How to Marry a Marble Marquis(12)
“Does that mean normal conversation is forsaken in place of suggestion, my lord?”
A graceful lift of a broad shoulder, all the answer required, Eleanor thought.
“Not entirely, no. But I wouldn’t get too comfortable ruminating on the restorative properties of the northern cliffs, my dear. Not unless you’re doing so with your own natural topography prominently displayed for admiration.”
Her cheeks heated, but she held his eye, giving him a tight-lipped smile of her own. “I shall remember to wear my very map, in that case.”
“The trick, Miss Eastwick,” he continued with a dagger-like grin, “is to make your flirtation as natural as breathing. You don’t need to forsake common courtesies, nor does your congeniality need to be derailed completely by double entendres. Let it flow through the course of the conversation.”
They were served tableside, her stomach braiding itself in guilt over the fine food and rich wine she was about to enjoy. And that’s why you need to do everything he says. The sooner you can find a husband, the sooner the girls can enjoy fine meals such as this.
“Are you a fan of the theater, Miss Eastwick?”
His tone was light enough, but she did not fool herself into dropping her defenses. Silas Stride struck her as someone who was always playing a game, and until she knew his rules, she would keep her guard up. “On the rare occasion I have the opportunity to attend, my Lord. My dear father was a great patron of the arts, so our house was always full of music and dancing, and he collected artwork the way some of the gentlemen regularly and thoroughly excoriated in the High Tea seem to collect paramours.”
A twitch of his lips, just before they closed over his soup spoon. “And are you well acquainted with such men, Miss Eastwick?”
The first test. She smiled beatifically, carefully lifting her own spoon. “Well, I did accept your invitation, did I not, my Lord?”
A toss of his head as he chuckled, low and curling, white hair falling over his forehead in a studied, casual way that was in no way casual at all. She had no doubt he had practiced the move before a mirror several dozen times until he knew exactly how much force the gesture required to make his hair fall as foppishly as it did just then. “I daresay you might be correct in that as well, my dear.” A glimmer of fang, the wine steward pulling from the shadows, presenting a bottle for the marquis’s approval. “I first had this vintage in Paris, maybe a year or so ago. I bought up several casks soon as I returned home. Have you ever been?”
The hairs at the back of her neck stood up, certain she was being baited. First, the theater, now Paris. What does he know? His claws were neatly filed, but she still felt their graze, toying with her as if she were a mouse, trapped before him. Eleanor weighed her options quickly, deciding to come as close to the truth as possible was the best course of action. The fewer lies you need to keep track of, the less easily he can tangle you in his trap.
“Yes, my Lord. I received my education in Paris, actually.”
“Ah yes, you did mention living abroad. I do hope you had a chance to finish your studies before tragedy brought you home?”
A slow breath, and a fortifying sip of the wine. He was right. It was a very fine vintage. “Yes, I did. By several years. I greatly loved my time in that city, but there are moments now when I wish I could trade back just a few of those years to be closer to my family.”
“Sisters, you mentioned?”
The soup bowls were whisked away, and the meat course set before them. Eleanor realized that the intimacy of their table was not imagined, nor was it a trick of the candlelight — there was scarcely room to be had for more than a single course at a time. You’re practically in his lap.
“Just the two. Lucy is twelve, and Coraline will be nine this summer.”
“And will they, too, enjoy the benefit of an education abroad?”
She had just taken a mouthful of pheasant, roasted whole, and then simmered in a decadent cream sauce with buttered neeps, the richest thing she’d tasted in nearly two years. Richer than anything the girls would ever remember eating, probably.
Her father had been generous to a fault. His arms and pockets had always been open to friends and loved ones, leading to poor investments and several outright betrayals of his generous heart. If he had still been alive, she had no doubt he would have shoveled them out of the hole the abuses of his finances and good nature cost the family, but left with the girls and no income of her own, nearly empty coffers, and moneylenders sniffing around her door, her sisters would never learn the richness of a meal such as this. Which is why you will play his silly game.
“Not at present, my lord,” she answered at last, daintily dabbing her embroidered napkin to her mouth. “I have begun hunting for a new governess for them, to be educated at home.” She chose not to add that the previous governess had left for lack of payment. “What of your family, Lord Stride?” Eleanor attempted to keep her voice as artificially light as his own. Turn it back on him, as natural as breathing. “I confess myself surprised that a lord as handsome and eligible as yourself is not yet married. I regretfully know little of gargoyle culture, but is it not a priority for you or your family? Are you unconcerned with being without an heir?”
His smile hardened out, a tiny flinch she might have missed had she not been staring him down, a thrill of victory rippling beneath her skin. Have a dose of your own medicine, you smug bastard.