The Marquess Method by Kathleen Ayers

10

Theodosia frowned and fluttered her fan. A ridiculous accessory she’d never found the use for. Certainly fans were pretty and could help cool you after a dance. Perhaps send a message to a gentleman if you wished. But none of those things was enticement enough for Theo to carry one. Which was surprising because she did adore mysterious secrets and clandestine conversations.

Tonight, however, she’d taken her mother’s advice. If nothing else, the fan she carried served to hide the look of dislike on her face while watching Blythe dance with some dull blonde girl whose eyes bulged slightly, like that of a bullfrog. At least from what Theo could see.

The fan waved away such unkind thoughts. The atmosphere swirling about Lady Molsin’s drawing room, combined with the presence of Haven, brought out the very worst in Theo. And squinting at everyone made her temples ache.

Lady Molsin, bless her, had assembled a guest list for this evening’s event designed to demonstrate that the Ruination of Theodosia Barrington was nothing more than idle gossip on the part of Lady Blythe. To that end, Blythe and his mother, along with Lady Emerson and her daughter, were in attendance, a challenge of sorts from Lady Molsin, daring them to refute the declaration that Haven and Theo’s impending nuptials had come about naturally.

Even without her spectacles, Theo could see Miss Emerson, shimmering like a desolate goddess, cast glances of longing in Haven’s direction before turning to look down her nose at Theo.

Theo fluttered her fan in Miss Emerson’s direction. She’d trade places with the girl in an instant if she could.

Haven, appearing far more elegant than Theo could have imagined in his evening wear, seemed oblivious to Miss Emerson mooning over him. The candlelight brought out the copper highlights lingering in the earthy loam of his poorly cut hair as he stood speaking to Estwood. The need for a proper shave and a decent haircut in no way diminished Haven’s attractiveness. If anything, the slightly rumpled look gave him a rakish appeal. A wolf in sheep’s clothing perhaps, a highwayman who dressed in finery merely so he could circulate among society. Before he robbed them all blind.

The tips of her fingers warmed.

She still wanted to paint him, more desperately now than she had that day in the park. Tonight, however, that urge was mixed with the unexpected desire to be close to him, inhaling the spicy scent she knew hovered about his broad shoulders.

Dammit.

Resisting such unwelcome thoughts, Theo turned away from her future husband, reminding herself that regardless of the ridiculous tale Cousin Winnie, Lady Molsin, and Theo’s mother sprouted about the room, marriage to Haven was nothing more than a way to salvage her own reputation. The entire party was an exercise in futility.

Absolutely no one in attendance this evening believed the match with Haven had come about after seeing each other again at Blythe’s party, not when the memory of her pursuit of Blythe was fresh in everyone’s mind. And Lady Blythe had not been silent. Her eyes, sunken into her plump features, alighted on Theo far more often than they should, each glance followed by a swat of her fan and a whisper to whoever stood near her. Which was usually Lady Foxwood and her daughter Beatrice.

Lord,why are they here?

The Foxwoods, Theo learned, had not been officially invited. They’d arrived with the Emersons, and Lady Molsin couldn’t very well have them thrown out. Or at the very least, she was too polite to have done so. Maybe Lady Foxwood, still having not recovered from her daughter losing the Duke of Granby to Romy, was taking pointers from Lady Blythe on how to disparage a Barrington.

Miss Emerson, Lady Foxwood, and Beatrice were already clustered together, whispering and bemoaning the fact that yet another Barrington had stolen a young lady’s anticipated bridegroom. Theo and the rest of her family should count themselves lucky that Miss Emerson and Beatrice hadn’t yet joined forces to storm the Averell mansion with pitchforks. Lady Blythe would lead the charge, brandishing her fan instead of a saber.

Theo pressed a hand to her mouth. It wouldn’t do to erupt in giggles for no apparent reason. Most everyone here already assumed her to be frivolous, and there was no reason to prove them right. She turned her attention back to Blythe, marveling at the way he danced with such agile, confident grace. He held the unappealing girl in his arms as if she were something rare and precious to him. Leaning in, he whispered, and the girl’s cheeks pinked.

Blythe had looked at Miss Cummings in exactly the same way when he’d danced with her earlier. And Lady Meredith.

And me.

Ice cold water splashed over her. A bucket of it. Lest Theo should begin to believe, even for a moment, she’d been anyone special to Blythe. She hadn’t been. The knowledge didn’t make him any less attractive. He still shone like a golden beacon, only not quite as brightly as he once had.

“Now this,” a dark rasp curled around her ear, “isn’t nearly as terrible as I’d anticipated.”

Theo’s toes curled inside her slippers at the sound of him. She couldn’t help it. There weren’t many things to appreciate about Haven, but his voice was one of them. A low, raspy tenor which never failed to fall over her in a most delicious manner.

“No.” Theo glanced over her shoulder, annoyed he’d interrupted her admiration of Blythe along with her unwelcome musings. “It is far worse.”

“I thought Phaedra was the dramatic one in the family.” His voice was deliciously rough.

Theo gave him a forced smile, her gaze floating over the tiny scar on his chin. “You’ve no idea how I feel, my lord. You aren’t being looked at as if you are a rotten apple in an otherwise perfect bowl of fruit.”

Haven’s lips twitched as he clearly tried to contain the amusement he doubtless felt at her predicament. The motion drew her attention to his mouth.

“I doubt you can actually see any disapproval sent your way. And I think of you as more of a bruised peach.”

A peach? Theo envisioned herself as something much hardier, with thicker skin. If not an apple, then a pear. “Your sarcasm, my lord, is duly noted. Now just leave.” She waved her fingers to shoo him away. “Miss Emerson is staring at me as if she wishes to stab me with her fan. I hope Lady Molsin doesn’t have a letter opener within easy reach.”

“You won’t be able to see her coming, in any case,” he murmured, his breath rustling softly over her shoulder. “That should be a comfort.”

“Very amusing. Go away.”

Haven made her light-headed. Muddled. In the way that glass of scotch she’d snuck from her brother’s drawing room had made her feel.

“I came over,” the low growl rolled over her skin, “to suggest you stop staring at Blythe as if he were a newly discovered color of paint.”

She pressed her lips firmly together.

“It will go a long way toward ending the gossip swirling about your pretty skirts if you’d stop swooning over him.”

“Be careful, Haven. Your envy is showing. Blythe draws the eye. He’s a fine dancer, though his partner most definitely is not. Perhaps I’m only concerned she’ll tread on his feet.”

“You should dance with me.”

“I don’t care to dance.” Haven from across the drawing room was attractively fuzzy; this close, he was all spice and blindingly handsome male. She preferred him on the other side of the room where he was reduced to only a mildly appealing blur.

Her spine warmed as he stepped closer, the heat of his larger body gently cupping her buttocks before wrapping around her mid-section.

“A shame. I’m quite a good dancer, as it happens.”

“Yes, but as I’ve mentioned before,” she said stiffly, “you are not Blythe.” Most definitely not. Blythe had never affected Theo in such a way.

Spinning on her heel, she turned her back, running away from him like a coward, cursing the traitorous nature of her body. She had no intention of losing herself in Haven or babbling like an idiot when he came near. There had been quite enough of such behavior with Blythe.

Storming away from the party, Theo wanted only a moment to collect her thoughts, free of pitying looks and her future husband. Her skirts whipped around her ankles in agitation.

A hand gripped her elbow, halting her progress. “Theodosia.”

“Let me go,” she hissed back at him, noting the curious glances of two of Lady Molsin’s servants who hovered nearby. “Go back. Everyone saw you come after me. There will be talk and there’s plenty enough already. Perhaps you enjoy the attention, but I do not.”

“I don’t care,” Haven snapped back. “Stop running away.”

“If only I could run away. Far from those gossips flapping their fans at me. Far from you.”

“Theo . . .” His tone gentled, his thumb rubbing softly over the hollow of her arm.

The sound of her nickname on his lips caused her insides to twist about pleasurably. She didn’t want that. Didn’t want him to make her feel such a thing. “Can you not allow me to mend my broken heart in peace, Haven? I am despondent.”

The scar jumped a bit as his lips formed a grimace. “I don’t care for female histrionics, Theodosia. Nor childish temper tantrums. I’ve not the patience for either.”

“Histrionics?” Her voice raised an octave. How dare he. “Under the circumstances, I think I have every right to be miserable. You can hardly expect me to be cheerful as I face the unending bleakness of my future.”

“Stop making it sound as if you are facing the guillotine.” Haven gave her arm a tug, leading her further down the hall. Throwing open a door, he pulled her inside, ignoring her attempts to wrench her arm free. It was pitch black inside, not a lamp or fire lit.

“This is wonderful, Haven,” she hissed. “The entire party will assume you’ve dragged me in here to take liberties with me. I suppose it doesn’t matter. How much more can my reputation be tarnished?

“You need to calm yourself, Theo. Do not return to the drawing room in this state, one you’ve worked yourself into.”

Theo huffed. “I had help.”

“I have no desire,” his voice roughened, “for you to become a spectacle for the London gossips to delight in. Do you wish for Lady Blythe to step up her efforts? Toss more conjecture and rumor at your feet?”

“Concerned my behavior may reflect badly on you? You need not worry. Your reputation is beyond salvaging,” she shot back.

“No.” Haven drew a ragged breath. “Because I can’t bear to watch you be hurt any further.”

The weight of his words pressed against her chest. “Stop pretending to care about me.” Her voice caught. “And why must you smell like gingerbread? It’s unsettling and—”

Haven’s mouth brushed tenderly against hers, cutting off the rest of her useless tirade. Theo tasted apology on his lips. A hint of wine. And a great deal of wickedness. Her outrage, as justified as she felt it was, drifted away into nothingness at the press of his lips.

Oh, I remember this.

A blinding burst of pleasure jolting from where their mouths joined slid down her skin before wrapping tightly between her thighs. Her hands skimmed up his chest, fingertips attuned to the warmth and strength lying beneath his evening clothes.

“Do you like gingerbread, Theodosia?” he whispered against her mouth before his thumb roved over Theo’s plump lower lip, grazing lightly over her teeth.

She nipped at the pad of his thumb, hearing the small, surprised hitch of his breath at her action.

“Yes.”

* * *

Ambrose hadto stop himself from tossing up Theodosia’s skirts and taking her roughly against the wall of Lady Molsin’s parlor. Which was certain to make the gossip surrounding them that much worse. But he rarely had a waking thought lately that didn’t involve bedding her. His desire for Theodosia burned as fierce as the sun, blotting out everything but her, managing to shadow even his joy at finally taking his pound of flesh from Murphy. Even the thought that she’d probably already given herself to Blythe or possibly someone else didn’t ease his hunger for her.

His thoughts flew to the miniature tucked safely in his pocket.

I would forgive her anything.

Ambrose broke away from her lips, jealousy and the tangle of complicated feelings he had for Theodosia spiraling out like a vine along his chest and limbs. He refused to admit to anything beyond liking her and plain lust.

Theodosia was a desirable means to a desired end.

But it was a lie, and Ambrose knew it. It became more obvious every day.

“Haven?”

“Ambrose,” he said quietly, gently uncurling her fingers from his coat. “My Christian name. I would like you to use it.” He struggled under the weight of his growing attachment to this lovely creature because she meant something to him, and she had from the second he’d seen her.

And then he’d set out to use her. It did not matter that he hadn’t planned what happened at Blythe’s; his heart had been filled with the intent.

“You should return.” He gently pulled her fingers from his coat, afraid if they stayed here a moment longer, he would compromise her again, this time completely. Either that or he would confess everything.

“Yes,” she choked, voice filled with embarrassment at what she likely perceived as his rejection.

It pained Ambrose to have her think such a thing, but still, he let Theodosia slide away from him. He needed to think—impossible with Theodosia so near.

“I’ll join you shortly,” he said, the words dismissive and far colder than he’d intended. He could practically hear the stiffening of her spine as he imagined her chin tilting mulishly in his direction. Theodosia and her sisters all possessed the same fire of defiance, the assertion that no one should dictate to them. Ambrose spared a tiny bit of pity for the Duke of Averell managing a household of such opinionated, forthright women.

“Ambrose.”

His heart thumped hard. Must she say his name . . . with such promise?

“Go.” Ambrose nudged her in the direction of the door.

He stayed silent until a sliver of light broke through the darkness of the parlor as she opened the door to the hall outside. The rustle of skirts met his ears before the door shut again and Theodosia was gone.