Page 2 of The Marquess and the Maiden

He glanced from one set of female eyes to another. This was no mere accompaniment to a ball; this was an ambush. He settled his gaze on Harriet. It had been a while since he’d seen her, or perhaps he hadn’t been this close to her, because he was certain he would have remembered a bosom like hers. Her pale pink gown left her creamy shoulders uncovered and the bodice molded to her torso, bringing attention to the indention at her waist. But her breasts were spectacular, and the fabric that sat between them dared anyone to look away. The lovely mounds rose and fell with each of her breaths, and he realized that they would more than fill his hands.

He shifted uncomfortably. It would do him no good to ogle her while their mothers stood and watched. He bowed over her hand as best he was able with his damned leg. “Lady Harriet.” He was going to throttle his mother when they returned home. He shifted his eyes to her, not even trying to hide his anger.

“Lord Davenport,” Harriet said.

He could not miss the way her mother cleared her throat and gave her daughter a slight nudge.

Harriet blushed but still stepped forward. “Would you care to escort me to the portrait hall? I’m told it is something one truly must experience.”

He shot another quick glare in his mother’s direction. Declining Harriet’s shy request would only punish her, and this brazen setup that their mothers had orchestrated was not any more Harriet’s fault than it was his. He reluctantly held out his arm for Harriet and let her lead them away.

“It’s been unusually cold as of late, wouldn’t you say?” she asked.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

She chuckled lightly. “I’m not complaining; I do enjoy a brisk breeze.”

He grunted noncommittally.

“I’ve been eagerly reading about the upcoming votes on the railroad expansions. It’s all very exciting,” she said.

He didn’t think she actually required him to participate in this conversation. She babbled about some vase that had been broken a few months before at the British Museum.

Harriet had a mouth on her, he’d give her that. His family had known the Lockwood family forever, it seemed. They were one of the few families in London who hadn’t abandoned them when his father had lost nearly every penny they had. Even now when he and his mother had little save their names and ancestral estate, the Lockwoods remained friendly. Yet even having a predetermined fondness for them because of this, Harriet was so bloody cheerful, and talkative, she was driving him to madness. At the moment, she was blathering on about the heavy gilded frame holding the portrait of a soldier upon a large black steed.

It was quite evident that their mothers had designed this entire evening solely for the purpose of putting him and Harriet together. Harriet’s fortune could, no doubt, save him and his mother.

The tour of the portrait hall didn’t take very long, thankfully, and he led her back toward the ballroom. He had to rid himself of her before he did something drastic to shut her up.

His gait paused as he saw the tall woman across the ballroom. Catherine. Her pale, nearly silver hair was piled artfully atop her head, leaving her long, graceful neck exposed. She was as stunning as she’d been the last time he’d seen her—when she’d walked away from him. On her arm stood her equally attractive husband. They cut a striking couple. Anyone could see that.

“I still have several dances that haven’t been claimed,” Harriet said.

He dropped his gaze to her and frowned, then tapped his cane on the floor.

Her eyes widened, then she winced. “What a goose I am. Of course, you can’t dance. It matters not, I’m not very skilled at it myself.”

Had she always been this talkative? He didn’t think so. She was obviously nervous. He made her nervous. He likely scared the hell out of her as he seemed to do most people. She was willing to overlook her aversion to him because she was desperate, or because her mother was forcing her.

Well, he would not marry a woman for her money. He would rebuild the family fortune himself. His gaze moved back to Catherine and her husband. He had no intention of marrying anyone, ever. He didn’t give a damn if the title died with him or went to some distant cousin who lived in the country with pigs and sheep.

He’d never subject himself to that kind of rejection again, which meant he had to end this ridiculous plan of their mothers before it went too far.

Harriet was finally quiet for several moments before she spoke again. “It would appear that our mothers are doing a bit of matchmaking.”

“Indeed.” He grabbed a flute of champagne off a footman’s tray and drained the glass. Then he turned and faced the attractive, yet annoyingly cheerful, woman before him. “It won’t work.”

“Sorry? What won’t?”

How was it possible for her eyes to be that round and that blue? “This.” He motioned at the space between them. “I am not interested.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, leaving her rosebud lips in an O shape. And his disinterest wasn’t the entire truth. She was far too attractive, boasting curves that a girl of ten and nine should not possess. In fact, he’d found that most women in London lacked such lush curves. But the things he’d want to do with Harriet Wheatley involved her mouth being otherwise occupied; the only sound emitting from her lips would be cries of pleasure.

“I realize I am not your first choice. I’m certainly not beautiful in the fashionable way, but I do have a hefty dowry. And you are in need of funds. It seems as if we could solve each other’s problems.”

“No,” he said flatly.

“Don’t you want better for your mother?”

“Even that isn’t enough to tempt me.” He leaned in slightly, not too close, but enough that she could hear his lowered voice. “I don’t want your money, and I don’t want you.”

…

Harriet fell backward onto her bed. Humiliation burned in her stomach. Tonight was supposed to be a guaranteed match, a union brought about by two people who couldn’t find anyone else to marry. Yet he’d rejected her. It was official—no man wanted her. Well, she wouldn’t ever do that again. She would rather die alone than feel like this again.

She certainly didn’t want to marry the Marquess of Davenport, either. He was far too bleak and taciturn for her tastes. It mattered not that he was so handsome, she’d had a difficult time formulating coherent sentences when she looked at his face. Instead, she’d prattled on about the weather. He must think her the silliest of females.

That was the most humiliating thing she’d ever endured. She’d practically begged him to marry her. He had been horribly rude coming right out and saying he wasn’t interested in her. All the while his eyes had slid over her entire person so thoroughly she’d felt exposed, felt every last flaw in her flesh. She’d always been a plump girl, but her mother had assured her that she’d grow out of it. Instead, it had gotten worse, since she’d never grown much taller than she’d been when she was ten and five. And shorter than average meant that her body couldn’t spread out as much as others could. What resulted was a more than ample bosom, but also a soft belly and too round of a bottom.

She didn’t need an arrogant man to remind her she wasn’t attractive. No, she’d never endure again what had happened tonight. Tomorrow she would tell her mother, in no uncertain terms, she would only ever consider marriage for love. If there ever was a next time, she wanted to be certain the man truly wanted her.

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