With a tittering laugh that had once been music to his ears, she slipped free. “If you truly care for me, then you would never wish for me to have a poor, simple life with merely the nephew of a noble when I could have so much more.”
Brandon shrugged out of his thoughts as if it were a hair shirt on his back.
His experience with Phoebe had taught him a great deal, as had his encounters with women after he’d inherited an unexpected title and immense wealth, which had come at great personal cost to him.
He cast a hard glare to the door where Miss Parrish had gone. Oh, he knew her game. In the past decade, he’d seen every ploy under the sun. But he would be damned before he’d ever allow his sister to feel that her worth could be summed up in an accounting ledger.
“Then I hope divine intervention knocks you over the head one day.” Meg huffed and resignedly took his proffered arm. “You’re wrong about Ellie, you know.”
In order to end the disagreement, he offered no response. After all, he knew that, sooner or later, Miss Parrish would reveal her true self.
* * *
After the tea concluded, Brandon watched as an army of admirers gathered around Meg, and all because of a kite on her dress.
According to his sister, Miss Parrish had saved her and her gown from societal scorn with the whimsical applique but wanted no credit for it. Instead, they’d agreed to spin a story about Meg employing a personal, highly praised modiste. Now, dozens of women were clamoring for the name of this dressmaker goddess.
To be honest, he hadn’t even noticed the difference. Female fashions had never been a priority. Whenever his sister came into his study to twirl about in a new frock, he would always tell her that she looked pretty. But if she went on and on about ruffles and flounces and the quality of lace, he felt as though his lifeblood were slowly draining out of him, drop by agonizing drop.
All he cared about was knowing what color it was so that he could spot her from a distance. Today, she wore a blue dress . . . and Miss Parrish wore clover green.
He saw her near the fountain. She was smiling toward Meg’s admirers with all the appearance of altruistic gladness for her new friend. But Brandon remained suspicious of her motives. And since all the attention was on his sister, he took the rare opportunity given him and slipped away for a little interrogation.
Miss Parrish frowned at his approach, her gaze wary. Part of him felt a trifle guilty for being so direct with her earlier. Normally he was more diplomatic, even with those who’d pretended an affection for his sister. He didn’t know why he’d been unforgiving with this one.
Stopping in front of her, he inclined his head in greeting and came straight to the point. “My sister believes I owe you an apology, Miss Parrish.”
“But clearly, you do not share that belief, otherwise you would have simply offered one,” she said with her chin held high.
Brandon opened his mouth to object, but she lifted her hand and continued.
“Fear not, I should never ask it of you. All you owe me is your absence. Or better yet . . .” She pivoted on her heel and walked away. Again.
He frowned, disliking the fragmented pattern of these encounters. The abrupt endings left him without a sense of satisfaction or conclusion. And besides, he still had questions for her.
So he followed and fell into step beside her. “I do appreciate what you did for her, with the kite and all. It seems that Meg is determined to keep you. However, I am equally determined to prevent her from being hurt.”
“Your affection for her is your sole redeeming quality.”
“Not so. I’m quite charming when I choose to be.”
She huffed and rolled her eyes, her pace quickening along the mossy avenue between hedgerows. “And quite insulting by choice, as well.”
“Come now. There is no cause to be so cross simply because you’ve been caught at your game,” he said, easily matching her stride. So when she hastened, so did he. And when she slowed, he did the same. It was as though they were in a race, each determined to best the other in whatever sport this was. And when she growled and glared askance at him, he didn’t know why, but a grin tugged at his lips. “Tell me, Miss Parrish. Why is it that we have never met before? Surely, this is not your first Season.”
At this, she stopped abruptly. Facing him, her features were set in porcelain, amber eyes afire. “Is that another remark on my age?”
It wasn’t, but he didn’t tell her that he was genuinely curious about why their paths had never crossed. Instead, he blinked with owl-eyed innocence, pretending to misunderstand.
“Earlier, you called me a governess,” she supplied, tugging on the cuff of her buttoned glove as if it were a wayward pupil she had by the ear. “You were either implying that I am shabbily dressed or too old to be considered a debutante in my own right.”
“Your dress is quite pretty,” he said by rote and earned another heated glare that sent a flick of pleasure through him.
The majority of women he met were so bent on being agreeable that their saccharine sweetness nearly gave him a toothache. But her ire was genuine. In fact, Miss Parrish’s utter dislike of him practically made the ground quake. He had no doubt that if she could conjure a hole that would split apart the earth beneath his feet and swallow him up, she wouldn’t hesitate to do so.
Strange as it was, he took a moment to savor the animosity directed at him.
His gaze skimmed over the sanctimonious arch of her black winged brow, and the crowding of her thick lashes as she narrowed her eyes. He could find no pinched disdain in her nose, for it was perfectly straight and slender. The pursing of her mouth offered little chastisement. The action only made it appear softer, her upper lip plumper than its counterpart by the barest degree. But her chin was stubborn, indeed, and her jaw well-defined, angling toward ears that were slightly flared. The very tips peeked out from a tumble of glossy ebony curls. And there, he caught a glimpse of something. Something in her hair that gleamed silver.
Without thinking, he took a step closer. Reaching up, his fingertips delved into tendrils that were so exquisitely soft and lush it was as if they’d been brushed a thousand times each morning.
The errant thought caused an image to form in his mind, of Miss Parrish seated at her vanity, wearing nothing more than a gauzy shift as she attended to her coiffure, slender arms raised to secure her combs, milk-white breasts lifting with the motion—
Her sudden gasp made him aware of his actions.
His gaze darted to her wide eyes as her pupils spilled like dark mercury to nearly engulf the pale irises. Her lips parted and twin spots of pink crested her cheeks. The color fascinated him. It looked as though it would be downy to the touch and taste like those little glazed cakes they’d served with tea. At the thought, an unexpected jolt of heat staggered through him.
“My lord . . . I had no intention of . . . that is to say . . . you are quite . . . most definitely . . . but I seem to be . . . light-headed . . . and my heart . . . too fast . . .”
Her statements were incomplete, her voice raspy and insubstantial. And yet, Brandon understood her perfectly, as if all the missing words were inside him.
Unaccountably, every fiber of his being urged him to take her in his arms, to shore her body against his own, to lower his mouth to hers and help her form a complete sentence. But before he gave in, a bumblebee buzzed by. The low hum snapped him to alertness, reminding that they were standing in the Baxtons’ garden. Only steps away from discovery.
At once, he withdrew, then released the clover-scented air trapped in his lungs.
Across from him, Miss Parrish labored for breath as well, confusion stamped on her expression.
Before she could ask what he’d been about to do—the answer of which astounded him—he quickly raised his hand between them. “You had a thread in your hair. I merely removed it.”
She blinked. As she looked from him to the object dangling between his thumb and forefinger, her hand absently flitted over
the tendrils above the heart-halved peak of her ear. Then her shoulders seemed to sag with relief. “A silver thread. Thank the saints, I thought it was a—”
She broke off at once.
He wondered what she’d been meaning to say. But as she averted her embarrassed gaze and another wash of color tempted his sweet tooth, he surmised the rest.
“Did you think this was a gray hair, Miss Parrish?” he teased.
She gave her answer by quickly pulling the string free and casting it to the grass before dusting her hands together in brisk agitation. “You find this amusing, do you?”
“Immensely.”
“And, no doubt, you would have laughed over my inert form lying on the grass after I fainted. I nearly did, you know. And not because of the thread, but for the way you crowded me so,” she said, fanning her fingers in front of her face as she drew in a staggered breath. “I’m having the most adverse reaction to your presence. I can feel it in the way my head is still spinning. My skin is hot as well—sure signs of fever—and my palms are damp beneath my gloves. Worst of all, my pulse is pounding so hard it will likely break through my skin at any moment.”
She pointed to the place and, there it was, hopping like a rabbit. His own thrummed in response, then rapidly descended lower.
“I am quite certain that I am on the verge of heart seizure,” she rasped, “and all you can do is stand there with that sleepy grin on your smug face.”
He quickly schooled his features. “Because you’re being ridiculous. Those aren’t signs of a heart seizure but of something else altogether.”
“Oh? And I suppose you’ve studied medicine at university. No? Well, then, I think I should know what is happening to my own physiology.”
“Actually, I don’t think you do. What you’re feeling is physical attraction,” he supplied with firsthand knowledge, unwilling to sugarcoat the truth for either of them.
She stared at him as if he’d grown two heads. “Astounding. You would like to think that is the cause, only because your vanity demands it to be so.”
“Of the two of us, I am not the vain one worried about a gray—”
“You needn’t mention it again,” she said sharply, cutting him off as her cheeks flushed once more, from porcelain to pink in the blink of an eye.
It was fascinating to watch.
He took an unthinking step toward her again—couldn’t seem to help himself—and she squeaked in response, skirting out of his reach. Then she hurried past him.
At the edge of the row, she straightened her shoulders and looked back at him with a mixture of confusion and irritation. “By the by, the primary reason we have never met before is because I never desired an introduction. As impossible as it may be for you to understand, my marital interests lie elsewhere. I have absolutely no designs on you. And now I take pity on any woman who does.”
As Brandon watched her walk away, he felt a strange ailment come over him as well. Not a heart seizure, exactly. But, perhaps, something just as lethal.
Chapter 3
“A debutante should never enter a garden alone, for alone is likely not how she will remain.”
—A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat
At the Easterbrookes’ ball that evening, Ellie watched George dance the quadrille. For her, no one else was on the ballroom floor.
He was such an athletic dancer, broad-shouldered and quick on his feet. Enjoyment gleamed in his treacle-dark eyes and, when he laughed, he still reminded her of the boy he’d been. The boy who’d both teased and charmed her over the course of her life.
George would play terrible tricks on her, like putting worms in her sewing box. But then he’d be terribly sweet, too, like the time he’d climbed the chestnut tree to bring down a nest of newborn hatchlings for her to see.
She remembered every moment with him—every clasp of his hand, every shared dance at the village assemblies, and every kiss. It was important to keep these memories close to her heart in order to recount them to their future children.
Of course, their sons would roll their eyes and pretend boredom with stories of a love that had blossomed decades before they were born. But their daughters would listen raptly with starry eyes and sighs, and learn the valuable lesson that sometimes it takes a bit longer for a man to fall in love than it does a woman.
Ellie knew it would be like that, one day. Preferably one day soon. After all, she wasn’t getting any younger . . . as Lord Hullworth had so subtly pointed out.
A taut, peevish huff slipped out between her lips at the mere thought of him. At the same time, an ominous shiver cascaded over her skin and made her shift with restless agitation.
“Are you unwell, dearest?” Aunt Maeve looked over at her with concern. Her features were as sharp as her intellect, and her wizened brown eyes the very picture of Papa’s. Even her hair was the same shade of iron gray.
Before she could answer, however, the younger of her aunts began to fuss over Ellie, hands fiddling with the flounces at her sleeves. Aunt Myrtle was a walking confection, petite and softly plump with flossy silver hair and eyes the milky lavender of elderberry jam mixed with clotted cream.
“It might have been the salmon vol-au-vents at the Baxtons’ this afternoon. They were not nearly as delicious as they were reputed to be.” She clucked her tongue in dismay. “A wasted use of our recipe espionage, I’m afraid.”
Ellie shook her head. “It cannot be that, for I had no appetite by the time we sat down.”
“Then you must be famished. Here, I’ve just the thing. Maeve and I took the liberty of stealing into the dining room as the servants were setting up the buffet and I found the most delicious little . . . Oh, where are they? I know I put some in here, just in case I became hungry on the journey home.”
But even as Aunt Myrtle fished through her reticule, Ellie already knew the cause of her ailment. The culprit was that boorish Lord Hullworth. She hadn’t been the same since she’d left the tea this afternoon.
Her agitation and symptoms had increased by degrees as the hour drew closer and closer to the Easterbrookes’ ball this evening.
She knew she would see him again. Tonight. Meg had told her as much in a missive she’d sent, thanking her again for the kite and her friendship.
Even though the words were cheerful, Ellie had felt a pang of sadness for the one who’d held the pen. The poor creature was left to endure a lonely Season without true friends. And all because half the ton wanted to marry that ill-mannered brother of hers.
Ellie sighed.
So did her aunt. “Oh dear. It seems I’ve already eaten them all.”
“Myrtle,” Aunt Maeve said with exasperation. “You promised to save one for our cook, as well. I never could trust you around cheese, or pear tarts for that matter. You were in such a hurry to gobble it up that a footman had to come to your rescue with a wallop to the back.”
“Who’s to say I didn’t choke on purpose? He was a rather handsome young fellow. Did you see the size of his calves beneath those snug liveried breeches?”
“And you’ve always been too quick to swoon over the nearest male, whether you’re old enough to be his grand—”
“Now that is the pot calling the kettle black. What about your ongoing flirtation with—”
“Fear not,” Ellie interrupted as they continued their back-and-forth squabble. “I’m not hungry.”
In the very next instant, her stomach flipped most alarmingly and she wondered what life-ending ailment was the cause. But then a sinking suspicion set in as the hair on the back of her nape lifted. And all at once, she knew.
Lord Hullworth was here.
She heard it in the hushed whispers that fell over the crowd. Then heads began to turn in a rolling wave toward the bank of open French doors along the far wall.
But Ellie refused to look. She knew precisely what he would think if she met his gaze. The vain peacock would assume she was seeking him out, unable to resist the supposed attraction betwee
n them.
Ha! The man knew nothing about the ailments she’d suffered earlier. For all he knew, she might have been bitten by a venomous snake, there on the garden path, with the poison leeching into her veins and making her light-headed. Attraction, indeed!
Keeping her slippers planted on the parquetted floor, she refused to give him the satisfaction of turning around. But there was a queer fluttering inside her midriff. Worriedly, she splayed her hand over it. This wasn’t a mere case of nerves, she knew. And it certainly wasn’t as tame as butterflies. No, indeed, for the spasms were escalating in intensity as the seconds ticked by. If the sensation could be likened to any winged creatures, flapping about inside her stomach, then they were large, rapacious flesh-eaters. Vultures, she decided.
She had vultures inside her stomach and it was all his fault.
Needing comfort, her gaze found George just as he was escorting his partner to her chaperone across the room. After another set, it would be her turn. He’d signed her card for the waltz. Soon, she would be swept up in his arms and anyone who happened to see the delight in her face would never believe that she could prefer London’s most arrogant bachelor to her George.
The happy thought subdued the carrion birds for the moment and she dropped her hand to her side.
In the next instant, however, it was snatched by Meg, who sidled up to her with a happy whisper. “Ellie, you are a marvel! How can I ever thank you?”
Ellie squeezed back and looked at her beaming friend. Meg took the opportunity to stand apart and swish her skirts. Perched atop the puffed rouleau hem of her gown, sat a colorful parrot that Ellie had stitched years ago from leftover pieces of silk, along with a half dozen dye-dipped feathers. The latter pieces were sewn in a whimsical cascade from the sash at her waist. It was precisely what Ellie had hoped Meg’s maid would do when she’d sent the appliques and a letter over by messenger that afternoon.
“There is no need, truly. I sew little odds and ends all the time and keep them tucked away in a box. You are more than welcome to come over and sift through them at your leisure,” Ellie said. The truth was, her collection had started with the hopes of, one day, adorning her wedding trousseau. By now, she had at least a hundred. After all, she’d been waiting an exceedingly long time for George to stop being such a dunderhead and finally propose.
The Wrong Marquess Page 4