Theory of Magic Read online

  Wickedly clever woman, she’d just told him that Christie had dark blue eyes! One more detail to add to the image he pieced together. The glittering chandelier allowed him to see enough movement to know she bent her head.

  “Do I look grand to you, Miss Chris ?” he asked, embarrassing her further by using the twins’ version of her given name, even though he now knew her real one. “I dare not offend my valet or he could dress me in a clown suit, and I would not know.”

  “Yes, you would,” she retorted, although she kept her voice low. “You know how your clothes fit on you, and you know you look good in them. Is that the flattery you seek?”

  Actually, it was, he realized. How far would honesty take him? “I cannot see admiration or disgust in your eyes, so I must force you to speak,” he admitted. “It would also help if my useless relations would tell me how splendid you look.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “I will never be more than plain, and even when you are old and gray, you will always look distinguished. I thought you said looks don’t matter.”

  “But my curiosity is never ending. Indigo eyes are not plain,” he said.

  “Miss Townsend has lovely honey-gold hair, my lord,” Aster said in that voice he assumed meant she had a twinkle in her eye. “It’s streaked with lighter strands and is quite fetching.”

  Ash had never seen Theo’s wife, but her behavior described her best as a mischief-maker.

  “Indigo eyes and honey hair is not boring either,” he declared, reaching to test that the lady’s hair was actually uncovered for a change. His hand encountered a delightful wisp of curl. “I shall picture you as a proud Viking goddess.”

  Since she did not strike him, he explored her coiffure, discovering she’d woven it into multiple small braids and wore it in a complicated knot at her nape. Just touching roused his unruly lower parts.

  “Have you seen any Viking goddesses lately?” Miss Chris asked dryly.

  “Only in my head, which is rather where I live these days,” he countered in the same tone.

  “You have stacks of invitations on your desk. You could charm women all over London if you so desired,” Celeste said in her deceptively charming Jamaican lilt.

  “I have already charmed women all over London,” Ash answered with a shrug, releasing Miss Christie’s hair to ease her discomfort. “The widows and bored wives are particularly welcoming. That pastime grew stale with the passing of youth.”

  He turned his concentration on the beef consommé set in front of him. He almost wished for a napkin tucked into his neckcloth. Perhaps someday he would become accustomed to going about with food stains on his linen as Theo did.

  “You are not old!” Miss Townsend said in shock. “You are in the prime of life. You just grow cynical.”

  “For that acute observation, I will not molest you again until after dinner.”

  Theo kicked him under the table. “For a rake, you have a rotten notion of courtship.”

  “On the contrary.” Ash sipped his soup, sensing his guest’s nervous stiffness. “My lady wouldn’t believe me if I told her she has the voice of angels and the wisdom of the ages. I have to show her that she is more perceptive than anyone else at this table.”

  “We’ve noticed her perceptiveness,” Aster said speculatively. “One would think Miss Townsend knew you for much longer than she has.”

  “Obviously, we are mates of the soul and understand each other, if I can only persuade her to admit it. A little pepper, my dear? The broth is a trifle bland.” He gestured for a servant without waiting for her reply.

  “Pepper is his way of telling me I am more interesting when I argue with him,” his intelligent lady explained, allowing the footman to add pepper. “I am assuming this means Ashford is uncomfortable with softer emotions and would rather be disagreeable.”

  Even though he couldn’t see her, Ash turned an admiring glance on her. “You see? Tell me one other fashionable miss who could make that leap of judgment.”

  He was actually enjoying himself, and he thought perhaps Miss Chris was too, although she was undoubtedly loathe to admit it. Caged animals did not always know how to behave when released from captivity—and Townsend had obviously kept her magnificent spirit caged in their tiny village too long.

  By the time the servants had refilled their glasses several times, the atmosphere at the table had relaxed into one of more comfortable familiarity. Miss Christie had, for the most part, ignored Ash’s fumbling with the food delivered to his plate already cut. She rescued his glass a time or two, but that was no more than anyone else would do in the course of an animated conversation.

  He didn’t detect pity or distaste in her voice, just justifiable annoyance. Once upon a time, he would have anticipated fawning attention, but Miss Chris wouldn’t give him that either, even if he’d been whole. For the first time, he understood it might be possible to feel equal to a woman. They were both handicapped in their own ways—she by her lack of experience and uncertainty. But he would swear that Miss Chris was as strong as he in intelligence and fortitude. Amazing!

  Of course, they were both adept liars. Since he’d never before given matrimony much thought, Ash wasn’t entirely certain if that was good or bad.

  By the time the ladies departed in a rustle of skirts and petticoats after dinner, he had made up his mind. He sat back with his brandy and regarded his unseen brothers. “I am asking her to marry me,” he told them. “A special license and quickly, so Townsend does not have time to rouse all London against me.”

  “She has yet to accept, you coxcomb.” Theo clinked his glass against his plate in setting it down. “She is in a precarious position. Opportuning her now is not the act of a gentleman.”

  “We suit,” Ash said implacably. “We don’t have time for the usual foolishness. Are you upset because you thought your son would inherit and now I may yet have the opportunity to produce a legitimate heir?”

  Theo roared in laughter and Erran joined in with snickers.

  “As if either of us want anything to do with manipulating Parliament and running a kingdom,” Theo said with genuine amusement. “If Miss Townsend is the general who will run your affairs for you, I will tie her up and produce the vicar.”

  “But if she turns into a placid cow and retires to the country, what will you do?” Erran asked, ever the pragmatic lawyer.

  Even knowing that’s what Miss Christie had done all her life and what she wished to do now, Ash shrugged. “I’ll ask her preferences.” He shoved back his chair.

  “And then you’ll ignore them,” Theo said. “That’s what you do.”

  “That’s how things get done.” Ash flung down his napkin and counted the steps to the doorway.

  17

  The next morning, after the maid brought a summons from Ashford, Christie debated not leaving bed. Then she wondered if she might crawl out a window and run.

  Recognizing the impossibility of either feat, she lay there examining the cause of her distress. The intimidatingly grand and arrogant Duncan, Marquess of Ashford, Earl of Ives and Wystan, terrified—and fascinated—her.

  He had looked magnificent at dinner last night, utterly striking in black and white. His evening coat and gleaming linen had clung like a second skin to shoulders and chest. He was so broad, she could even imagine her large frame settling comfortably against him. She wanted those powerful arms around her. She’d sat next to him practically aching with the need for his kiss . . . and more.

  She was a shameless hussy, but Ashford was almost godlike in his superiority to all other men. Oh, of course, his brothers were good looking and capable and all that . . . they simply weren’t Ashford.

  And it wasn’t just the marquess’s magnificent exterior that frightened her, she admitted. His quick intelligence and instinctive ability to hone in on others’ weaknesses and strengths were almost supernatural.

  Supernatural. That was laughable considering the pragmatic disposition of the Ives men she’d met. Still, if she
was to believe in the supernatural, it was far more likely that Ashford had weird abilities than that she possessed any useful gifts. Ashford had Malcolm blood in his veins, too, and his ability to manipulate was positively uncanny.

  “He scares me,” she told the room’s spirits. “He will make me do whatever he wants, without giving me time to think about it.”

  Then decide what you want first, the voice in her head responded. Take the lead.

  Take the lead, indeed!

  Harriet had retired to hide in her room last night after dinner, before the marquess could hunt her down. She would be fortunate to climb out of bed.

  Christie would have to stand strong against Ashford’s domineering personality—especially if she wanted her independence.

  Taking the lead—well, that was beyond imagination. Ashford had already done that by summoning her. She could not ignore his command if she wished to stay in his house. Which was why she was considering running.

  He needs you, the voice said encouragingly.

  That foolishness persuaded her out of bed and into clothes, at least. She would really like to be needed by someone, although the marquess had everything and needed no one. She wasn’t entirely certain it was a good thing that this house—or it’s ghostly occupants—spoke to her as no other had.

  Hoping for some insight that might allow her to stay, she anxiously adjusted her silk shawl over her simple day dress, took a second look at her braided hair in the mirror, took a deep breath, and descended the stairs.

  To her surprise, the marquess was waiting at his study door instead of hiding behind his desk. He caught her hand, drew her inside, and turned the key.

  “That is most improper, my lord,” she scolded, turning to release the lock.

  He caught her other hand before she could unfasten the door. “I will heave out my entire family and all the servants if we don’t have a little privacy. Leave it be.” He led her unerringly to a chair and held her hand until she was seated.

  Neither of them wore gloves. The contact was exhilarating, catching her by surprise and leaving her even more breathless than before. He was looking particularly aristocratic this morning in a dark blue coat with a casual white neckcloth above his gray waistcoat.

  When he gracefully kneeled down on one tightly-trousered gray knee, she nearly keeled over in shock.

  “Miss Townsend, I think you are aware of my feelings for you. Your uncommon good sense, modesty, patience, and humor are far more than I merit. But I believe I can offer you the position in society that you deserve, and that we will suit well in all respects. Would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”

  While she attempted to catch her breath, he produced a velvet cloth from his coat pocket and unfolded it, revealing a beautiful dark sapphire ring surrounded by glittering diamonds.

  “My lord,” she whispered, in such astonishment that she was barely able to find her tongue. The magnificent marquess . . . on his knees, in front of her . . . She had never ever dreamed of such a fairy-tale scene in all her lonely existence.

  And the ghosts expected her to take the lead with a man of action like this? She was in well over her head.

  He couldn’t see her expression and waited anxiously for her reply, while balancing on his damaged leg. She had to give him an answer now and not let him believe she was a foolish miss who would run from his scarred visage. She couldn’t dither for long. She had to say something.

  She longed to say yes, to have him slip that ring on her finger . . . and she would make him a laughingstock of a certainty if she did. He was being honorable for a change. How could she risk his anger if he discovered she was no more than a plain, foolish woman with voices in her head and that he’d thrown his life away?

  Besides, independence was far preferable to being bullied or ignored for the rest of her life, her Christie persona thought.

  She respected the marquess too much to humiliate him by saying yes, but she wanted what he offered too much to say no. That left her with no idea what to say.

  “Just say yes, Miss Chris,” he said with a hint of his usual impatience and a touch of humor. “Whatever you are mulling around in your over-cautious head can be conquered. Tell me there is someone else, tell me you could never marry a monster, and I will step back and pretend this never happened. But I’m convinced you are the only woman in the world who will be honest with me, and this is one lie you will not speak.”

  “You are not a monster,” she said in horror, finding it hard to believe that this confident man hid the same sorts of insidious demons as she did. “That is beyond ludicrous. And if I had Lady Aster’s confidence and connections, or even Celeste’s beauty and charm, I would happily say yes. But I possess none of those essential qualities. You deserve better, my lord,” she said with sadness.

  “You have all those qualities and more,” he corrected, sliding the ring on her finger. “So I will take that as a yes. I detest formality and cannot have my wife calling me my lord. You must call me Duncan or Ash, as the others do. Kiss me, my dear.”

  Frozen in shock, she wanted to protest. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to thank him for the most amazing moment of her life. But she was too speechless to manage any of this or the rejection she ought to offer.

  Instead, she dropped from the chair to kneel with him in some vague hope of convincing him from his level. Besides, she was too humbled by his position to let him remain there alone.

  Ashford caught her easily, taking her in his strong arms and claiming her as if she’d actually said yes.

  And his kiss . . . she sank into his kiss with all the passion of her lonely heart. Closing her eyes, she let this intimate connection draw her in. He smelled of a masculine soap that tingled all her senses. She had to stroke his jaw to test that his usual dark beard shadow had just been shaved. His kiss deepened and his arms tightened with her caress, and she relished the press of her softness against his hard chest.

  She savored the desire and triumph he emanated, just as if he thought he held the most ravishing woman in the world. If she pretended she was what he needed, she could have this exciting man for her own. The possibility shivered through her.

  In his arms, with his mouth claiming hers, she could believe anything. If the most desirable man in the world kissed her like this, then she must be dashing and enchanting and all those things she longed to be. She curled her arms around his neck, let the pretense take over, and learned to ravish his mouth as he did hers.

  His kisses did not lie. He wanted her. Her, literally the biggest wall flower in society. Impossible, ridiculous tears of joy rolled down her cheeks, and her lonely heart overruled her head for just this instant. Every woman deserved to live a dream for a moment or two.

  “Special license,” he gasped, breaking away and cupping her breasts while pressing kisses on her cheek. “I cannot wait another night.”

  She didn’t want reality intruding. She didn’t want to make monumental decisions. She wished to cling to this marvelous moment. She drew his head down again and moaned as the heat of his hands mixed with the hungry press of his mouth on hers.

  Ashford tumbled her to the floor as if they were two ill-bred servants. He sprawled his great masculine length on top of her so she knew exactly how small—and strong—he made her feel. Excitement coursed through her as he parted the wisps of fabric over her breasts and bent eager kisses to her bare skin.

  “I’ll take you right here if you don’t stop me soon,” he groaned. “I am trying to be proper for a change. My wife deserves that respect.”

  She only wanted sensation and for the moment to never end. But a knock at the door warned this tiny slice of heaven had to stop.

  Ashford groaned, pressed his big body into hers, and nibbled her neck. “Go away,” he shouted at the door.

  “Not likely,” Pascoe Ives shouted back, still knocking.

  The marquess muttered creative obscenities. He propped himself on one elbow and ran the other hand over her breasts an
d waist. “I want to see you,” he said in frustration.

  “I want many things too, my lord,” she said ruefully. “We must be thankful for those we have, I believe.”

  He actually smiled, a beautiful smile that wrenched the heart right from her chest as she tried to push him away.

  “Ash,” he corrected. “And now that I have you, I shall be thankful.” He pressed another kiss to her cheek and rolled off her with more dignity than she managed in trying to return to her feet.

  “You do not have me,” Christie said fretfully. So much for being strong and leading the way. She hastily covered her disarranged bodice with her shawl.

  “Dammit, Pascoe, go find someone to give you tea,” he shouted at his visitor.

  “I want whiskey, and I want it now!” his uncle called back.

  “It’s too early for alcohol,” Ashford yelled at the door while helping her to her feet, then whispered for her ears alone, “You will have no choice if Pascoe finds you in here. Slip into my room and out that way after the coast is clear. Or better yet, wait there for me.” This last he said in a decidedly lascivious tone.

  She ran for the connecting door to his chamber as soon as he released her. She checked over her shoulder to be certain he was able to find the door alone. She shouldn’t have bothered. Ashford was straightening his coat and dusting himself off as if he could actually see what he’d done to his impeccable tailoring.

  She nearly swooned at the sight. She really was a goosecap. She slipped into his bedchamber and left the door slightly ajar, just in case he might need her. She wanted to be needed—another sign that she was surely demented.

  “What the devil brings you here at this hour, demanding whiskey?” the marquess asked, unlocking the door and letting in his uncle.

  Christie ducked back out of sight. She knew she should leave, but she couldn’t help studying the big bed that had been set up for Ashford’s use. This wasn’t meant to be a master suite, by any means, but if they married . . .