Tall, dark, and wickedly handsome, Strathaven had married Emma last year. It was clear to all—and a source of some amusement amongst the ton—that the former rake adored his bride. Emma had recently given birth to their daughter, Olivia, and Thea had never seen her sister happier.
“I suppose you’d better,” Emma said, wrinkling her nose, “before someone mistakes Vi for a wild creature and locks her in a cage.”
With a lazy grin, Strathaven kissed his duchess before striding off after Violet.
Cheeks pink, Emma adjusted her cottage bonnet. “Shall we, girls?”
Their youngest sister Polly and niece Primrose, both seventeen, chorused, “Yes, please,” and wandered ahead on the path arm-in-arm, white muslin skirts swaying as they took in the live exhibits. Strolling behind with Emma, Thea noted more than one gentleman casting looks in the girls’ direction. Polly didn’t seem to notice the attention whilst Rosie’s dimples deepened. A blond beauty possessed of a vivacious temperament, the latter was well accustomed to admiration.
Thea wondered what it would be like to draw such attention. She was an observer by nature, more comfortable watching than being watched. The sole exception was when there was a pianoforte in front of her. Then everything—the audience, the world—melted away to the smooth glide of ivory beneath her fingertips, the immersion into a realm beyond the ordinary, where only soul-deep sensation existed.
She often got so lost in the music that the applause startled her out of her reverie. At times, guests called for an encore. But only one man had ever truly heard her.
Her hands curled in her gloves, her fingers tingling with the memory of thick, tawny locks sliding between them. The dark, delicious flavor of her first kiss drenched her senses. The familiar mix of longing and humiliation rushed through her.
Don’t be a ninny, she chided herself. If he wanted you, he would not have left. He would not have disappeared without a word for three months.
“Tired, dear?”
Thea looked up into Emma’s concerned brown eyes. She managed a smile. The last thing she wanted was to worry her sister, who tended to be overprotective as it was.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“It was quite the walk in from the promenade. And you were up early with Olivia this morning—”
“There’s no need to fuss.” She cut Em off gently. “You know I love to play the doting aunt.”
Married to a duke, Emma could have an army of nursemaids at her disposal if she wished. But that wasn’t the Kent way. They were country-bred middling class folk, and despite Ambrose, the eldest brother, and Emma both marrying into the upper classes, the siblings retained much of their original outlook on life.
Family stuck together through thick and thin. Older Kents watched over the younger ones. Thus, after Olivia’s birth, Thea had gone from her brother’s home to her sister’s to help care for the newest member of the family.
Emma frowned. “It rained yesterday, and you know how your lungs get after the rain.”
At the mention of her health, Thea tamped down a spark of frustration. It wasn’t fair of her to be annoyed at Emma, whose habitual fretting stemmed from years of looking after all the Kents—and her especially. At age five, Thea had contracted the croup, the coughing and fever lasting nearly a fortnight. Others of her family had gotten ill, too, but everyone else had recovered fully.
She, however, remained vulnerable to coughing fits, the sudden spasm of her lungs. For years, the breathing ailment had stolen her energy and restricted her activity, and she’d faced the prospect of living life as an invalid. Then a miracle had occurred. She’d come under the care of Dr. Abernathy, a brilliant Scottish physician, and he’d prescribed a novel treatment of exercises and salt water rinses to strengthen her respiratory system. Over the past year, her constitution had gradually improved, and hope blossomed within her.
Physically, she knew she’d never be as robust as her siblings, but her will was as strong as theirs. She would give anything to live a full life, one unhindered by her body’s limitations. One in which she would know the kind of passion she’d thus far only experienced through music.
“I do appreciate all that you’ve done, Thea. Olivia is rather a handful—even more so than Polly was at that age.” Emma tipped her head, her sable curls glinting where they caught the light. “It must come from Strathaven’s side of the family.”
Thea smothered a grin. “I think His Grace has settled in nicely.”
“He has, hasn’t he?” Smiling, Emma paused to look at enormous birds labeled as “Emus” chasing each other around a gated pen. “Marriage has been good for both of us.”
Feeling an insufferable pang of self-pity, Thea inwardly sighed. What’s wrong with me? She was so happy that Emma and Ambrose had both found worthy partners—no one deserved love more than her siblings. Yet being around people in love made her crave a taste of that intensity, that life-altering ardor. And at four-and-twenty, she was running out of time.
By Season’s end, she would be firmly on the shelf. After that, she’d be like an apple that had rolled out of view, growing wrinkly and moldy in some dark corner with no one to notice… except perhaps ants. But who wanted to be noticed by ants? The things she wanted—a passionate love match, a husband and children of her own—would be out of her reach forever.
Apparently, Emma caught wind of her thoughts. “On the topic of marriage, I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Me?” Thea kept her eyes on the prancing birds, the flutter of brown and black feathers.
Emma’s expression turned resolute, a familiar crease deepening between her brows. “You’ve been in the doldrums ever since the Marquess of Tremont left Town. Strathaven does business with Tremont, and they’re friendly, as you know. I can ask him to—”
“No, Emma.” Thea’s lungs constricted at the notion. “You promised you wouldn’t interfere. Please don’t make me regret sharing my feelings with you—feelings which have faded, I assure you.”
The last part was a lie but better than the alternative. Of all her siblings, Thea felt closest to Emma, who was older by just a year. But Em had a tendency to think that she knew best for everyone and, as a result, could be a bit managing.
Em gnawed on her lower lip. “I’m still convinced that the marquess was interested in you. For months, he was so attentive. I don’t understand his sudden departure.”
Though her habit was to confide in her sister, Thea had kept one secret to herself: the kiss she’d shared with Tremont. After all, what woman wanted to divulge that she’d wantonly thrown herself into a gentleman’s arms, experienced moments of heavenly pleasure… only to be summarily rebuffed?
Trying for an offhanded tone, she said, “Perhaps he had things to attend to at his estate.”
“But to leave in the middle of the Season? And without a word to anyone? After the time he spent in your company,” Emma said with an indignant huff, “he could have at least sent a note.”
Her sister did have a point. Since last Season, Tremont had been paying respects to Thea. Nothing that would raise eyebrows, just the occasional dance or turn around the ballroom. She’d found herself drawn to the enigmatic widower. Not merely because he was attractive—which he certainly was with his classical features and virile physique—but because she sensed in him a kindred spirit.
On the surface, he was the perfect gentleman—The Angel, as the ton liked to call him. He didn’t gamble, drink much, or indulge in the other excesses common to men of his station. His manner was polite to the point of being devoid of any emotion. He favored austere fashions, his crisp cravat and gleaming boots as spotless as his reputation.
Yet beneath all that masculine restraint, she sensed passion, potent and yearning.
She’d never forget his first words to her. She’d just finished performing her favorite piano sonata at Emma’s engagement party, and guests had approached to offer accolades on her playing. The last in line had been a tall, broad-shouldered stranger. He’d looked to be in his mid-thirties, a man in his prime. The chandelier had glinted off the gold in his hair, cast shadows over a face of stark male beauty.
“It began like a gentle rain,” he’d said, his deep voice lifting the hairs on her skin, “and ended like a thunderstorm. Thank you for reminding me of the human spirit. Of its passion and folly, its ability to endure.”
Breathless awareness had gripped her. The fibers of her being tautened, quivering with the readiness of an instrument about to be plucked. A feeling she’d waited a lifetime for.
Mesmerized by the intensity of his slate grey eyes, she’d whispered, “Thank you… um, who are you?”
His slow, self-deprecating smile devastated her senses. “My manners aren’t usually this shoddy. Forgive me. Gabriel Ridgley, Marquess of Tremont, at your service.”
And so her feverish infatuation had begun.
For his part, he’d never actively encouraged her attachment, nor had he discouraged it. They’d talked, danced, strolled in the garden, all of it properly chaperoned. All of it friendly and polite. At times, she’d thought that they were about to turn a corner—that he might declare his feelings—only to have him withdraw, his eyes opaque as steel. As cool and impassive.