muscles sitting at a desk scratching columns of figures with a pen. Goodness! But he was not encouraging any more questions. When Lady Steeping asked him what life was like in Boston he said, “Tolerably good for a working man.”

  He turned the answer to every question after that into a vague statement, not allowing the company to prize any more information from him. Eventually they tired of asking. Dorothea was certain he said only what he meant to say and no more. The man had learned much in his years away. The impulsive, arrogant youth with a short temper had gone, replaced by a man of considered temperament and confidence born from achievement rather than status.

  “And I married.”

  Shock jolted Dorothea into choking. Solicitously Ben poured a glass of wine for her and waited until she’d dabbed her watering eyes and swallowed. She avoided his gaze when she accepted the wine and sipped carefully, allowing others to ask the questions.

  “Where is your wife now?” Louis demanded.

  “I lost her,” he said softly. “Mary died in childbirth three years ago, together with our son.”

  Condolences followed in short order. The murmurs made Benedict visibly uncomfortable. He avoided meeting people’s gazes, unusual for a man as direct as Ben. He stared at the tablecloth. “She was lively and kind and beautiful,” he said. “I will miss her.”

  “And your unborn baby,” Ann said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. The child was not unborn. He breathed. But he was severely damaged inside, or so the midwife said.” He picked up his glass and took a deep gulp of the liquid, then gave a shaky smile. “I beg your pardon; I did not mean to make anyone upset.”

  “Dear sir, we are sorry you had to go through that experience, and you are not the only person here today who has suffered a loss like that,” Lady Steeping said, sympathetic for once.

  Such were the vagaries of childbirth that many people had indeed gone through a similar ordeal. However, each tragedy was separate. “The doctor said the baby was too big for her,” Benedict explained, his features totally impassive. “She was such a little thing.”

  Was it only Dorothea who saw he was deeply affected by his loss? He masked his expression so effectively he must have done it before. He must have loved his late wife very much to feel the loss so deeply.

  Even now, she wished that woman was her. Mary had been the recipient of Ben’s love, something Dorothea had never laid claim to, much though she wished she had.

  Quiet conversation resumed. Ben ensured she had a generous helping of the apple pie that fortunately lay close to hand before the servants took the dishes away once more. After they removed the dinner and the candelabra from the center of the table, the servants reverently placed an exquisite Meissen dessert service on the polished mahogany surface. Figures of monkeys playing various instruments, and a set of dishes and plates containing sweets and fruit.

  Benedict picked up a monkey playing the clarinet, his touch delicate, although his hands were large and showed evidence of work. Not calluses, of course not, a gentleman would never allow those, but his nails lacked the polish a valet would add to them, and the cuticles were ragged and thick. When Dorothea imagined male hands on her body, these were the ones she wanted. Strong, definitively masculine, rather than a pair of hands with polished, manicured nails and soft, pale skin.

  Her weakness, but many women secretly dreamed of such. How else to explain the number of affairs ladies had with their footmen and gardeners? Hastily, she concentrated on the peach on her plate, fumbling for the fruit knife a footman had placed next to it.

  “My mother bought this set,” Benedict said. “She loved it. I am glad to see it still in service. She used to allow me to play with it, although my father would have it that I broke everything I touched.” He skimmed the line of the black clarinet and put the monkey precisely back in place.

  Dorothea tucked the knife under the skin of the peach.

  “Al
low me, dear lady,” Benedict said softly, removing the knife from her grasp. Deftly he skinned the fruit, leaving as thin a line of peel as she had ever seen. As he quartered it, stoned it and sliced it into neat sections, people chatted of society affairs and other matters. Not a polite thing to do, but he had unnerved them by his command of the situation and his free admission that he had worked for his living. With those hands that were currently placing neat, perfect slices of succulent peach on her plate.

  She lifted a piece to her mouth, and he watched her do it, his gray eyes set on her actions. Under the fine silk of her evening gown, Dorothea’s body changed, warming, her skin growing sensitive and the place between her legs swelling and heating.

  He could do that with one look? Turning his attention to her alone?

  This man was dangerous. Far too much for her, even today. But Dorothea wanted to play with fire. He was clever, he was thoughtful, and he was turning this conversation exactly the way he wanted it. And she recognized her own bias. She’d loved him once, and if she did not take care, she’d find herself bound all over again.

  Treasures like this dessert set, rather than the overdecorated, self-aware dinner service that had preceded it, the jewels Mrs. Thorpe made free with, needed saving, preserved from the carelessness that sought to destroy it all. And the power and wealth behind it that was helping to make the country a force to be reckoned with.

  And why should she deny her attraction to Benedict? She’d wager every woman in the room felt that devastating allure he was turning on her now. Why, she wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t be because of her. She was nothing in this company, an older, unmarried spinster. Men could be cruel sometimes and more than once she’d been the recipient of it.

  She ate another slice, forcing a pleasant smile, doing her best to hide her reaction. Why would he want to win her approval, seek to control her response to him? Did he know about Angela’s commission?

  That was the only answer. What else could it be?

  Chapter 5

  Reacquainting himself with the house he’d grown up in had proved a pleasure and a heartache in equal measure. But the worst and best had been visiting his mother. She was really ill, but to do Louis credit, he’d ensured she was as well as possible. Members of staff were assigned for her sole use, including a companion nurse. She had the seclusion she needed, and the comfort she was accustomed to.

  But seeing her in that condition made him terribly unhappy.

  Gazing out of the window on his way to his room, he saw two little girls romping in the sunshine. Pretty children, one three, and one seven years old, according to Hal’s letter.

  The nurse accompanying them smiled when Louis joined them. In no time at all he’d stripped off his coat and joined them on the grass, giving the older girl a ride on his back, and laughing as the baby flopped down on her well-padded bottom.

  So they weren’t abandoned, as Ben had been. His father had always been a distant figure, ensuring only that his heir had the education he needed. His mother was little better, but at least he’d seen her once a day, at least when they’d been in the same house. His cousins were his companions, but no more siblings came to join him. Ben was the one and only.

  Would his son have had Ben’s eyes, or Mary’s? Been a placid boy, or a joyful, mischievous one?

  Instead, the tiny child had drawn one breath before expiring. When the midwife had moved to take him away, Ben had stopped her, and gazed down into the face of his son, memorizing every feature, every pink fold, before saying goodbye.

  There would always be a space in his heart for the boy. Even if he had other children, and he must if he was to cut Louis out, they would not take the place of his firstborn.

  Ben made his way downstairs, thinking of escaping to the garden. There was a grotto where he used to go when he wanted solitude as a boy. That would be welcome now. At the back of the hall there were several rooms which led indirectly to the outside of the house, avoiding the huge back hall that was as grand as the front one. If he used one of those passages, he could avoid the guests, who seemed to be everywhere.

  A door opened before him and a woman emerged.

  “Oh!” Flushing, Dorothea dropped a small curtsy and made to hurry past him.

  He caught her arm, not to hold her, but enough to make her pause. “No, stay. I was heading outside. Would you come for a walk with me?”

  She glanced down at herself. “Without gloves or a hat?”

  “I might allow you those.” For the first time that day he smiled, and enjoyed her answering warmth. “I’d like to speak to you, if you don’t mind.”

  “All right. I’ll see you on the terrace in ten minutes.”

  Ben didn’t know if she would come, but she did, charmingly arrayed in a simple straw hat and with the promised kid gloves on her hands, gloves that had seen more than one wearing. He liked that. The honesty appealed to him, as a more elaborate toilette would not. She approached him with long strides that matched his. He recalled what pleasure he’d found in a woman who could keep up with him. And a woman he did not have to bend double to kiss.

  Still, shame filled him, as it had over the years when he’d thought of her. He was about to do what he should have a long time ago, but he’d been feckless and selfish then, far too unthinking of others. He’d learned some harsh lessons since.

  Outside, the day had fulfilled its promise and the sun blazed down. “This summer has been an odd one,” she remarked as they descended the stone steps to the garden. “The ground is still soft from the rain yesterday. It’s been like that all summer.”

  “So you’d prefer to avoid the earth,” he said.

  Stopping, she lifted her ankle-length skirt to reveal a pair of sturdy half boots. “I can stand a little dampness.”

  He laughed, the sound surprising him, his mood lightening. “But not too much. No swamps, I promise you.”

  Her hat was broad brimmed, her gown a pretty cotton print with flowers rampaging around the hem. A favored gown, showing signs of wear and laundering, but not shabby. Dorothea had never indulged in the extravagances of fashion, although she was far from impoverished. She had a refreshing practicality he should have appreciated more when he’d had the chance. But the marriage between them had been arranged by their parents in a way both were used to. They liked one another, got along splendidly, but when Honoria had appeared on the scene, he’d left her without a backward glance.

  Now he couldn’t remember why. True, Honoria was dazzlingly beautiful, but Dorothea had a quiet loveliness that would last longer because it emanated from within. Since he’d been away, she’d grown into the woman she should be. She bore herself with grace rather than her previous habit of stooping, ashamed of her height. Her style of dress suited her, not too fussy. Her simple hairstyle, her fair locks drawn up into a knot at the back of her head, revealed a purity of feature he had not noticed before.

  He led her to the edge of the rose garden, where a path wound up toward the grotto. She walked by his side like an equal. He didn’t offer her the support of his arm. She didn’t need it. “I’m surprised to find you here,” he began.

  “Ah, yes.” Flicking open her fan, she plied it vigorously, but he’d taken care to walk in the shade. “My brother was invited, so he brought his wife and myself.”

  “You act as her companion?” He hated that he’d driven her to such a fate. Being a shadow, an ignored spare woman, part of society as an unpaid servant.

  “Good gracious, no! I do help Ann when I can, because she is such a sweet woman. However, I am in control of my own fortune, and have been since May, when I turned thirty.”

  “So you did.” The notion shocked him. She looked like the young woman he’d known seven years ago, as if no time had passed at all. “I thought you would be married by now. Have men here no taste at all?”

  “You didn’t have any,” she returned with asperity
.

  That was new. The Dorothea he had known had been unsure of herself, but this woman had more about her. Perhaps it had always been there. If it had, he’d been a fool to miss it, because he liked this aspect of her very much. He grinned. “Perhaps I did not, especially where you were concerned. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  They were out of sight of the house, sheltered by an overgrown bush of some kind. He stopped and took her hands in his. She gripped his fingers firmly and met his eyes with a directness he admired. “Dorothea, I owe you an apology. Many of them.”

  She opened her mouth, but he wouldn’t let her speak. Not yet.

  “I am deeply sorry for the way I treated you. Although the betrothal arrangements had only just begun, you deserved better from me. I should have told you I meant to pursue Honoria, instead of leaving you to find out for yourself.”

  “Actually, it was my brother,” she said. “He told me. He would have confronted you, but I ordered him not to.” She slipped her fingers away from his, and he missed her touch immediately. “As you say, the negotiations weren’t far advanced.”

  “But I asked your father for permission to address you. I should have had the courtesy to ask you to release me. I was carried away, imagining myself in love.”

  She began to walk again. “I know. I saw your face the first time you set eyes on her. I would have asked you to release me once I saw that in any case. There was no harm done. At least, not much.”

  Was that pride, or was she telling the truth? Did she care nothing for him? He had thought otherwise. Their first kiss—their only kiss—had been soft and sweet, but he recalled it with an intensity that overshadowed many kisses he’d shared with other women. It had held a poignancy that he wondered about at the time, but put down to her inexperience. Seven years ago he’d been a fool. And a cad. He’d learned a lot since then.

  “Not much?” he prompted.

  “No. I fancied myself—fond of you, and the match would have been more than excellent. Marrying into the Thorpe family was a triumph, or so we thought.” She smiled wryly. “Too good to be true, as it turned out.”