Page 34 of The Marquis, the Minx, and the Mistletoe
"Lady Somers just finished a lovely wreath yesterday to hang on the front door," Tia commented, tilting her spoon back into the broth in her bowl. "I imagine it is quite destroyed. I hope she will not be too sad over it."
"I do not know that Rose gets sad," Sheldon replied, considering this. "I have never seen her in anything but good spirits, even when the world has been quite literally ablaze around her."
"She does seem a remarkable sort of woman. I am so grateful that she allowed me to stay here." She bit down on a mischievous smile and added, "I never would have predicted having the entire manor to ourselves."
With some effort, Sheldon swallowed his stew. Surely she did not intend for that to sound as suggestive as it had? She seemed already lost in her next thought, oblivious to the implication that they were left to their own devices today, with no one to bear witness to any breaches of propriety.
Echo had rested her chin on Tia's knees, looking up at her with beseeching eyes as the smell of the food wafted about the room. Tia occasionally broke off a small piece of bread, dipped it in the stew, and slipped it to Echo, humming to herself as though this meal were the most natural thing in the world.
Echo cut her eyes slowly to her master, as though to say,See that, Bywater? This one knows how to treat me.
"You'll spoil her," he said without any real conviction.
"Oh, yes, I know," Tia replied happily. "It is better to distract her from the frightening noises outside, though, don't you think? My mother's dogs are petrified of storms. They cower and cry, even when it is only raining. You aren't afraid, though, are you, Echo? Not when there's chicken to be had!"
"She is afraid of thunder," Sheldon said, ashamed of himself for forgetting this fact in the wake of all the unexpected hubbub. "Perhaps the distraction of her pups would be a good thing tonight, after all."
"It is not yet night," Tia reminded him, "the sun is still hiding somewhere up there, behind all the ice and wind."
He nodded, oddly comforted by the mental image her words created. "When they come to clear away our meal, I will ask to have Echo brought into the kitchens," he decided. "I imagine she'll be able to wheedle a few more scraps that way, besides, and the storm won't be quite so audible."
"And it will leave the two of us alone," she added, casually and softly, as though it were exactly whatshouldhappen. "Again."
She set her food aside and reached for her glass of wine, those deep indigo eyes fixing on his across the small divide between them. She arched one of her dark brows, intrigued by the way he had frozen at her words, and tipped a bit of the wine into her mouth. "Unless, of course, you have had a change of heart," she added, after thoroughly savoring the bouquet on her tongue. "In which case ..."
"I have not," he said, his voice a sudden boom that startled his poor bloodhound. Truth be told, he was surprised she did not require more coaxing and a renewed buildup of seduction. Wasn't that the way of women? Innocent debutantes were not supposed to assist in planning their own seductions, were they?
Probably not.
It did not lessen his enthusiasm to pursue her in the least.
He had heard many men talk of the thrill of the pursuit, and the inevitable dissipation and disappointment of one's ardor once success had been achieved—in this case, once said debutante had been talked into a man's bed. He had never felt that way about anything, whether it be a literal hunt or a difficult goal, and certainly never about any of the women he'd known in his life. And he had known a fair few.
Still, he couldn't help but fear this thing other men discussed with such casual indifference. Surely there was no dark magic on earth, no hellish curse that could make this woman less appealing to him, especially not after he'd finally gotten her into his bed. The very idea of some hypothetical version of himself losing interest in Tatiana Everstead after he'd had her made him feel nigh murderous on her behalf—which was admittedly an odd way to feel about one's self.
She tittered, pressing her lips together. "You say you have not, but you appear very conflicted, Lord Moorvale. I assure you I have no designs on trapping you into marriage. I am well aware that I have deviated too far from the respectable path to consider myself a worthy prospect."
He felt his brow furrow. In any other situation, these were exactly the words a man wanted to hear from a mostly seduced debutante, but here they felt like the sting of rejection. In that little turn of phrase, she suddenly seemed extremely cavalier about her future as a spinster. Did she relish the prospect of a life unencumbered by a husband? Surely not.
She had been afraid of her uncertain future. She had shown him that, here in this room, the other night. She had trusted him enough to lay bare her fears and shame, and yet she thought herself unworthy?
"What if I can help you back onto that path?" he asked, failing utterly at keeping his tone light. He could hear the gruffness in his voice, and saw the way her eyes widened, batting those thickly fringed black lashes at the question.
"You cannot," she said, after a moment to digest his words. "Nor should you try. I am already ruined."
"I think you underestimate the reach of my power," he replied, fixing her under his gaze. "I am a marquis, if you recall."
"It is impossible," she blustered, coming to her feet in agitation. She shook her head, stepping around Echo and snatching up her glass of wine. "Youare impossible!"
He knew he could not push the topic. He knew he must calm her. It would not do to spook the lady back into a state of avoidance and wrath before he could convince her to agree to his proposal ... if indeed she desired such a thing, and he deeply hoped she did.
He reclined, assuming a posture of casual amusement in an effort to coax her back to the flirtatious and suggestive mood she had embodied only moments before.
"Miss Everstead," he said in his deepest rumble, "Tatiana. Do sit."
She paused at the sound of her Christian name on his lips, a curious power which he was finding he immensely enjoyed wielding.
"Sit where?" she asked, her slender back to him and her head turned in profile. "Back in my chair, or shall I save you the effort of hauling me into your lap?"
