“Though, now that you are here,” Ellie continued, “I should like to introduce you to my aunts, Maeve and Myrtle Parrish. And this, dear aunts, is Margaret Stredwick.”
Maeve’s smile softened her angular features. “Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance. And just look at how pretty you are. I don’t believe I was ever so young and full of life.”
“I’m certain you never were, sister. In fact, you’ve always been rather old,” Aunt Myrtle teased, sidestepping away from a playful fan-swat that Maeve was about to deliver. Then she addressed Meg. “How lovely to meet you, at last. Elodie told us all about you. However, she was quite agitated when we returned home from the party. Apparently, she’d had this terrible encounter with an overbearing gentleman.”
“No, I believe ‘odious’ was the word she’d used, sister.”
“Aunt . . .” Ellie said, feeling her cheeks color.
Even though Lord Hullworth had not approached, she could still sense that he was quite close. Looming like a dark, disapproving cloud.
“Hmm. I think we are both correct,” Myrtle mused with a nod. “He was both odious and overbearing. Otherwise, I’m sure she shouldn’t have been so distracted while unwrapping the shawl we gave her.”
“Our niece is always one to notice and praise our handiwork, whether my sister deserves it for her part or not.” Maeve cupped a hand to one side of her mouth and said in a stage whisper, “The fringe was uneven on her side.”
Meg giggled. “It’s very nice to make your acquaintance. Ellie didn’t tell me how amusing you both are. She only said that you are very dear to her.”
“What a darling gel! Elodie was quite right about you. She said you have the sweetest disposition and are positively brimming with gladness.”
“If I am, then it is all her doing. She is the cleverest, most generous soul in all of creation and—” She broke off as her brother discreetly cleared his throat. Casting an unrepentant grin over her shoulder, she said, “Are you still hanging about, brother sentry? You were such a clock-watcher, I should have thought you’d already be about the business you were so eager to attend.” She turned back to Maeve and Myrtle with a laugh. “I’ve never seen him so enthusiastic about a ball before, but he was quite cross that we did not leave on time.”
“Perhaps, dear sister, I am precisely where I wish to be, among the loveliest ladies in all of England,” he said, earning a roll of the eyes from Meg and two fan-to-bosom sighs from the aunts.
Then he stepped forward into their group. But instead of standing next to his sister, he stopped at Ellie’s side. Her skin reacted to his nearness in a wash of disconcerting tingles. Her pulse leapt much too quickly, every beat belabored. And, drat it all, the vultures were back.
Ellie flicked a dismissive glance to him, noting that—without the obstruction of his hat—she could see the curl in his neatly trimmed hair, the color like burnished bronze. Some of the tendrils caught the light of the chandelier and gleamed copper.
Other women might have found that quite appealing or even have felt an urge to run their fingers through those locks. Not her, of course, she thought as she curled her tingling fingertips inward to her palms. She preferred George’s hair, dark and straight. Some men simply didn’t need the superfluous adornment of curly hair to be attractive.
Lord Hullworth looked down the perfectly sloped edge of his nose at her, a sense of patient expectation in the subtle lift of his brows.
Apparently, he was waiting to be introduced. Ellie supposed she couldn’t avoid it. At least, not without appearing rude. But when she opened her mouth to speak, her words suddenly faltered as her gaze connected with his.
For those next infinitesimal seconds, she was held captive by those irises. The color that appeared ashy gray at a distance turned silvern green up close, like the shifting warp and weft of velvet under the smoothing pass of a hand. And she was struck by the strangest urge to hold his face in her hands to see if they would alter again if she stood on tiptoe to peer even closer.
Those eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement as he spoke next, his voice low and intimate as if they were sharing a secret. “Shall I introduce myself to your aunts, Miss Parrish?”
“Elodie!” Maeve chided, and Myrtle joined in. “You did not tell us you were acquainted with the Marquess of Hullworth.”
Tongue-tied, Ellie started to ramble. “Well, I . . . didn’t suppose . . . that is to say . . . I thought perhaps . . . you were already . . .”
“Lord Odious and Overbearing at your service,” he supplied with a courtly bow to her tittering aunts. The action caused his sleeve to brush the bare skin of Ellie’s arm, inciting a rise of gooseflesh that covered her entire body—even inside her clothes—and stole her breath. “I had the pleasure of meeting your niece earlier today. Though, I must admit, my manners were sorely lacking. I do hope, however, that she will consent to a dance with me so that I may make amends.”
“How prettily said and not the least bit overbearing,” Aunt Maeve fawned.
Clearly won over, Myrtle gave him the saucy wink she usually reserved for wealthy octogenarians or the nut vendor in the park. “Or odious.”
“And yes, I’m certain our niece would love to accept.”
All eyes turned to her.
But no one seemed to realize that Ellie was on the verge of an apoplexy at the thought of being in his arms. Then again, she bore the symptoms—accelerated heartbeat, shriveled lungs, spinning pia mater—with the grace demanded of a public forum. Never let it be said that Elodie Marie Parrish would humiliate herself by dying in the middle of a crowded ballroom.
Glancing down to the hand he extended, she felt her fingertips heat and pulsate—a new ailment already upon her!
Carefully, she closed her hand at her side. “This set has already begun.”
His gaze shifted to the dancers and back to her. “A problem easily remedied—then, let it be the next.”
The next was the waltz. Her throat went dry at the mere notion of twirling and tangling in his closed embrace, the brush of his thigh against hers for every turn . . . And, quite perplexedly, she found herself curious about what it would be like, despite every ailment he caused.
But then—thank the saints—she remembered George.
“I apologize, my lord, but I’ve promised the waltz to another.”
Lowering his hand, he studied her shrewdly. “Have you, indeed? Very well, Miss Parrish. Perhaps another time, then.”
He inclined his head, but with a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth as if he didn’t believe her. The same way he’d smirked when she told him of her other marital prospects, earlier in the Baxtons’ garden. Did he imagine her too old and unappealing to induce another man to sign her card?
That smirk seemed to say as much.
Rankled out of her apoplexy, she clenched her teeth. “Truly, I am obligated for the waltz.”
She would produce her card as proof, but she didn’t want to reveal that there were no other names on it aside from George’s.
“I have no doubt of it,” he said with a careful blandness that practically oozed with doubt. Then he proffered his arm to his sister. “Meg, I see Lord Butterfield beckoning me. If you’ll recall, I promised to introduce you to his son.”
“I was hoping you’d forget.” Meg rolled her eyes and heaved out a sigh. Then to Ellie she whispered, “I’ve heard that young Lord Percival tends to salivate a great deal when he speaks.”
“Regretfully, I must inform you that the rumor is quite true. Here,” Ellie said, withdrawing an embroidered lace handkerchief from her sleeve. “Even if you already have one, you’ll need another.”
Meg laughed brightly. “I’m truly terrified.”
She took her brother’s arm and they parted with all appearances of affability between new acquaintances. And yet, there was an underlying tension between Lord Hullworth and Ellie.
It abraded her skin to watch him leave. So, she turned to her aunts, who were studying her with pe
culiar expressions. “What is it?”
“It was quite an honor for Lord Hullworth to ask you. You needn’t have refused him.”
“Of course, I did. I already gave the waltz to George.”
“But George would have understood. Besides, it was clear you wanted to dance with Lord Hullworth.”
She blinked. “It was not clear. Not clear at all. I didn’t want to dance with him and I still don’t. At all.”
“If you say so, dear.”
Aunt Maeve patted her arm. “It’s your birthday, after all. You can believe anything you like.”
At the reminder of her approaching descent into old age and an early grave, Ellie’s gaze veered to George.
Just then, he bowed across the aisle to his partner and a hank of dark hair fell across his forehead. Unconcerned, he shook it back with a devil-may-care grin, barely missing a step. He was so full of life. So eager to enjoy every moment. And seeing him made all of Ellie’s ailments disperse on a smile.
There was no need to think of Lord Hullworth for another instant.
Unfortunately, her gaze did not heed her resolve. It flitted toward the adjacent wall, where the arrogant marquess stood with Meg, Lord Butterfield, his son . . . and a beautiful woman.
Until that moment, Ellie had forgotten the mention in the gossip pages of Butterfield’s ward, an orphaned ingénue from a distant Scottish cousin. It was said that she’d lived her life in a quaint rural village and all the ton marveled at her grace, despite her rusticated upbringing and misfortunes.
Miss Carmichael possessed a wealth of cornsilk hair coiffed in an elegant twist and adorned by a spray of pearl-headed pins. Her features were striking, her form willowy in her ivory taffeta, her movements graceful . . . even as she accidentally brushed Lord Hullworth’s arm, then dropped her handkerchief directly at his feet.
Ellie felt the flesh around her eyes tighten as she observed the pretty display. And she heard herself growl in disgust when he bent down—without any hesitation whatsoever—to retrieve Miss Carmichael’s fallen lace and oh-so gallantly return it to her.
If she were making a note of this for the primer, she would compare his actions to a gentleman who was intrigued and most assuredly attracted to his companion. The exact opposite of how he had acted toward Ellie. She added this to his list of offenses, which included rudeness, accusing her of deception, not to mention calling her old and vain.
At once, she decided that she hated him. In fact, she would hate him until the last dying breath left her body. And, perhaps, she would even hate him long after that.
Turning her seething attention away from the loathsome man, she took an avid interest in her aunts’ discussion on the merits of the pilfered canapes and looked forward to her dance with George.
Unfortunately, when the time came, she watched in dismay as George took the floor with another young woman on his arm. Not Ellie.
Truth be told, it wasn’t the first time he’d forgotten an obligation. He tended to be led by impulse, living moment to moment. She admired his joie de vivre and, therefore, always forgave him for these lapses in memory.
But it was particularly humiliating tonight, with Lord Hullworth across the crowded room. She didn’t have to look to know that he was likely smirking at her. And, oh, she couldn’t stand the idea of being on display for his amusement!
Since Maeve and Myrtle had already slipped away for another stealthy reconnaissance of the dining room, Ellie stole out onto the terrace.
The midnight air was cool, perfumed by the lilies of the valley and white anemones that bordered the broad stone steps leading to the garden. She followed them down and stood on the verge, where the glow from the windows faded to a dusting of gold against the Vandyke hem of her skirts.
When the music began, part of her longed to slip further into the dark shadows beyond the pruned spires of juniper. But after Prue’s expulsion from good society, Ellie knew the dangers of being caught alone in a dark garden. There would be talk. And she would not risk her future marriage to George by having her reputation called into question.
Just as the thoughts traversed her mind, she saw the shifting shadow of someone stepping out onto the terrace. Hoping George had remembered his promise, she turned with a smile.
But it slipped the instant she saw Lord Hullworth instead. “Oh, it’s you.”
“I merely wanted to ensure that you were well,” he said with a curl of smugness in his voice, his hand resting on the balustrade as he looked down at her. “After all, it surprised me to see you skulking out of the ballroom when you were so eager for the waltz. I told myself that Miss Parrish surely must be enduring some grave illness for her to miss the opportunity to dance with her mysterious partner.”
She scoffed. Skulking, indeed. “And why are you not dancing with Miss Carmichael? You seemed quite eager to play the gentleman for her.”
“Does it bother you that I picked up her handkerchief?”
“Of course not,” she said without hesitation, watching warily as his foot landed on the first step. “It seems to me you play the gentleman quite well, when there is an audience you want to impress.”
“And you’re cross because you wish that I tried to impress you.” Slowly, he descended to the garden and did not stop until he was within arm’s reach.
“No, it’s just . . .” She swallowed as his nearness caused a wash of awareness to shiver across her skin. And for some strange reason, she couldn’t stop herself from noticing the way his shoulders filled the tailored dark blue coat as if it had been stitched directly onto his form. But he was odious and arrogant, she reminded herself. Hiking her chin, she refused to be intimidated by handsomeness. “You never answered my question.”
“Do you mean, why am I not dancing with Miss Carmichael?”
She offered a stiff nod.
His gaze held hers, steady and resolute. “Because I’d already given my waltz to you.”
When he presented his open hand to her, all the breath fell out of her lungs like a stone dropping between them. Did he truly expect her to dance with him now? She wanted to laugh in his face.
And yet, there was something about the expectant, almost impatient, look in his eyes. It caused a queer heavy sensation to shift in the pit of her stomach. It affected the beating of her heart, too, for the organ stuttered to a halt, then started back up again, beating faster than ever before.
“But . . . but you don’t even like me. For all I know, you followed me out here to question my motives again,” she said in a panicked rush, dazedly watching her arm lift. Then she felt her fingertips slide into the warmth of his waiting palm. Clearly, her body and her mind were not on speaking terms.
“True,” he admitted. “However, I can interrogate you just as easily while you’re in my arms.”
Before she could take offense—before she was even aware of moving—Lord Hullworth drew her into his frame, his hand splayed over the center of her back. And there, at the base of the terrace stairs, they danced in the shadows on the manicured lawn.
It was as terrible as Ellie imagined. She could scarcely breathe. Her head spun in a thousand more revolutions than their bodies. She tried to remain stiff and formal, but her bones seemed to dissolve into dust with every brush and press of his thighs against hers. So, he was forced to pull her against him, their hips and torsos intimately locked.
His steps never faltered. His form was a sinuous arrangement of firm muscles that knew precisely where to tread. Because of his secure hold, they glided over the grass, their every movement in perfect symmetry. Even their breaths were in tandem. Quick and shallow and hot.
Unable to bear the overwhelming rush of sensation, she melted against him, supple silk melding with taut wool, their garments interlacing with enthralling friction. Her flushed cheek fell to his shoulder. His scent tasted like cedar and rain on her tongue. She swallowed, vaguely aware of how scandalous this would appear to anyone who found them in the garden. They would have no idea that the dancers despi
sed each other.
Then the music ended and they stopped, both panting near an arch of wisteria that had yet to bloom.
She dragged in a quick breath. “You forgot to . . . interrogate me.”
“So I have,” he said, holding her for a moment longer, his heart pounding against the cage of her corset and ribs. “Are you suffering any ailments, Miss Parrish?”
“An exceeding number of them, my lord.”
“Another heart seizure?” he asked, the hint of a smile in his voice.
Her forehead brushed his cravat as she nodded. “I do believe so. And I’m quite certain I shouldn’t survive another dance with you.”
“Mmm,” he murmured in thoughtful agreement, his hand drifting soothingly down the ladder of her spine. “At least not with your reputation intact by the end of it.”
She lifted her gaze to his, confusion furrowing her brow. “Whatever do you mean?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced to the terrace and slowly exhaled. Then he cupped her shoulders and eased her apart from him, ensuring a proper degree of space between them.
Her mind thought this was sensible. Her body protested, however, listing toward him until she staggered to find her feet.
“Steady now?” he asked. Once he gained a baffled nod, he released her.
Gradually, the rhythm of her heart slowed into something more recognizable and less alarming. Even so, Ellie didn’t know what had come over her. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour taking its toll. She’d been awake since half past five this morning and now she felt as though she were coming out of a dream state.
Dazed, she walked beside him to the base of the stairs and watched as he bent to pick a white anemone. He looked down at it with a bemused grin, twirling the blossom between thumb and forefinger.
Then he surprised her into full wakefulness by presenting it to her. “For your birthday, Miss Parrish.”
The Wrong Marquess Page 5