She ground her molars. His flippancy nettled and she could not deny it.
“None of your concern,” she said.
Her betrothal with Walter had not been common knowledge in society because of its brevity. They had become engaged and within a month’s time, he had been lowered into his grave. Gone far too soon. As the years had worn on, she had eschewed all references to him, finding it easier for her heart. Inevitably, someone would have been unaware of her prior attachment and require an explanation. Those explanations hurt.
Talking about Walter and his unexpected death was ever a source of pain for her.
He had been taken from her so suddenly, and the two of them had been so very young. She had been newly graduated from Miss Julia’s Twittingham Academy when she had met him purely by coincidence at a house party. He had been an alluring stranger. Quiet and shy, a lover of poetry, the heir to the Earl of Ormond. Of an age with her. He had sketched her, gone riding with her, taught her how to fish. They had played billiards and badminton. She had made an abysmal attempt at painting him in watercolor. Their betrothal had been secured within the span of a fortnight; their future had been so unbelievably hopeful.
And then, he had become ill. A lung infection. He had been young. So very young. And yet, he had not recovered as expected. Instead, he had left her.
“Here now,” Dorset was saying, having flicked his cigar into a nearby fountain and starting toward her. “Are you weeping?”
She sniffed, dashed the back of her hand over her cheek.Good heavens, she was. And before Dorset. How mortifying.
“No,” she lied, defiant. “Of course I am doing no such thing. And you ought not to go about tossing your cigars in Miss Julia’s garden fountain. Heaven forbid you should clog it.”
Chastising him was a welcome distraction. She did not need to think of Walter when she was taking Dorset to task.
“Eh, I am certain I’m not the first gentleman to toss his cigar into the fountain. I would wager Tildon Court upon it.”
“Your family seat?” she guessed, for she did not make a habit of remembering the estates and the lords who owned them.
Miss Julia would be appalled if she knew. In more ways than one, Clementine had proven a failure. Unlike many other graduates of Twittingham Academy, she had neither married nor taken heed of most of her lessons.
A hopeless cause, as it were.
“It is,” he confirmed, stopping near enough that his scent, musky and masculine beneath the lingering smell of the cigar smoke, and strangely alluring, reached her.
Near enough to touch.
Suddenly the night no longer seemed as lonely or endless as it had before. Thoughts of Walter, though still ever-present, dimmed in the compelling presence of the marquess.
“Tell me about it,” Clementine said, seeking distraction even as every part of her urged her to return to the safety of the music room.
The less time she spent in Dorset’s presence, the better. And yet…
Here she remained. Intrigued. Drawn to him somehow on a deeper level she could not fathom. It was unexpected. Inexplicable, too.
“On one condition.”
With only the moon for illumination, she was not certain she could accurately read the marquess’s expression. “Do not ask me for another kiss,” she warned, and then bit her lip.
What a fool she was. Why had she mentioned kissing to him? Why was she thinking of how she had felt in his arms in the library, protected and safe? Why was she thinking of how he had saved her on no less than two occasions when he could have left her to her fate? And why, oh why, was she thinking of how it had felt to have his mouth sealed over hers?
“I was going to ask you who the devil Walter is and why you are attempting to meet him in the darkened gardens, but if it is another kiss you want—”
“It is not,” she hastened to say, interrupting him.
No more talk of kisses, if you please.
He remained silent, tilting his head as he considered her. “I was not aware there was anyone by the given name of Walter attending the house party, but I will own I hardly know all the Christian names of our fellow guests.”
She inhaled swiftly, pain in her heart like a knife at his continued use of her beloved’s name. “He is not a guest.”
“A footman, then? A stable hand? Christ, do not tell me he is the gardener.”
“He is dead,” she blurted.
