How to Marry a Marble Marquis(3)
He eyed her with an inscrutable look for an endless heartbeat before a lopsided smile split his features, giving her a hint of gleaming white fang. “It is indeed a fair evening. You chose a fortuitous night for our little liaison.”
“Yes,” she laughed nervously. “I confess, my Lord, I’m not actually certain how far it was you had to travel. Unc — Lord Ellingboe did not mention how far your residence is. I do hope it wasn’t too arduous a journey.”
The penetrating look had not yet eased up, and Eleanor squirmed under the weight of his cool blue eyes. It seemed to her as if he were waiting for her to make some horrid blunder, and she wondered if the story of Lady Harthington’s ball had already reached his long, pointed ears. She could already hear the tea cart making its way down the hall, and could imagine Lucy and Coraline both skipping along beside it, ensuring their miniature culinary masterpieces were perfectly placed.
“Not at all, Miss Eastwick. I was already in London, as it were. I’ll be returning to Basingstone this week to settle some affairs and then relocating to London for the next few months. Londonderry is so dreadfully dull this time of year; I’ll be glad for the change of scenery.”
She gave him her most charming smile. “I’m sure your duties keep you busy, my Lord. Although that coastal scenery is likely quite restorative for one’s health, even if the town is dreadfully dull.”
Another tight-lipped grin, his eyes still searching. “As restorative as rain-soaked cliffs have the power of being, I suppose. And how is it that you are acquainted with the earl, Miss Eastwick?”
“Oh, of-of course. Well, you see, Lord Ellingboe was a friend of my father. They became acquainted when my father was staying up in the northern country before he’d even met my mother. They were both fond of—“
“I’m more curious,” he interrupted, one of his white brows arching sardonically, “as to why exactly the Earl of Chwyllenghd is so interested in the marriage prospects of a woman who is neither his daughter nor his mistress, nor even his ward? I would expect such consternation over a daughter with three seasons behind her, even coming from a concerned aunt or grandmother. It seems unusual for the same concern to originate from a wholly uninvested party, you see.”
Eleanor felt each word like a blow, each more humiliating than the last. He must have interpreted her stricken look correctly, for he shrugged gracefully, shaking his hair from his brow with a toss of his head. A shrug was hardly conciliatory, she thought furiously, for he’d essentially called her a spinster with no prospects, and a suspicious one at that.
“Come now, Miss Eastwick. We’ve discussed the weather and the restorative properties of the northern cliffs. As enchanting as your company might be, I’m certain exchanging the most banal of pleasantries is not why I was written to join you for tea.”
The tea cart had arrived, saving her from her shock over his shocking and frankly inexcusable rudeness. Eleanor had known men like him, lords like him, and they were all the same — utter prats. She would have been happy to cut the marquis’s visit short, but from her position facing the door, she was able to see the two small heads attempting to peer invisibly around the jamb as Hettie pushed the rattling cart into the room, reminding her that she wasn’t doing this for herself. The conversation paused as the aged nurse carefully placed the three-tiered tray on the center of the table, along with the gleaming silver pot.
Eleanor watched the Marquis of Basingstone taking advantage of the distraction to cast his sharp blue gaze around the room. She wondered what he saw, if he could tell where the piano had once stood, or if could see the slight discoloration of the wood on the shelves that had once been full of books. When Hettie took her leave once more, he turned to face her again, resuming the conversation as if there had been no interruption at all.
“The letter I received from the earl was woefully thin on what, specifically, was being requested of me. I crave your indulgence, Miss Eastwick. I’ve always been dreadful at waiting for things. Patience is, regrettably, one of the many virtues I lack.”
Eleanor folded her hands in her lap primly. She was in danger of biting her tongue hard enough to draw blood as she pressed her lips together tightly in a smile, wondering if he could see the daggers in her eyes. What a rude man. They’re all the same, these lords. Only good for one thing — the security they can provide. If only Lord Ellingboe was still in London, her situation might not be as dire. Alas, the earl had retired to his manor house, his eldest son and heir moving into the London residence and assuming the duties of the title. She’d only met the stony son of the orc lord once, but it had been enough for her to understand he’d not be as willing to take on a charity case as his father.
Uncle Efraim had done enough by writing to this marquis. And now you can’t go squandering the opportunity; you can’t afford to. Think of the girls. This gargoyle was the same sort of fop who would crowd around the backstage area at the theater, attempting to press roses into her arms and take her to dinner, a surefire way, they always thought, of getting under her skirts. She had never needed any of them then, and she’d never given in to their artificial charms. And we won’t be giving into this one either, but we do need his connections.
She cleared her throat, wondering if there was any sense in trying to dance around the truth. Not likely. Just get on with it. “Uncle Efraim was a good friend of my late father,” she began again, a thread of ice accompanying her words. “My parents are gone. A carriage accident. I was . . . staying abroad at the time, but after the accident I returned to London to be a guardian to my younger sisters. You’re quite right, Lord Stride, I am hardly of an age to be entering society for the first time. I would prefer to focus on securing a future match for my sister, but—“