Page 5 of Marigold and the Marquess
She now understood why he was all the rage.
His facial structure was magnificent.
In truth, so was his body.
She itched to run her hands over his solid musculature, but he would misunderstand and consider her too forward.
Marigold smiled as the footmen toted the crate and lifted it into his carriage since it could not properly be perched atop the roof nor would it fit in the rear of the carriage without being laid on its side. That would force the contents to shift and cause the carefully placed bones to tumble one atop the other in disarray.
No, it had to be laid flat.
However, now that it was in place inside the carriage, Marigold realized with much dismay that it took up almost all the space. There was only the tiniest corner available on each bench for them to sit. “Your maid will have to ride with my driver,” the marquess said, coming to the same conclusion. He gave Bessie a hand up onto the seat beside his coachman.
“Oh, but that will leave you and me alone in your carriage,” Marigold remarked, although the prospect secretly pleased her. Riding alone with this big, muscled, and utterly stunning man was rather exciting in itself.
He did not have to work hard at looking handsome. His chestnut brown hair had a natural wave to it and a lustrous fullness despite it being cut short at the back and sides. The style, which struck her as a little military, accentuated the strikingly beautiful angles of his face. His firm jaw, fine cheekbones, and aquiline nose were all in perfect proportion.
His eyes were deep set and darkest green, seemingly able to pierce souls. Warmth flooded through her whenever he looked at her.
She could not tell what he was thinking, but his eyes were fascinating and were the sort that held dark secrets.
His mouth had a decidedly sensual curve to it.
A perfect mouth for delivering a first kiss.
Namely hers, since she had not yet been kissed.
The marquess would be the perfect candidate for this endeavor, but she did not know how to go about enticing him. She dared not overtly suggest such a thing or attempt to initiate something so intimate. She was not brazen by nature, and it would give him the wrong impression.
“Eep,” she squeaked, caught by surprise when he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her into his carriage. He settled her in the tiny space available on the forward facing bench, and then climbed in next, squeezing his broad-shouldered frame into the tiny space left for him on the opposite facing bench.
He tapped on the roof. “Huntsford Academy, Collins.”
“Aye, my lord.”
The team, a beautiful pair of matched bays, took off at a lively clip, leaving the serene confines of Chipping Way and turning onto the busier thoroughfares that were filled with carriages, tradesmen’s carts, and wagons loaded with wares. They slowed along Regent Street, not that they had much choice, for how else were they to avoid the ladies and gentlemen darting and dashing across the much traveled roadway?
The liveliness of London still fascinated Marigold, for life in her quieter Lancashire village of Little Mutton moved at a much slower pace. She watched those walking along this busy shopping street, the fashionably dressed elite strolling leisurely while the more humbly attired working men and women bustled with a determined step toward their destinations.
It was all a marvelously mad scramble, and now more carriages and carts converged onto the already crowded lanes to slow them down further. Marigold worried this ride would take much longer than either of them considered. “My lord, I apologize for the inconvenience and hope our delay is not creating a problem for you. Did you have plans for the evening?”
“None at all. In fact, I was much in need for an adventure just like this one.” His voice had a deep, resonant quality to it that was cultured and at the same time a little daunting. He was polite with her, yet she did not sense he was a polite man by nature. He was also being extremely kind and tolerant, yet he did not strike her as someone who suffered fools gladly. She did not think he enjoyed taking his time about anything.
He looked like a man of action.
Decisive. Get the job done. Impatient to move on to the next bit of business.
However, his smile was sincerely warm and he appeared relaxed in her company.
She would not call him an amiable man, for there was an aura of danger about him. It was unmistakable. This marquess was a man of contradictions, she decided. She could not quite make him out, but he was very much a gentleman with her and she liked being with him.
Oh, dear.
He would not like her very much once he realized the crate had scratched his exquisite, leather seat benches. She nibbled her lip, now worried what he might say or do when he noticed the damage.
There was no help for it. She would have to offer to repair the seats, never mind that she did not have the funds to do so.
“Miss Farthingale, you appear to be fretting.” His keen gaze fixed on her lips.
