Page 14 of The Marquess of Temptation
Chapter Seven
That evening the fable of the boy who cried wolf sprung to Hestia's mind as she suffered through dinner. Why had she pretended to have a migraine on her first night at Hawkfield Manor, when this evening the lie would have served a far greater purpose. Namely, it would have allowed her to avoid the Marquess of Falconbridge, who seemed determined to find out everything he could about her past.
He was suspicious of her, she knew, though she also knew that he could have no reason to connect her to the scandalous life and death of David Stockbow, unless she gave him one.
"We were speaking of Truro," Lord Delaney said, as he sidled up to her in the drawing room, after dinner. Tea was being served in delicate china cups, allowing Hestia a minute's relief as she pretended to be distracted by adding lumps of sugar to her drink. "And you were just about to tell me where it was that you had lived in Cornwall."
"Was that what we were speaking of, my Lord?" she finally asked gaily, hoping that Falconbridge could not hear her heart, which was beating a loud, nervous tattoo in her breast. "Oh, yes, just before you left to play cricket. Tell me, where did you learn to play so well?"
She opened her eyes in what she hoped was a wide and innocent way, crossing her fingers that the Marquess, like every other man, would jump at the opportunity to speak of his accomplishments.
"At Eton," he answered smoothly, sitting down, uninvited, on the overstuffed sofa beside her. The china cup that he held looked ridiculously small in his hand and the sheer size of him left her feeling even more nervous. All his questions would be so much easier to bear if he wasn't so intimidating looking, she thought with annoyance. It wasn't just his size that daunted her, but his face as well --he was sinfully handsome. His cheekbones were high, his mouth generous and his eyes hypnotising in their intensity --he truly was a tempting specimen of a man. A lock of Falconbridge's dark hair had fallen out of place and for a moment Hestia felt the urge to brush it away with her hand.
Goodness, she started, where had that thought come from?
"Of course," she parroted stupidly to his reply, hoping that if she kept up a constant stream of babble that he would not get the chance to ask her any more questions. "Why, cricket must be a very popular sport there. What other sports do you engage in, my Lord? Do tell, I'd be most fascinated to hear."
"Sadly, I'm not in the slightest bit fascinated by the thought of listing them off for you," Lord Delaney drawled, his voice laden with sarcasm. "Tell me, Miss Bowstock, are you always this evasive, or is it just with me?"
His direct line of questioning shocked her into silence. Her acting skills were obviously not what she thought them to be, for the Marquess was looking at her with the eyes of a man who knew that she had a secret.
"Other people never give me cause to be evasive," she finally answered, plucking at the skirts of her dress with nervous fingers. "For there are few who would take interest in a Lady's Companion, my Lord. Excepting you, of course."
"So, you admit that you are reluctant to speak of your past?" there was no triumph in his tone and his eyes, when they met Hestia's, were kind.
"If my circumstances had been slightly better, my Lord," Hestia replied, heavily weighting her words so that they were honest and yet revealed little. "Then I would not be a Lady's Companion, I would be someone's wife. A solicitor's maybe, or perhaps a small merchant's."
"I am glad you are nobody's wife."
Goodness, Hestia glanced at the Marquess with utter alarm, was he insinuating that he would like her as his bride? Surely not; perhaps he was going to offer her a position as his mistress, for she knew that wealthy men often did things like that.
"I'm afraid--"
What she was afraid of remained unsaid, for Jane called out for her to play a song on the pianoforte and she readily agreed. Her mother had taught her how to play during the long winters that her father was away at sea and she knew she was as accomplished as any young debutant. Hestia knew all of the proper songs that a young lady ought to know, as well as sadder, more melodic tunes that were native to Cornwall. She was nearing the end of a sweet, poignant song about a sailor lost at sea, when the Marquess came to stand beside her and she lost her place.
"Oh, silly me," she smiled, pushing back her chair without looking at Lord Delaney and going to stand near Jane.
"My dear you have such a sweet voice," the Duchess of Hawkfield cried, "Who taught you how to sing?"
"My mother."
An overwhelming sensation of grief coursed through her and she glanced at Jane, hoping that she might see her distress. Jane, however, was distracted by the ridiculous Mr Jackson, and the only eyes that seemed to witness her grief were those of Lord Delaney, whose sympathetic gaze found hers.
The others were arguing about what activity to play next, with Lady Caroline's suggestion of a board game quickly shot down by her brother.
"How about a game of hide and seek?" Lord Payne asked.
Goodness, Hestia couldn't think of anything worse, but to her surprise the whole group --bar the Duchess, who was going to her chambers--agreed. Giles, Caroline's husband, was chosen as the seeker, and in high-spirits the guests ran from the drawing room, scattering in a dozen different directions.
Hestia, who was not much bothered by winning, scurried toward the library, where she thought she might have a chance to peruse the Duke's book collection while she waited for Giles to find her. The library was situated just off the drawing room, it was a dark, masculine space, lined with mahogany bookshelves that were stuffed with leather bound volumes. She ran an idle finger down the spine of a collection of Lord Byron's works, before plucking it from the shelf and settling down on an over-stuffed Queen Anne by the fireplace. The servants had obviously been busy, as there was a fire dancing happily in the grate, lending the room a cosy air. Imagine having so much wealth that you kept a full fire going in an empty room, just in case you might use it, Hestia thought. There had been one fireplace in the small cottage she had grown up in, and keeping it filled with wood during the winter months had been a constant worry.
Lord Byron's poems were not the most restive of reading materials and after attempting to wade her way through one of his longer sonnets, Hestia stood and padded over to the window. The deep, bay window of the library looked out onto a rose garden, which was in darkness. The sky above was clear with a scattering of stars, that twinkled cheerfully. In Cornwall, the night sky had always seemed endless and magical, stretching to the horizon until it blurred with the sea; but here the sky held no magic for Hestia.
"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Bowstock."
Hestia went rigid with shock at the sound of Falconbridge's voice from behind her. When had he come in? He either moved in complete silence, or she had been so lost in thought that she had not heard him.
"I don't think they're worth even that," she responded, afraid to turn to look at him. Why was he here? Why could he not just leave her alone, like everybody else? Her status as a servant was supposed to inure her from interest, but it had not deterred the determined Marquess.
