“Confidential,” he scoffed and unfolded the letter with a single shake. “I imagine you’ve read the contents to your aunts or else it wouldn’t be here in the parlor.”
“Well, yes, but that’s different. We’re all women and we confide in each other about certain personal things.”
He lifted his eyebrows in a wounded expression. “Are you going to start keeping secrets from me? Is that the kind of life I’m to expect in the future?”
“Of course not,” she said, both flustered by the casual mention of their long awaited happily-ever-after and frustrated that he wasn’t listening. “It’s just—”
“‘Dear Ellie,’” he began with a roguish wink over the open page. “‘I have, indeed, heard the happy news about our friends. Your letters as well as theirs have been my companions these long months. And I hope you can forgive me for not being as diligent in responding. I find lately that the right words simply will not come. As to your numerous queries regarding Lord F and his efforts for a clandestine meeting . . .’” He lowered the page and his lips curved in a conspiratorial grin. “Ah ha! I knew I’d find a juicy tidbit in here.”
“George, I really wish you wouldn’t—”
“‘Pray, do not fret on that account,’” he continued, splaying a hand over his heart as if he were reading the script of a melodramatic play. “‘He has made no further attempts to see me in all these weeks since my last letter. I have been quite alone. I need not worry about his presence in the village any longer. He went away, and his lack of correspondence indicates that I shall never hear from him again. I am relieved, of course. Indisputably relieved. My conscience can be clear, once and for all. Your friend, Prudence Thorogood.’”
He lowered the letter to his side, appearing almost thoughtful for an instant. Until he adopted a bored expression. “Wasn’t quite as interesting as I’d hoped.”
Ellie glared at him with her arms crossed. “It wasn’t meant to be riveting entertainment. It was a private letter, and now I feel as though I’ve betrayed a friend.”
After all, George didn’t know Prue the way Ellie did and might take the wrong impression of her character. Prue was of a reserved nature. She was good-hearted and never deviated from propriety, especially since her father and stepmother were notoriously critical of her actions. And Ellie was sure that, whatever had transpired the night that Prue’s father found her and the mysterious Lord F in the gardens at Sutherfield Terrace, she was not at fault.
“Come now, you’re making far too much of it. Why, it’s only right that you share everything with me, considering what we are to each other. That means your friends are mine, too. And I seem to recall this one,” he said, gesturing with the letter before he dropped it, unceremoniously, back on top of the desk with the others. “You’ve mentioned something about her living in the country with her aunt and uncle, I believe.”
She nodded tersely, still sore at him. Though, she was glad he didn’t appear to be judging her friend on the contents therein. Which meant it was likely that he wouldn’t have any qualms over having Prue as a guest in their future home. Therefore, she supposed it was no monumental transgression that George had read the letter. And it did cheer her to hear him say that he wanted her to share everything with him.
That statement seemed like something a marriage-minded man might say.
She wished she knew for certain. Wished she understood what force took a gentleman from fondness and onward to affection, then tipped him over the edge to inspire him to drop on bended knee and offer up his heart and soul.
Once she could spot the signs of a man driven to propose, she could help so many women like herself—those trying to figure out how long they would have to wait. And so many women like Prue—those who put faith in a man only trifling with their affections.
But Ellie was not short on hope. She would keep trying and, one day she would have the answers. And she would have George, too.
“Yes, Prue is in the country with her aunt and uncle,” she reiterated. “Though, the letters she seldom sends are written with such loneliness that I cannot wait until the Season is over so that my aunts and I can visit her, at last. I’d wanted to last year, but then Aunt Maeve had taken ill.”
After a short stay in the country, they’d ended up returning to London in order to be closer to her physician. Thankfully, all had turned out in their favor and she was healthier now than ever before. But by the time she recovered, it was too late in the year to take a chance on travel. Prue had understood.
However, considering the forlorn quality in this last letter, Ellie wondered if she had made the right decision. Surely Prue was lonely for the society of true friends, instead of being constantly shamed and beleaguered by her disapproving Aunt and Uncle Thorley.
“Well, that’s a fine thing, indeed,” George said, drawing her out of her musings. He faced her with a disapproving frown. “Here you are planning to flit across the countryside and you never invited me.”
Ellie’s breath caught again, her heart in her throat. “I was unaware that you would wish to join us.”
“And just what, pray tell, am I to do at my country house without my best girls next door? This summer would be a right solid bore, wouldn’t it?”
She nodded, unable to form words. Was it possible that he couldn’t imagine spending so much time apart from her?
Her aunts arrived in that next instant and George proceeded to give them a mock-scolding. “I’ve just learned of your great plot to abandon me next month. I’ll have you know that I am sorely tempted to take a tour of the continent now that I’ve realized how little I’m regarded by those residing beneath this roof.”
They just laughed and issued an invitation for him to join them. Though, Aunt Myrtle wasn’t opposed to traveling with him to France for croissants and a flirtation with a Parisian nut seller, instead.
Ellie held her breath, waiting for George’s response. Waiting for their eyes to meet.
He cast her another wink and there was a new grin on his lips that made her heart swoop. Then he took a step toward her. To do what—to press her hand? To kiss her cheek? To declare that he couldn’t imagine spending those days apart from her, or any days for that matter?
She wondered if she should toss a pillow to the floor, just in case he was compelled to kneel.
He leaned in and then—oh, this was all happening so quickly!—picked up the walking stick propped against the arm of the settee.
“I shall consider it. But, for now”—he paused to twirl the ebony stick like a Catherine wheel—“I am off.”
When he turned to leave, Ellie blinked in surprise as if someone had splashed water in her face. She watched as he stopped once more to buss the aunts’ cheeks before tromping down the stairs without a backward glance.
There was a time when he used to buss her cheek, she remembered on a sigh. He’d made terrible raspberry noises that always made her swat playfully at him.
But that had been long ago, before his years at school had changed him from a boy into a man who enjoyed all the pleasures and carefree pursuits of town life. Aunt Maeve referred to it as a man needing to sow his oats before he was ready for marriage. Ellie wondered if all men were that way.
Aunt Myrtle waggled her brows as she set down a creamware vase, brimming with heavy-headed yellow blossoms. “Well, that was a surprise. Seems like a certain gentleman cannot bear the idea of retiring to the country without his favorite neighbor in the vicinity.”
Ellie kept her expression neutral as she plucked at the pillow fringe, feeling foolish for letting her imagination run away with her. “Meanwhile, in London, he hardly knows I exist.”
“You hold your heart in your eyes, dear. George would have to be blind not to see it. But some men simply aren’t comfortable with showing their own affections openly. The important thing is, when he thinks of hearth and home, you are the one he pictures.”
Aunt Maeve pursed her lips thoughtfully as she swept up the scattered petals with a b
rush of her hand. “Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt if she kept some of her heart secret. It might be better if George had to question her devotion.”
“But that isn’t in her nature, sister. Our Elodie is unreserved in her emotions, and all the better for her. We were well into our forties before we sloughed off the skin of diffidence we’d inherited from our parents.” She sighed, her gaze distant and unfocused. “I can only imagine what our lives might have been if we’d learned it sooner.”
“To my way of thinking, a man should have to work for a woman’s affection, not simply expect her to always be there for him.”
“Quite true.” Aunt Myrtle nodded in agreement then turned to look at Ellie. “Fear not, dear. George will come around. It’s like I’ve always said, the Fates will have their way no matter what.”
Strangely, as soon as the last word left her lips, a knock sounded on the door below and the mahogany longcase clock in the corner chimed the hour. In the same instant, a warm breeze unsettled the drapes over the open window and stirred the wispy tendrils at Ellie’s nape in a shivering caress.
It seemed peculiarly prophetic.
Aunt Myrtle’s brows inched toward her hairline. “You see, my dear? He has returned already. The Fates will keep putting the right one in your path, over and over again, until both of you finally realize that it was destiny all along.”
“And that, sister, is a sentiment we both agree upon,” Maeve said, then turned back to Ellie, whispering, “But try not to look so besotted. Make him come to you, because you deserve a man who puts forth effort.”
She nodded. That was such a good point, she should write it down for the primer. Her gaze drifted to her writing desk in a cursory search, then swept over the ormolu table. Drat! Where was that ledger?
Hearing the steps growing closer and closer, her breath quickened. It would be difficult to keep her heart out of her eyes when she saw him, but she would do her best. And she dropped the pillow to the floor beside her. Just in case.
Mr. Rivers stood in the doorway, but it wasn’t George he announced.
It was Lord Hullworth!
Ellie’s heart jolted. She stared at her aunts, both mute and agape like her.
Then the man himself appeared and her throat went dry . . . before she remembered to close her mouth with a snap.
He filled the doorway, dangerously handsome in his tailored sable broadcloth. She’d seen advertisements for men who wore corsets and needed padding for their shoulders and calves. But after her much-too-close dance with him last night, she knew that he required no such artifice. He was solid and firm and had held complete mastery over his own form . . . and hers.
She swallowed at the recollection. Her hand lifted reflexively to cover the harried pulse fluttering on the side of her neck. His erudite gaze tracked the movement, missing nothing. And reclined as she was—with the shawl over her legs and stockinged feet—she felt peculiarly undressed in a way that she hadn’t when George was here. As if Lord Hullworth had just walked in on her during a bath.
“My lord, I . . . did not . . .” Ellie began, but was saved the task of stammering on awkwardly when Meg appeared and summarily nudged him aside.
She swept into the room as if she’d been here to call a hundred times. “It seems like only hours since we last met,” she said cheekily, her cheerful greeting settling some of Ellie’s frazzled nerves.
“Minutes, even,” she answered with a smile. To Meg, at least. To Lord Hullworth, she still wasn’t sure how to arrange her features or what to say, other than, “Please do come in.”
Just then, another gentleman appeared in the doorway, handsome and vaguely familiar with brown hair and round spectacles, and carrying a black valise at his side.
“Forgive the intrusion,” Lord Hullworth said with an apologetic bow. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a friend of mine from university to call on you. Miss Parrish”—he nodded, addressing the three of them in turn—“I should like to introduce Doctor Aiden Lockwood.”
The man in question smiled cordially and bowed. “A pleasure.”
After the introduction, her aunts quickly dragged Meg over to the corner curio cabinet, where they began wafting dimpled glass dishes filled with nougats and jellied comfits beneath her nose that she simply must sample.
“Dr. Lockwood,” Ellie said, realizing where she’d seen the man before. “I believe we’ve met, during a time when you’d been called to Lord and Lady Hollybrook’s house to tend one of their eleven rambunctious children. I know the eldest quite well.”
His blue eyes brightened beyond the lenses with recognition. “Ah, yes. I knew you looked familiar. You’re Miss Jane’s friend—or rather, that would be Lady Northcott now.”
She nodded, and her gaze darted between the two gentlemen, surmising the reason for the unexpected visit. “I hope you weren’t prevailed upon to call on me over a simple misstep. It’s hardly bothersome, truly.”
“Not at all. Hullworth and I are old friends. And when he expressed concern over the damage to your limb, I was more than happy to offer my services.”
Feeling that nervous rush inside her, she slid a wry glance to the marquess. “Damage to my limb, Lord Hullworth? Good gracious, you’ve made me sound quite like a fallen tree.”
A grin quirked at the corner of his mouth. “Lockwood is the best lumberman I know.”
“Well, I don’t believe I’ll need the axe this time,” the doctor said genially as he approached. He tossed a glance over his shoulder and said, “Nevertheless, if you wouldn’t mind waiting in the hall, Brandon . . .”
“Yes, of course.” But he hesitated, his gaze colliding with Ellie’s again. He seemed to be asking for permission to leave her with the doctor.
A bit of an afterthought, don’t you think, she mused with the quirk of her brow. He shrugged in response as if she’d spoken aloud. When she nodded her acquiescence, he withdrew without delay.
Ellie expelled a breath. Her shoulders sagged as if she’d just been released from his embrace and couldn’t support her own frame without him. And yet, hearing the creak of his footstep in the hall, just out of sight, kept her from giving in to the urge to rest against the concave corner of the settee.
This was all rather odd. She couldn’t imagine why any of it was happening.
“If I may, Miss Parrish . . .”
Turning her attention to the doctor, Ellie bobbled her head in consent and fumbled under the shawl to slide down her stocking. Seated at the far end, the doctor examined her ankle with the remote efficiency that gave one comfort in such circumstances, even if one still suffered a case of acute embarrassment.
“Does this cause you pain?” Lockwood asked with concern.
Realizing that her brow was puckered, she schooled her features. “No, indeed. At the moment, I’m more confused than in discomfort. It’s just that I shouldn’t know why Lord Hullworth would trouble you over something so trifling. I’m practically a stranger to him.” Her gaze shifted to Meg, who was walking toward her, leaving Maeve and Myrtle to argue the merits of candied orange peel over almond nougat. “I can only surmise that I made too much fuss at the park to cause needless worry to Miss Stredwick and, for that, I apologize.”
“Not so,” Meg insisted with a shake of her head. “Brandon was quite determined all on his own. In fact, we even went to three different shops to find a—”
From the hall, Lord Hullworth cleared his throat.
His sister quieted instantly, albeit with a roll of her eyes and a twist of a key at her lips as if there was some unspoken agreement of which she could not speak. “Nevertheless,” she said cheerfully, “we are not strangers. After all, we have known each other above twenty-four hours. Were we mayflies, we would already be enjoying a second lifetime of friendship.”
Ellie laughed but abruptly hissed when Lockwood found a rather sore spot.
“My apologies, Miss Parrish,” he said and lowered the hem of her gown before draping the shawl over her bare foot. “On the bri
ght side, no irreparable damage has been done.”
“No need for the axe, then?” she teased.
He smiled affably and shook his head. “There is, however, evidence of a rather substantial bruise. By any chance, were there stones on the path where you turned your ankle?” When she nodded, so did he. “I’d thought as much. The contusion appears deep enough to cause tenderness for a while. There is a slight swelling but nothing unmanageable with plenty of rest, elevation, and a strong poultice.”
“I have the perfect poultice recipe,” Aunt Myrtle declared merrily.
Meanwhile, a ridiculous vision of attempting the quadrille whilst wheeling about in a Bath chair entered Ellie’s mind and her spirits plummeted.
“That news does not bode well for the end of my Season.” Or marital prospects, she thought, especially considering that this was her last foray into society before she was firmly on the shelf. And the odds of George remembering to visit the invalid, when he had so many other amusements to distract him, were slim indeed.
“If you do have an obligation to venture out, I suggest walking boots with firm laces and the aid of a cane if you have one,” the doctor suggested passably, as if he hadn’t just doomed her to spinsterhood.
“A cane.” She sighed with utter despair at the prospect. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Hullworth emerge with unpardonable amusement lingering in that velvet gaze of his. She adjusted the shawl over her legs and shifted her attention to the doctor. “Thank you, Dr. Lockwood. I greatly appreciate the time you’ve taken out of your day to see me.”
“I’m afraid I’m off as well,” Meg said with obvious regret. “Brandon and I are attending dinner with the Dowager Duchess of Heathcote, and I must wear the blandest, most uninspiring white gown in my wardrobe or else earn her displeasure.”
Dimly, Ellie found herself wondering if Miss Carmichael would also be attending the dinner and whether or not Lord Hullworth would sit beside her. Then she shook herself free of the thought. It did not matter in the least, she told herself.
Wanting to think about anything other than her random musings, she tapped her finger beside her mouth and considered the contents of her sewing basket. Then her gaze lifted to Meg’s and she lowered her voice. “If you happen to have a tiny rebellious streak that you cannot tamp down for the life of you . . .”
The Wrong Marquess Page 8