“Thank you, Mrs. Kemble.”
The housekeeper curtsied, though she managed to look the marquis up and down as she went. “Will ye be needing anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Honoria said. “I believe this will suffice.”
“Very well, miss.” With one more curtsy and yet another lingering glance at the marquis, the housekeeper was gone, no doubt to regale the kitchen staff with her impressions of their lofty visitor.
Honoria went to the chair by the table and gestured to the nearby sofa. “Will you be seated, my lord?”
He hesitated, and she smoothly added, “I hope you are famished, for I am.” She busied herself with the tray, adjusting the cups and putting a pastry on a plate, all the while her mind whirled.
Perhaps he’d come about an object he wished to purchase. It was unusual, but not unheard of. Certainly other members of the ton called occasionally when looking for something specific. Not often, of course. But still…Mentally, she reviewed the more recent acquisitions. None of them were of the quality that he normally pursued.
If there was something good to be said for the Marquis of Treymount—and she knew of only one thing—it was that he appreciated the finest of antiquities and bought only the best. She had to admire his taste, if nothing else.
He stirred, as if making a sudden decision. “I suppose tea would not be amiss. I don’t have long, but…why not?” He came to stand before the table, moving a loose pillow from the sofa and setting it out of the way.
To her chagrin, Honoria found herself at eye level with Treymount’s thighs. It was strange, but in all of her dealings with the marquis, she had never noticed this particular part of his physique. Now that he was directly across from her, she couldn’t help but admire the ripple of his muscles beneath his fitted breeches.
The man must ride often to keep such a fine figure—
He sat, his gaze catching hers. His brows rose as he caught her expression. “Yes?”
Her thoughts froze in place. Ye gods, did he know what she was thinking? Her neck prickled with heat, then her face. Hurriedly, she began pouring tea into a cup. “I—I—” She what? Admired his well-turned legs? What a horrid predicament! She could hardly admit—
His gaze dropped to the tray and he frowned. “Miss Baker-Sneed, I believe there is enough tea in that cup.”
Honoria jerked back the teapot. She’d filled the cup over the brim and tea now sloshed into the saucer and tray below. “Oh dear! What was I thinking?” She reached for one of the linen napkins not soaked with tea. Just as her hand closed over it, Treymount reached over and clasped his hand about hers.
Honoria sat shock-still. His hand enveloped hers, large and masculine and surprisingly warm. His fingers were long and tapered, his nails perfectly pared and trimmed, and yet that did nothing to disguise the pure strength of the man.
Her heart hammered against her chest, the unexpected touch sending the strangest heat through her body. She was going mad. She’d faced the marquis time and again at numerous auctions and never had she felt this tug of attraction. But it was more than a tug. It was a powerful wave, pure and primal. It washed over her, crashing through her thoughts and leaving her confused and disoriented.
In her bemused state, she could only stare wide-eyed as the marquis pulled her hand to him, causing her to lean forward, over the small table. His hand slid to her arm, his warm fingers encircling her wrist.
“My lord,” she gasped. “What are you—”
“That’s my ring.” His eyes blazed into hers, accusation and anger flickering brightly in their depths. “And I came to get it back.”
Chapter 4
Life is about taking chances. Without them, our existence is just an airless, closed box of naught. I, for one, would prefer to die a horrid, painful death than pollute my lungs with the fetid fumes of nothingness.
Lord Melton to Lady Albermarle, while enjoying her ladyship’s bed (and her ladyship) during Lord Albermarle’s annual visit to his southern holdings in Yorkshire
“Your ring?” Honoria could only stare, first at the marquis, and then at the silver band about the third finger of her left hand.
“Mine.” The marquis’s voice, deep and rich, snapped through his teeth, his grasp on her wrist tightening imperceptibly.
She winced and wriggled her fingers. “My lord, please! My fingers are numb.”
His hold slackened, but he didn’t let go. “I want my ring.”
“And I want a new gown, a set of emeralds, and some jeweled slippers, but that is not going to happen, either.” She sniffed. “Life is not so easy that we always get what we wish.”
His brow lowered. “Miss Baker-Sneed, you don’t seem to understand. This ring belongs to me, to my family.”
“This ring belonged to your family. Now it is mine; I won it at a house party in S—”
“Scotland. Where you went as a guest to a certain Lady Talbot.”
She blinked. “Why…yes! How did you know that?”
“I have been searching for this blasted ring ever since my brother’s fiancée lost it at that very party.”
His certainty touched her, and she gazed down at her hand, at the warm band of silver. “So this is your ring…” In the back of her mind a faint memory stirred. A rumor of the St. Johns and a ring and a curse of some sort. Or was it a blessing? She could not remember, try as she would. “So this is the St. John talisman ring,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he said shortly. “And now you know why you must return it to me.”
Must was such a harsh word, especially coming from him. Honoria closed her fingers into a fist, remembering each and every time Treymount had outbid her at an auction, ignored her presence with a thoroughness that had even caused others to comment, and generally behaved in a way that could only be categorized as self-centered.
A strange tingle warmed her fingers, traveling across her palm, through the tender veins on her wrist right where Treymount’s hand was clasped. The sensation was both bold and exotic, like the stroke of a warmed feather on her naked skin. She shivered, trying to pull her erratic thoughts together. “I’ve heard of the talisman ring. I always thought it would be bejeweled. This ring seems so simple.”
“It is very, very old.”
“I thought so from the first time I saw it.” She leaned forward to peer at it more intently. “Well! If it’s yours and you’ve been searching for it for such a long time, I daresay you’d pay dearly to have it back.” She sent him a searching look through her lashes, her instincts coming to the fore. She could smell a good venture, feel it in her bones. And the fact that the money would come out of his coffers made the idea all the sweeter.
He stiffened, letting go of her wrist as if she’d just burned him. “I should not have to pay for my own ring.”
“Ownership is such an interesting concept. You say it’s yours, but I say it’s mine. Who do you think a court of law would support?”
His face darkened. “I would never take this to a court of law and you know it. My name would be in every paper in England.”
“And mine,” she pointed out. “Therefore, possession is what will determine ownership.”
Treymount watched her darkly. Finally, he said, “I will pay what the ring is worth, but no more.”
Her wrist ached, not from his touch, but for the lack of it, which was strange indeed. She rubbed her skin absently, wondering at the odd bereft feeling that weighed in her heart. The sparkle of the ring caught her eye and she heard herself say, “There is a rumor about the ring…a legend.” She frowned, searching her scattered memory yet again. What was it…something about the ring…and—“Ah yes! They say that whichever of the St. Johns holds the ring will find his one, true love.”
He gave an impatient flick of his hand, irritation crossing his features. “That is foolish fancy and nothing more. The importance of the ring is in its historic value to our family. It is a part of our heritage.”
“Which makes it even more valu
able.” She smiled just the tiniest bit. “I have to wonder what great sums you’d pay to have this ring back in your possession. Certainly if it has value as an heirloom, then it is nigh priceless.”
His eyes narrowed suddenly, his nostrils flaring the slightest bit. “Do not tempt me into physically claiming what is rightfully mine.”
Soft and threatening, the determination in his voice was palpable. Honoria lifted her brows. “Have you forgotten that antiquities are my business? When I find a customer who wants something dearly, that is usually the price I charge—dearly.”
“That ring is important to no one but a St. John. You face a very limited market, my dear.”
To Marcus’s chagrin, the wench had the audacity to smile, to grin even, the straight line of her front teeth gleaming white between her perfectly formed lips. “It is fortunate for us all, then, that my one, lone customer is so very, very wealthy.”
Marcus could not believe his ears. The little minx was going to make him pay—and a lot, by the sound of it. It was—inconceivable. It was outrageous. It was—bloody hell, who did she think she was?
As if in answer to his thoughts, his hostess calmly picked up the napkin she’d dropped and wiped up the spilled tea in the tray. “I wonder what I should charge for a ring of such personal importance?” She set down the napkin, retrieved the warmed pot and poured tea into a fresh cup. Smiling ever so slightly, she held out the cup and saucer. “Your tea, my lord.”
What he wanted was brandy. Or perhaps port. Better yet, a good stiff bourbon that would douse the fire crackling in his stomach. But he supposed he was as stuck with tepid tea as he was stuck doing business with the one woman who thought an argument was a form of polite conversation.
What a horrid day. He’d been forced to attend to Lady Percival first thing this morning and break off their alliance. To his distaste, she’d allowed her feelings to become quite maudlin, so he handed her the sapphire and diamond bracelet he’d purchased as a parting gesture, and left posthaste. He’d always considered her the epitome of feminine beauty—cool, undisturbed by emotions, and yet welcoming when the time was right. Now he was beginning to realize that it had all been a hum—Violet had been playacting the whole time in an effort to get him to commit to something far more than a playful liaison.
Women, Marcus decided, were devious creatures. Though none so devious as the one who now sat across the table from him. Miss Baker-Sneed was not only a forward woman willing to brangle over a few guineas, but she had a rare talent for ascertaining value, and the wit to exploit that ability. He already regretted revealing the importance of the ring; that had been an error. But his case was not yet desperate and he was certainly unwilling to accept defeat.
Jaw set, he took the tea and affected an air of boredom. “I will give you a hundred pounds. That is more than fair.”
She poured herself a cup and took a little sip, then pursed her lips as if considering his offer. “No.” She picked up the tray with the fresh pasties and held them out. “Would you like a pastie?”
No, he did not want a blasted pastie. He wanted his damn ring. He swallowed a scowl, which would have no effect except give his enemy the felicity of seeing how much she’d manage to irk him. He forced himself to remember with painful clarity each and every time the heartless jade had outwitted him at various auction houses. Oh, she hadn’t doused him every time—he wasn’t a flat, after all—but often enough that the mere sight of her bedraggled carriage and broken-down nag at an auction site was enough to set his teeth on edge.
The damnable truth was that Miss Honoria Baker-Sneed was not a woman to be cowed by mere scowling, arguing, or any other emotional outbursts. Her outward appearance of civility and feminine softness hid a granite heart and a wily determination to drive a hard bargain. And that was the one thing he’d allowed himself to forget. But no more.
Marcus set down his cup, the china bottom clinking into the delicate saucer. “Two hundred pounds, then. But that is my final offer.”
She clicked her tongue at him, as if distressed. “Such low numbers. We must rethink this.” She tilted her head to one side, the sunlight from the window lighting her rich sable hair with warm golden red lights that made the white streak at her temple appear to almost glow.
Marcus’s lips thinned. She was a beautiful woman, which was a fact he’d always known though never with such awareness as now. Of course, before this meeting, the occasional pleasure of beating her on the auction floor had been enough to distill any sort of temporary interest he might have had. She was his opponent, to be vanquished and thoroughly routed, not a sensually exciting woman to be trifled with until he’d tired of her. Although…his eyes were drawn to the gleam of the streak at her temple. It added an exotic tint to her features and made him wonder at her true nature. That she was a passionate woman could not be questioned—no one who’d ever seen her bidding on an object d’art could say otherwise. Which made him wonder what she would be like in bed?
Hmmm. That was an interesting idea. He wondered if she’d be as wild as that streak of hair that decried her rather pristine appearance. Would she throw herself into the act, just as she threw herself into acquiring antiquities? He had an instant vision of her, naked and writhing beneath him, head tossed back, her long sable hair streaming over his pillows—
By Zeus, what was he thinking? This was his enemy, the woman who held Mother’s precious ring. Stirring impatiently, he snapped, “I don’t have time for this sort of thing. Miss Baker-Sneed, just what do you think is a fair price?”
“Hm.” She took another sip of tea, and his eyes were drawn to her lips where they touched the edge of the cup. The tea damped her lips, a dewiness resting on the pink slopes of her mouth.
A pang of pure lust ripped through him, settling in his nether regions with annoying predictability. Good God, it was senseless. He was reacting to her as if he was a boy of fifteen and not a man grown.
She replaced the cup on the saucer, her movements sure and graceful. “I believe I’d take…” She held out her hand and regarded the ring with a speculative gaze. “It is an heirloom and there is only one…Dear me, what a dilemma. Had I more time, I might be able to think of—”
“Just name your price and be done with it!”
She looked at him again through the shadow of those ridiculously long lashes. The little jade. She tapped a finger on her chin. “Hm. If I must give a price…shall we say seven?”
“Seven hundred pounds? You must be joking,” he said stiffly.
“Oh no.” Her voice sifted softly though the air, her thick lashes sweeping down as she blinked. “Not seven hundred. Seven thousand pounds.”
“Bloody hell!” The words burst from his lips and rang through the room. He glared down at her, his hands fisted at his sides. He was standing, though he didn’t remember getting up. “That is outrageous and you know it.”
“No,” she said almost regretfully. “I don’t know that it is outrageous at all. Seven thousand pounds, my lord, or the ring stays mine.”
“You are mad if you think I’ll pay that much for a blasted ring.”
“Then we have nothing more to say to one another.” She smiled almost happily, then stood and held out her hand. “Thank you for visiting. I do hope you’ll come again when you’ve more time.”
The vixen! Marcus continued to glare down at her, ignoring her outstretched hand. Did she expect him to pay a bloody fortune for his own possession? Frustration welled through him, settling between his shoulder blades.
This was all some sort of fantastical mistake, a misunderstanding of some sort. Yes. That must be what it was. Gathering himself, he resumed his seat. “I am not leaving without that ring.”
“And I am not giving it to you for anything less than seven thousand pounds.” She returned to her seat as well, adjusting her skirt into graceful folds. “Since you aren’t leaving just yet, would you like to try a pastie? They are quite good.” She picked up the plate and held it out once again.
> He didn’t want a damn pastie. Still…he gathered his temper and forced himself to relax. It would not do to become emotional. Not now. He selected a pastie from the plate, though he didn’t know if he could swallow it without choking.
It was an untenable position. Here he was, reduced to strategizing over something as paltry as a ring. He’d acquired estates—vast ones, in fact—with far less effort. Damn Devon for being so careless with Mother’s ring to begin with.
“It’s a very pretty pastie, isn’t it?”
He realized he’d been staring at his plate an unconscionable time. “Indeed it is.” He glanced up at Honoria to find her watching him with a gleam of humor in her hazel eyes. “Almost too pretty to eat.”
“Yes, well, as pretty as it is, it tastes even better.” She took a small bite as if to demonstrate, a bit of crust flaking off on her bottom lip. She touched a napkin to her mouth. “Cook is excellent with desserts of all sorts.”
“Taste is a matter of opinion.”
“So is value, which is often bargained on and more often paid for. That is why your ring has such a large price attached to it—I can tell that you value it highly.”
“I should never have admitted what it was,” he said bitterly.
“That was indeed an error.”
“I didn’t realize you’d be so unscrupulous,” he retorted. “I will not underestimate you again. I will recognize money-grubbing when I see it.”
Any other woman would have been outraged. But Honoria Baker-Sneed merely waved a hand, amusement lurking in her hazel eyes. “Tsk tsk, my dear marquis. The exchange of the ring is a business deal. There is no place for emotion in a business deal.” She held out her hand to the beam of sun that cut through the room, light glinting off the etched runes and dancing across her face. “It is quite a pretty piece. I am certain that seven thousand is not unrealistic.”