In the Arms of a Marquess Read Online Free PDF Page A

with understated style, up to the stare but never beyond it. Neither nabob nor pink, dandy or dowd. Perfect Marcus Crispin.
    “Delighted, Lady Ashford.” He bowed. “The praise of your beauty is not overdone.” His voice reflected the appreciative glint in his gaze. Tavy had seen that glint turn dozens of ladies giddy, occasionally even gentlemen. Marcus Crispin had not collected a comfortable fortune in trade and won a peerage by failing to use his charm and good looks to advantage.
    “I understand you have spent time in the East Indies, like my friend here.” The viscountess touched Tavy’s arm in the gesture of an intimate.
    “Indeed,” the baron replied. “It was the most fortunate coincidence that Miss Pierce and I became acquainted there.” He smiled at Tavy.
    Valerie’s gaze darted between them then returned to the baron. “And how did you find that country, my lord?”
    “The climate is dreadfully insalubrious, and the Hindustanis often fractious. But, if I may entertain a crude topic in the presence of ladies, the business is excellent. If one can cozen the natives in just the correct manner.” His offered a confiding smile.
    Tavy’s neck felt hot and a bit sticky.
    “Really?” Lady Ashford seemed intrigued. “In what manner exactly does one cozen the natives? Do tell, my lord.”
    Tavy’s attention slipped away. In the weeks since her return, she had heard him expound upon his ten months in India to any number of people. His narrative rarely altered, although he always delivered it with charming animation. She should be proud to be on his arm so often, this handsome, successful gentleman whom everyone seemed to know was courting her.
    Throat tight, she scanned the glittering crowd. Unfamiliar face upon unfamiliar face, fashionable ladies and gentlemen, diverting conversation.
    She missed home, and the outer shell of measured, elegant propriety she had struggled so hard to affect over the past seven years had finally burrowed beneath the skin. Her heart felt chill, just like the dreary English autumn.
    A flicker of the spirited girl she had once been, locked so neatly away, cried out in protest. She shushed it.
    Clearly she required diversion. Whenever she had the blue devils in Madras she invented projects. Perhaps a project would help her now. Quite a large one.
    The bell rang to announce the third act. Tavy turned toward the box and her gaze arrested.
    In a cluster of people close by, a gentleman stood with his back to her. His black hair glistened in the chandelier light, short at the nape of his neck meeting a snowy white cravat. His broad shoulders were encased in a black coat fit perfectly to his lean, muscular form, his long legs in elegant buff trousers. On his left hand, a thick flash of gold sparkled, his skin warm-toned, like golden sand at sunset on the Equator.
    Stillness washed through Tavy.
    Panic swiftly replaced it, rushing from the soles of her feet to her legs and twining into her chest in hot little darts.
    She had suspected she would see him eventually. Indeed, she expected it. But suddenly it seemed too soon. She was not yet ready. A few more weeks in society, after she gained her bearings, and she might be. Or possibly never.
    But she could not tear her gaze from him. It clung, quivering with the fear of looking and the even greater fear of looking away. Without her willing it, it consumed every line of his body, every lock of hair and detail of the only man she had ever particularly cared to stare at.
    His head turned slightly, his face averted from his companions, as though he had become aware of being watched. Tavy’s blood seemed to fuse to her bones. How well she had memorized that profile, square jaw, high cheekbones, straight nose, the careless fall of ebony hair over his brow.
    His shoulders shifted, turned, and his gaze met hers.
    Nothing showed in it, nothing of surprise or even recognition in the languid black eyes. He looked at her for a moment then returned his