Ellie tried to focus on her steps and not look at the alarmed faces of the people staring in horror at what was directly behind her shoulder. But she could feel her blood turn colder, her limbs stiffening, her hand numb around the handle of the parasol.
“I wish . . . I had my . . . embroidery,” she panted inanely. “I always embroider when the world is coming to an end.”
He chuckled as if he thought her jesting. “No need to fret. Just think of this as having your own personal guide through the zoological gardens. Ah, here we are passing the parrot exhibit. They’re in fine feather today. And next we’re approaching the giraffes. Would you like to stop there on your pell-mell tour?”
She cast a wary glance toward the pair of tall spotted animals as their heads tilted, following her every movement with their large dark eyes. “Please don’t. Quite honestly, I stayed awake half the night worried about something terrible happening . . . like being eaten by a giraffe.”
“I believe they are herbivores.”
“Sure, that is what everyone thinks. But how does anyone really know? Have you ever asked a giraffe if he wouldn’t prefer a filet of beef over a bowl of lettuces?”
“Now that you mention it, no, I have not,” he answered, his tone light with amusement just as he darted behind one of the brick shelters. Stopping for a moment, he peered around the corner, still holding her firmly at his side. Then he set her on her feet. “The little beastie turned off in another direction and there’s an army of caretakers right on his heels. We should be safe here for a moment or two.”
“No one . . . can promise that. Especially not you. Why, you cannot even protect yourself from husband hunters.”
Ellie leaned stiffly against the support of the brick wall at her back, her lungs tight from oxygen deprivation. First, it was death by trampling, and now by suffocation. Either way, she was never going to make it out of the zoo alive.
Her body would likely be picked apart and eaten by carnivores and supposed herbivores alike. At her funeral, her aunts would wail and mourn and surely demand that a bench be erected in her honor for all who visited this terrible death trap. A bench, so that future victims could be presented on a convenient platter, instead of forcing the animals to chase after them.
Lord Hullworth set the crook of his finger beneath her chin and tilted up her face for scrutiny. Then he frowned. “You really are afraid, aren’t you?”
Much to her dismay, she felt the mortifying prickle of tears behind her eyes. “Only of dying . . . and of all the things that cause one to die prematurely . . . and of being closed in a coffin . . . with heaps and heaps of dirt and worms shoveled on top of me. I know it’s irrational but I can’t seem to help it.”
“Miss Parrish,” he said softly. “Nothing terrible is going to happen. I won’t allow it.”
Ellie had no idea how he could make such a promise, or why he felt the need to take hold of one of her hat ribbons as he had done early this morning. This time, he tugged the knot free. Blinking up at him in question, she wondered at his intent as he eased her hat away and let it fall to the grass beside them. Her gaze followed the bonnet where it rested on the ground.
“There now,” he crooned, gathering her in his arms.
A shuddering sigh left her as he pulled her rigid body against his solid form. Not too far off in the distance, chaos ensued. She could hear the bleats of the elephant, the quick padding of footsteps on the path, men shouting and a few female shrieks.
But here in the shelter of his embrace, her focus lingered on the steady drumming of the heart beneath her ear. The warm breath that drifted across her temple. The splayed hands stroking down her shoulders and along her spine in a soothing rhythm, coaxing the air back into her lungs.
She inhaled deeply. Beneath the faint fragrance of the collective horde’s cloying perfumes, she found his scent. How peculiar that it was already familiar to her. And he smelled exceptionally good. The combination of cedar, fresh linen and spicy clove—perhaps from his shaving soap—blended together with the heat of his body to form a heady elixir that made her drowsy and relaxed.
She melted against him, forgetting about the rest of the world. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the two of them huddled close together in the middle of the zoo, barely hidden from the crowds. It would be scandalous if they were caught. And yet she couldn’t summon any desire to separate herself from him.
“How is your limb faring?” Lord Hullworth murmured, the vibration of his voice tunneling warmly inside her.
“If you want the truth,” she said gravely, “at the moment, I’m not certain that I still have limbs.”
Her entire being seemed comprised only of the portions pressed to him—her cheek, stomach, breasts, hips. He drew back marginally and began a careful assessment. Nothing untoward. And yet, she gradually became more aware of other parts as if she was being reanimated into being by the brush of his hand on her hip, his palm trailing upward along her side to her shoulder, and his tactile fingertips skimming over the fragile curve of her neck to settle gently beneath her jaw.
He must have removed his gloves, for she felt the touch of his skin against her own, welcome but also startling in the way the sensation fizzed through her.
He lifted her face, those gray-green eyes studying her with the close inquiry of a physician gauging the severity of this new ailment. “You’re still quite pale. Are you in any pain? Did I jostle you too roughly during our escape?”
“No,” she said at once in reassurance. “You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just . . .” She felt her brow pucker in bewilderment over these foreign sensations. “I’m strangely light-headed and buoyant. And I don’t wish to alarm you, but the blood in my veins feels rather effervescent, like champagne bubbles in a fluted glass. My bones are as insubstantial as feathers.”
She felt a coil of tension roll through him, and watched as his pupils expanded in spills of inky black. Then he crowded ever closer as if he feared she would float away on the barest breeze.
“And is your pulse racing?” He didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, his fingertips drifted down to the quick hummingbird wingbeat at the side of her throat. “And has your mouth gone dry just now? Your lips plump and tender?”
She nodded, mystified. “You’re very good. Doubtless, you could have become a physician. Do you think we should summon Doctor Lockwood?”
“No. Lockwood cannot help you with this,” he said, his tone edged with a low growl that left her to wonder if this was far more serious than she thought. Before she could ask his opinion on her chances for survival, he leaned in and said, “Only I can.”
And then he eased his mouth over hers.
Chapter 8
“A debutante must hold fast to her wits, especially when a gentleman is determined to scramble them into oblivion.”
—A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat
Ellie was stunned. A fatal prognosis would have been less startling. But Lord Hullworth didn’t seem shaken at all. He simply drew the sound of her gasp into his mouth as his lips took firm possession of hers. Then he fed her a hum of approval as if sampling something lush and decadent, and the intimate vibration made her heart quicken to a perilous speed.
Flustered, she didn’t know what to think. Or what to do. Her hands flitted at her sides like scattered leaves caught in a sudden whirl. She should have pushed him away. Reminded him about George. But as he continued his tender assault on her lips and senses, smoothly taking hold of her hands to drape them over his shoulders, she could not fight the unfathomable pull to stay in his arms.
The warm press of his broad, enticingly firm mouth over the tender flesh—which had been sorely neglected these past five years—sent a staggering zing of pleasure all the way to the soles of her feet. Then the sensation traveled back up through her veins in lovely spiraling tingles. It filled her with a sort of restless urgency that demanded more. So she rose up on her toes and pulled his mouth harder against her own.
&nbs
p; She felt the curve of his grin beneath her lips. It was likely one of his smug grins, where he was all too pleased with himself. But she didn’t care. She simply wanted this to last a bit longer. In her experience, a kiss never continued past the time that it took to inhale the moment. Such a brief delight destined to fade like the sweet brandied steam of a pudding under a silver cloche.
But, surprisingly, Lord Hullworth lingered, nuzzling into one corner of her mouth and then the other. Her heavy-lidded eyes drifted closed as his hands skimmed along her back. She felt the slightly roughened pads of his fingertips trace the delicate curve of her nape, sifting lightly through the downy hairs. A contented purr escaped her at his touch. And she smoothed her palms over the expanse of broadcloth, stretching like a cat against the hard planes of his body.
A soft grunt of surprise left him. The thin summer wool of her frock was now clenched in his fists, drawn taut over her frame. He angled her head beneath his, taking her mouth in impatient tugging sips, first the bottom lip and then the top. He coaxed her mouth open, the tip of his tongue nudging inside to explore the dewy shallows in slow massaging licks.
Again, she gasped. The contact was shocking, indeed, sending darting pulses on a deep descent into the pit of her stomach, liquid and heavy. She’d never experienced kisses like this. At least, not in her waking life. Sometimes in daydreams, she imagined being thoroughly ravished and breathless to the point of fainting, like the heroines in the torrid novels she borrowed from Aunt Myrtle. But she always felt a trifle guilty and embarrassed afterward. She never imagined it would feel this good.
So she licked into his mouth, too. She tasted heat and salt and some unknown delicious spice that she suddenly needed more than anything else in the world. More. Please. Yes. He growled, the sound low and hungry and urgent. And the kiss deepened, his tongue tangling with hers as he searched the silken recesses of her mouth.
Curls of illicit pleasure spiraled through her, dragging a strange—decidedly wanton—mewl from her throat. Ellie felt sampled and savored like a sumptuous dessert buffet. The well-bred, respectable part of her knew she should demur and protest his advances, but it wasn’t in her nature to put up a false show. This felt too good. Too right. And, besides, it was just one kiss, after all. It meant nothing. So she gave herself over to it, her neck arching in complete surrender. He could be as smug as he liked . . . as long as he didn’t stop.
Then he drew her closer still, their bodies falling into an unexpected, but blissful, alignment. And in the frenzied, clinging moments that followed, all the activity of the surrounding world seemed to fade away.
On a gruff groan, he broke the kiss, soothing her flesh with the tip of his tongue along the swollen seam. His open mouth drifted along the unexplored underside of her jaw to that pulse on the side of her neck, sending a lovely clench of pleasure to her midriff.
“It’s no use,” he said, his voice hoarse, his breath falling heavily against her lips.
Dazedly, she stretched upward, seeking his mouth like a ravenous nestling. “What is no use?”
“I cannot fight this any longer. I’m going to start paying calls on you, Miss Parrish . . . Ellie,” he said against her lips. Then smoothed the dark fringe away from her forehead to kiss along her brow, her closed eyes, and her flushed cheeks. “Mmm . . . You do taste sweet here, like those little cakes covered in pink icing.”
“Petits fours?”
“Yes, those,” he said, returning to her mouth. “I’m going to take you to the theatre, on drives through the park, out for ices on hot afternoons . . .”
Something about his declaration didn’t make sense. But she was so distracted by these knee-melting kisses that she couldn’t put her thoughts together.
Once she did, however, she realized her confusion stemmed from the fact that he was London’s most elusive bachelor and paying calls on a young woman was something only a man interested in marriage would do. Wasn’t it?
She withdrew slightly, her hands shifting from his nape to his shoulders, and she blinked up at him. “To be clear, you mean to pay calls as one friend to another?”
He gazed back at her thoughtfully, seeming to ponder his response with the gravity of a man questioning the state of his own existence. After a moment, he simply said, “Yes.”
His tone was so sensible, so matter-of-fact, that it should have settled her confusion. And yet, it didn’t. For some strange reason, her mind conjured an image of him dancing with Miss Carmichael and a peculiar ailment began to twist hotly in her stomach.
Ellie frowned. “And just how many other female friends do you kiss?”
Brandon gave her a small laughing smile as if she should know the answer. Then he stole another kiss. “There’s just you.”
His straightforward reply loosened the knot in her stomach, but something else lingered in its stead. She realized at once that it was guilt.
Remember George? her conscience prodded.
“And when you call on me, you’ll be assisting with my book,” she added, almost as if she were trying to give herself permission, the way she did when she allowed herself to have a second slice of cake on Sundays. “Therefore, I’ll simply explain the situation to G—or rather—to the person whose name I cannot say. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Lord Hullworth chuckled. “Tell the truth, Ellie. Isn’t this George just someone you made up in order to incite my interest?”
“Whyever would you think that?” Yet, as she asked the question, she realized her fingers were threaded in his hair while her body was molded against his. Somewhere, pressed between them, were the blurred lines of their burgeoning friendship.
Gradually, she lowered her hands to his broad chest to put distance between them. “I suppose I must take partial blame for making the mistake of referring to him with the familiarity gained by a lifetime of acquaintance. From this point forward, however, I will refer to him as—”
She didn’t have a chance to finish.
In the same instant, Meg’s voice interrupted, calling out her brother’s name.
The sound was near enough to send alarm sprinting through Ellie. Oddly, she hadn’t felt so exposed while in his embrace. Out of his embrace, however, she understood what it must have been like for Eve, the moment she realized that she’d been frolicking naked out of doors.
Ellie wrapped her arms around herself. “Good heavens! Your sister! My aunts are bound to be with her. They’ll know everything at a glance.”
He quickly scrutinized her face, expelling a rough exhale with a shake of his head. “You’re quite right. Your cheeks are flushed, your lips bee-stung, and with your propensity to stammer when nervous—”
“I do not,” she protested.
“—there’ll be no disguising the truth. And yes, you do,” he said softly, daring to reach out to brush the pad of his thumb into the divot between her chin and her mouth, his gaze lingering there. “Though, if I’m to be honest, it’s quite charming.”
She felt her cheeks catch fire when he leaned in and took one last fleeting kiss.
Flustered, she said, “You must stop doing that. I’ll surely die of self-combustion. My aunts would never forgive you if I disintegrated into a pile of ash. And what in the world are you doing with my hat?”
She watched as he snatched it up from the ground, then sent it sailing with a swish of his arm. Turning to her, he held a finger to his own lips and whispered, “Just follow my lead.”
Then in a robust voice, he called out, “Ah ha! There is your hat, at last. It appears as though the wind has whipped it into that tree.”
Hardly convincing since there was scarcely a breeze, but Ellie went along with the charade to save her reputation.
Unfortunately, her acting ability left much to be desired. “Dear me! What a terrible turn of events. Whatever will happen to my poor hat . . . which is now dangling from that . . . um . . . branch?”
He cast a dubious glance over his shoulder, his mouth quirked in reluctant amusement. “Fear
not, Miss Parrish. I shall recover it.”
Just then, Meg rounded the corner of the brick building. “There you are, Brandon! I’ve been looking everywhere. And poor Ellie,” she said rushing to her side. “You’ve had to endure his company all this time. Was he a terrible grump to you?”
Conscious of her kiss-swollen lips, she pressed her fingertips there as if she were studiously contemplating her answer. “I wouldn’t necessarily call him a . . . that is to say . . . he was actually quite . . . unexpectedly . . .”
“I believe Miss Parrish is trying to say”—he broke in, returning with her manhandled hat and presenting it to her with a gallant bow—“that she enjoyed our sojourn off the beaten path immensely, believing that it far surpassed all others.”
She would have surely blushed anew, giving them both away, if not for his smug smirk. “All others? A very bold statement, indeed. Some might even call it an arrogant assumption.”
“As you say,” he offered with a nod.
Though it would have been better if he didn’t hold her gaze for so long and if the low timbre of his voice didn’t curl warmly inside her. Her gaze flitted to his mouth and her lips tingled with longing.
Yes, she admitted to herself, it had surpassed all others. In fact, she wanted to kiss him again. This instant. Drag him into the nearest copse of trees and fling her arms around him.
What in the world was wrong with her?
“Oh, dear! I’d better fetch your aunts,” Meg said hastily, withdrawing. “They’d just spotted an acquaintance before I heard Brandon’s voice and I scampered off. They’re right around the corner.”
As her friend left, Ellie helplessly met Lord Hullworth’s gaze. “You cannot look at me. When you do, all I can think about is . . . well, you know . . . and if I think about that . . . then this”—she pointed to her reignited cheeks, casting all the blame on him—“will happen again and again.”
The Wrong Marquess Page 11