In the Arms of a Marquess by Katharine Ashe Page B

glinting off teakwood, or polished bronze. His features were neither English nor Indian, but a melding of both only a master artist could have invented—lean cheeks that lent him the air of an aesthete, square jaw, aristocratically straight nose, and ink-black hair worn considerably too long for a student at Cambridge. Tavy had never seen the Marquess of Doreé and rarely his second wife, who was always thoroughly wrapped in sumptuous saris and flowing veils when she left her villa next door. She supposed they both must be quite handsome to have produced such a son.
    She nodded gravely. “It was dreadful. But she recovered remarkably well when Mr. Fletcher threatened to hire a pair of sepoys to carry her back to the house hammock-style.”
    He cocked a single brow, its abrupt downward angle accentuating the wonderfully languid dip of his eyes.
    “Sounds like a beastly fellow.”
    “Would you have treated her better?”
    “With the respect a lady always deserves.” His tone seemed so sincere. And oddly caressing. Tavy’s knees felt gelatinous.
    Everyone in the port town knew Benjirou Doreé was a wild young man, keeping late nights near the docks with his childhood friends even now after his uncle’s death. Rumors of his reputation at university back in England, all revolving around fighting and women, filtered to her through the servants who overheard much because, like she, they were invisible even while standing right beside an Englishman.
    This wild young Englishman, however, was still technically a stranger.
    Foolish propriety . What was the use in living four thousand miles from London if one could not occasionally break the rules? She sucked in breath and extended a gloved hand for him to shake.
    “I am Octavia Pierce.”
    The corner of his beautiful mouth lifted again. He bent, curled her fingers around his, and raised them to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers.
    “I know who you are, shalabha .” He brushed a kiss upon her knuckles and released her hand.
    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