Candice Hern (6 page)

"They are all pretty, well-bred girls," Thayne said, "but I have not yet singled out anyone in particular. But I will do so soon enough, I promise you."

"And the duchess? Has she a favorite?"

"She may have, for all I know, but I will not be manipulated. I will honor my promise to take a bride, and I know the sort of woman I am expected to choose. But I will do my own choosing."

Ramesh finished filling the base of the hookah, then attached the silver neck, the bowl, and the smoking tube. He turned to the fireplace, where he'd set a small brazier on the flames, and removed a glowing coal with a pair of metal pincers. He placed the coal atop the tobacco in the bowl, allowed the tobacco to begin to smoke, covered it, and handed the amber mouthpiece to Thayne.

Thayne drew a few times on the pipe to insure the tobacco was lit properly and the water in the base was bubbling, then drew in one long breath of cool, smooth smoke and exhaled with a sigh of pleasure. He much preferred the water-cooled hookah to cheroots or cigarillos, with their rough smoke that irritated the throat rather than soothed it. The hookah was only one of many aspects of Asian culture that Thayne found to be superior to European culture.

He placed the mouthpiece on the table for Burnett. He kept to the Indian etiquette, in which it was considered rude to pass a smoking tube hand to hand. Burnett picked it up and took a long draw.

"Will there be anything else, my Lord Thayne?" Ramesh asked in the musical accents of Rajasthan.

"No, thank you, Ram. You may go."

The man made a crisp bow and left the room. Burnett smiled and said, "He's trying so hard to be a proper British gentleman's gentleman, is he not? Though he hasn't quite mastered the art of western dress."

Ramesh continued to wear the loose trousers and long kurta he was accustomed to, but he generally topped it with one of Thayne's discarded waistcoats, the more elaborately embroidered the better. But when there was company, even someone as familiar as Jeremy Burnett, Ramesh donned a tailored British jacket. Even had he worn proper breeches and a starched linen neckcloth, his ubiquitous saffron-colored turban would always lend an exotic air.

"He does a fine job," Thayne said. "He always has. Can you even imagine that I could have left him behind?" He took another draw on the water pipe.

"Even had you done so, he would have followed."

Thayne shrugged and laid down the mouthpiece. "Yes, I believe he would have done, which I why I invited him to join me. He is an excellent valet. And where else would I find one who can prepare a hookah so expertly?"

Burnett gave a lazy chuckle. The smoke was affecting them both. They sank deeper into their chairs and conversation moved at a more desultory pace. Thayne closed his eyes and enjoyed the soft gurgle of bubbling water and the fragrant aroma that filled the room. Taking the hookah once a day was one of the few quiet moments Thayne could depend on amid the hustle and bustle of London at the height of the Season. There was nothing more relaxing than the smooth, aromatic, water-cooled smoke, and Ramesh made sure Thayne was not disturbed while he used the pipe. There was already enough gossip belowstairs about all the exotic objects to be found in Lord Thayne's apartments, not the least of which was his lordship's valet.

"So, the duke and duchess have been accommodating of all you brought back with you?"

Thayne took a long drag on the pipe and exhaled slowly. "Yes," he said at last, "for the most part. Mother would prefer it if I chose a valet from among the footmen, and she is not pleased about Chitra. But I introduced Father to the hookah, and he rather liked it. I may have to have one made for him."

Burnett took the mouthpiece and inhaled. A long moment later, he said, "The duchess will not be pleased that you are introducing His Grace to such exotic vices."

"I presented her with several bolts of Indian silk that pleased her exceedingly well, not to mention the pounds of tea and spices, so she can have no complaints."

"And what about your crates? How does she feel about all those statues? Have you unpacked them yet?"

"No, and I don't plan to until I move into the new town house."

"What new town house?"

"Didn't I mention it?" Thayne said. "I found a good house available in Cavendish Square. I don't choose to live here at Doncaster House with a new bride, though it's certainly large enough. I will inherit it eventually, of course, but not, God willing, for many years. I thought it best to have my own establishment here in town. I'd like my marchioness to be mistress of her own house."

"An excellent idea. When do you move in?"

"Don't know yet," Thayne said after another leisurely draw on the hookah. "There is quite a bit of work to be done. It's one of the older houses on the square and needs a fair amount of renovation. But I probably won't need it until next year, so there is enough time to have it done properly."

"Meaning you want it to be a suitable place to display your collections."

"That, among other more practical issues of leaking roofs and rotting plaster. There is, though, a fine gallery space for my statues." Thayne had collected a great many ancient stone sculptures of Hindu deities. He had developed a passion for the sensual lines and lush vitality of the carvings, and brought back enough pieces to fill a small museum.

"Your future marchioness had better not be too high a stickler, my friend. Some of those sculptures border on the erotic."

"If she wants to be my marchioness, then she will not object, for I will not tolerate it. I will be marrying out of duty, as will the young woman I choose for my bride. The right woman will understand her role as Marchioness of Thayne and future Duchess of Doncaster. She will be pleased enough with such rank and fortune that she will keep any objections to herself."

"Including objections to a certain Grecian goddess who might also share your bed? If you can find her, that is."

"Oh, I'll find her, you can be sure of it." His gaze traveled to the fireplace mantel where the tiny golden arrow lay as a reminder of his unknown huntress. He had not been able to stop thinking about her, about her leg wrapped around him and her hips moving in sensuous counterpoint to his own. He wanted her again, and was determined to have her. But first, he needed to discover who she was.

"But how will you recognize her if you didn't see her clearly? You're not even sure what color her hair is."

"I believe I will know her when we meet. I cannot explain how, but I think I might recognize her blue eyes. And I did catch the glimpse of a darkish eyebrow. At first I was convinced she was a blonde, but kept thinking I saw hints of darker hair beneath the powder. And it was beautifully waved. I suspect I am looking for a blue-eyed woman with wavy dark hair."

And there had been the way she moved. He was fairly sure he would recognize the sensuous sway of her hips and the supple grace of her arms. Yes, Thayne was quite sure he would recognize those arms again.

"In the meantime," he said, "I will keep the duchess happy by attending every possible
ton
event, allowing her to present me to any number of eligible young misses. And while I'm doing my duty, I will keep one eye on the watch for my Artemis. I shall find her, too. And if I can convince her to become my mistress, then yes, my marchioness will have to accept that situation, if she happens to learn of it. It is the way of things, after all."

Burnett chuckled. "You could build a zenana at the house on Cavendish Square."

"We are not in India anymore, my friend. I do not want a harem, but only one woman." One particular woman. And by God, he would find her.

"And please try to be demure, Emily." Beatrice surveyed her niece from head to toe, fluffing her skirts, straightening the lace of her chemisette, adjusting the ribbons of her bonnet. "You look very pretty, my dear, but you sometimes put yourself too much forward. She is a duchess, you know. You must mind your place."

"Do stop fussing, Aunt Beatrice. I look perfectly splendid in this dress. And I do not put myself forward. I simply see no reason to pretend to be less than I am."

Beatrice loved her niece, but the girl was too much aware of her beauty. Emily was not yet eighteen but had none of the artlessness of youth. She was quite sure she was the prettiest girl in London, which was probably true. But she was still naive in ways she could not yet understand. Beatrice kept a sharp eye on her, for she was just the kind of headstrong girl to get into some sort of scrape through being over-confident. Emily was well aware that men admired her beauty, and she used it to keep a constant court of beaus at her feet. But she was not as sophisticated about men as she liked to believe. She was, in fact, completely innocent in that respect. Emily knew men wanted her, but Beatrice did not believe she had any idea what they wanted her for. As far as Emily was concerned, it was all about landing the best husband. The girl had no notion that a man might want her for anything but marriage.

"I hope the marquess will be there," Emily said as she examined herself in the hall mirror. "I have heard that he is actively looking for a bride this Season. And that he is quite handsome. Caroline Whittier caught a glimpse of him at the Douglas rout party and said so. It is most provoking that we have not yet seen him. But perhaps he has not been out and about much and I can still gain an advantage over the other girls by meeting him today. Indeed, I will be extremely vexed if he is not there."

"If he is there, you must promise me you will not flirt with him, Emily. It is not at all becoming in such a young girl."

"Fiddlesticks. If I find him pleasing, I shall try to entice his interest. Besides, I am the most sought-after girl of the Season. He could do no better than to offer for me."

He might do better to find a girl with less conceit, Beatrice thought. "Have a care, my dear. Such arrogance can be off-putting. And remember that most men would rather be the pursuer than be pursued."

"Oh, he will pursue me. You may be sure of it. Why should he be any different from every other man I've met this Season? The only thing is to make his acquaintance before he throws his cap at some other girl. So, let us be off."

Beatrice shook her head and wondered why she bothered at all to take the girl about and try to educate her in the fine points of negotiating Society. She didn't need a chaperone to tell her what to do. She knew exactly what she wanted and would go after it with a singular tenacity, whether her aunt approved or not.

It was a short drive to Park Lane and the weather was fine, so they took an open carriage. Beatrice continued to prepare her niece, or try to prepare her, for meeting a duchess and for behaving with absolute propriety. Beatrice could not afford to have the duchess displeased. Not today, when she was on an important errand for the Benevolent Widows Fund.

"Remember, Emily, we are not going on a social call. Not precisely. I am calling on the duchess simply to solicit the use of her ballroom for our last charity ball of the Season. And I am only condescending to bring you along because the duchess could be a useful connection for you. Even if you do not chance to meet her son, you could benefit from future introductions once you have made her acquaintance. So do, please, be on your best behavior."

Emily offered a bright, sweet smile and said, "Do not worry. I know how important this visit is to you. I will do nothing to embarrass you, I promise. After all, I have you to thank for such an opportunity. If Mama was my chaperone ... well, I would never have met a duchess, to be sure. You may count on me to be a pattern card of good breeding and behavior."

Beatrice reached over and squeezed the girl's hand. She was fretting over nothing. Emily's beauty would always give her a social advantage, and she could be perfectly charming when she wanted to be. Especially when she remembered what the Season might have been like with her mother at her heels. Ophelia could be something of a trial at the best of times. Emily had never said as much, but Beatrice had no doubt the girl worried that her mother's sometimes strident and impetuous nature could be an embarrassment to her, and might even drive away suitors.

To make matters worse, Ophelia had recently become more shrill and demanding than usual. Emily believed it to be no more than the frustration and confinement of having a broken leg, which would put anyone in bad spirits, and she seemed pleased to be away from her mother's contrariness at this crucial time.

"Poor Mama," she said time and again. "We must be sure not to put a strain on her nerves. She needs her rest."

These pronouncements were more frequent and heartfelt after a visit to her inquisitive mother, who regularly threatened to leave her couch and take over the supervision of Emily's Season when she thought matters were not progressing fast enough. Beatrice could well imagine that the very last thing Emily wanted was her surly, temporarily crippled mother escorting her about town.

In fact, Beatrice knew there was more involved in Ophelia's recent mood than the frustration of a broken leg. The truth was that Ophelia was desperate for Emily to marry a fortune. Her own lavish spending was compounded by a penchant for gambling and her debts had finally reached epic proportions. Sir Albert Thirkill, Ophelia's husband, was so far unaware of the impending crisis. He kept away from London, busying himself with an archaeological excavation on his Suffolk property. Something of a head-in-the-clouds scholar, he cared nothing for Society and allowed his wife to do as she pleased. But he would not be so complaisant if he was forced to mortgage his beloved estate.

"He will throw me out on my ear," Ophelia had wailed, "leaving me to my own devices. He will divorce me, mark my words."

"Albert will not divorce you," Beatrice had said, "and he is too kind a gentleman to beat you, no matter how much you deserve it."

"You will not be so glib, Sister, when he sends me packing and files for a separation. I will be forced to rely on your charity, and move into your house as a poor relation."

"Dear God." The very idea had given Beatrice palpitations of the heart.