His grin returned as he took a half step toward her. Stripping the hat from her hands, he situated it with care on her coiffure, his voice low and intimate as he said, “That’s going to be a problem. Knowing the reason for your blush only makes me want to kindle it all the more.”
She didn’t have a chance to reprimand him or even take a breath to fight a sudden rush of giddiness. Because, in that very same instant, she heard his sister speaking to her aunts nearby.
Then came another voice, one that was nearly as familiar to her ears as her own. Ellie shifted uncomfortably as the deep baritone filtered in through the surrounding shrubbery.
“Oh, dear,” she whispered, guiltily worrying the corner of her well-kissed mouth. “It’s George.”
Lord Hullworth whipped around so fast she felt the breeze stir her bonnet ribbons. And just as the party entered the clearing, he looked down at her, his brow furrowed. “Nethersole?”
“Don’t tell me you failed the letter N in elocution class as well,” she muttered under her breath as the others aimlessly made their way toward them, chatting amongst themselves.
Out of the corner of her eye, she observed a change in Lord Hullworth. His posture, though always impeccable, became stiff and strained as if he’d been posing for a statue for hours, his profile chiseled out of granite. And while he was—only moments ago—warm, playful and passionate, he was now decidedly cold and distant.
Ellie frowned. As startling as it had been to lose herself in his embrace, to have been pressed so ardently and intimately against him, she found this sudden alteration even more disconcerting. It was like stepping barefooted from burning coals to a frozen lake. And the uncertainty of it all bothered her more than she cared to admit.
So, she pushed the thought aside, adjusted the seam of her gloves and pasted on a smile for those who were far more constant in their temperaments.
“George, you’re here at last.” Hearing a growl from the man beside her, she cast an uncertain glance to Lord Hullworth to see a muscle ticking along his jaw. “I mean, Lord Nethersole, of course. Are you acquainted with Lord Hullworth and Miss Stredwick?”
“Indeed,” George said with his usual affable grin. “Hullworth and I have been known to frequent the same parties. As for Miss Stredwick, she and I were introduced at Broadhurst’s ball last month. Unfortunately, I arrived too late to snag a dance, as her brother had so quickly informed me that her card was full.” He cast a playfully dubious glance toward Lord Hullworth, earning a giggle from Meg. Then he turned his attention to Ellie with a dramatic shake of his head and a hand to his heart. “And since you weren’t present either, I was set adrift on a sea of desolation. I barely summoned the will to venture into the cardroom.”
George finished his monologue with a wink to her and she rolled her eyes at his silly flirtations. “Well, I’m certain Lord Hullworth will have no objection to leaving us in your care.”
“But I would,” Meg interjected before her brother could offer his opinion. “Brandon, you cannot allow them to leave us. With such an adventurous start to our day, I’m eager to see how the rest of it will fare. We’re bound to have something even more monumental happen by day’s end.”
The prospect of something more monumental terrified Ellie, and she wasn’t even thinking about the elephant. No, her thoughts were solely on that kiss. Her body issued an immediate pulse-fluttering, head-dizzying, stomach-tilting response. She was sure that such sensations weren’t beneficial to one’s longevity.
Helpless, her gaze strayed to him. He looked back at her and, for an interminable moment, said nothing, his expression inscrutable. But, drat it all, she felt the slow saturation of heat rising to the crests of her cheeks. To hide her blush, she turned her head under the pretense of tying the ribbons of her bonnet.
“You’re quite right, Meg. My apologies, Nethersole, but I simply cannot relinquish my claim on Miss Parrish”—he paused long enough for her attention to whip back to him—“and her aunts. I plan to take them on a picnic this afternoon. You are welcome to come along, of course.”
His manner was perfectly genial as if they’d discussed this and she’d agreed. As if they’d spent all those moments alone having a friendly chat and making plans instead of learning the taste and texture of each other’s tongues. And not only that, but in his tone there was a palpable edge of unspoken tension that Ellie did not quite understand.
George seemed to, however. He chuckled but his grin didn’t reach his eyes. “The way I see it, their plans for the day were with me. So if anyone is going to take them on a picnic, it shall be I. Though you can come along, of course.”
“Have you plans, then?” Lord Hullworth inquired with a lift of his brows. “Because I have a basket packed to the brim and waiting in the carriage already. There will be plenty enough for all. And you can drive that phaeton I’ve heard so much about, while I take the ladies in the comfort of my open landau.”
Ellie could have sworn she heard the combined growls, roars and snarls from every single male animal in the zoo at once.
Wondering if anyone else noticed the peculiarity of the exchange, she looked past George to her aunts. But they were distracted in conversation, animatedly whispering, likely about the contents of said picnic basket.
Meg, on the other hand, was staring at her brother as if she’d never seen him act this way before. Hmm . . . Perhaps Ellie wasn’t the only one wondering where the next step would lead.
George magnanimously offered, “Far be it from me to spoil a perfect picnic. However, since I had intended to have the ladies over for tea this afternoon, then I insist”—he paused to flash a smile—“that you and your sister join all of us at my town house. Bring your basket, if you like.”
The marquess nearest to her inclined his head in agreement. And it seemed as though George had had the last word on the matter. But Ellie was proven wrong in the next moment.
Lord Hullworth stepped around her to retrieve the fallen parasol. Yet, instead of offering it to her, he proffered his arm. “Miss Parrish?”
She accepted without realizing it would cause one marquess’s eyes to flash with annoyance while the other grinned back smugly.
Chapter 9
“A debutante must never miss an opportunity to exhibit her charms.”
—A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat
So the renowned George was real after all.
Brandon should have known. Everything he’d learned about Miss Parrish suggested that she couldn’t tell a lie to save her life. She’d been honest with him from the beginning.
There was truth in the way she responded to every situation, and truth in her words. Which meant that, when she’d told him she’d set her cap for George, she’d had no ulterior motive. She’d simply been stating a fact.
Then, why had he so adamantly refused to believe her?
As he sat on a garden terrace in Grosvenor Square, listening with half an ear to the Marquess of Nethersole recount the endless tale of how he’d outbid all competitors at Tattersall’s for the finest grays in all of England, the answer came to Brandon in disgruntled self-mockery. Because at some point over the past few years he’d grown so used to the sly machinations of women trying to marry him, that he actually started to believe that every woman was trying to marry him.
How ridiculous that sounded to him now! And he knew that if Miss Parrish were privy to his thoughts in this moment, she would call him arrogant and there would be mirth dancing in her eyes.
Imagining such an exchange, he felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. His gaze drifted to the occupant of the chair at the far corner of the rectangular wrought iron table.
In the same instant, her hat tilted away from the speaker and she glanced alertly at him as if he’d called her name aloud. He hadn’t, of course. He didn’t know why she turned just then. But their gazes caught and held, nonetheless.
His pulse raced, blood burning through his veins. And he wasn’t alone. Her cheeks c
olored swiftly with her own inner heat, as if she couldn’t stop thinking about their kiss either. Couldn’t stop tasting him on her tongue. Couldn’t stop wanting to relive those stolen moments over and over again . . .
Her lips parted on a breath. He exhaled his own. Then he reminded himself that thoughts like those would do him no good. And, at the opposite end of the table, she turned away, the brim of her hat shielding that pink-icing glow from him.
Brandon noticed that Miss Parrish didn’t blush at all when she looked at George. She merely wore a soft smile like a woman admiring a basket of puppies. He was partly gratified by this knowledge, especially when he recalled how unfamiliar those ailments were to her when he’d held her in his arms. Which clearly meant that Nethersole had never stirred her passions in the way that Brandon had.
Yet, in the end, that knowledge didn’t matter in the least. She had made her choice, and he felt five times the fool for not having believed her from the start. Perhaps then, he might have saved himself the embarrassment of declaring his intentions to court her. Saved himself from entertaining the fleeting notion that, perhaps, he’d finally found—
No. He refused to finish the thought.
“It seems that Ellie is quite at home here,” Meg whispered from the chair beside his.
Brandon shifted in the ironwork chair, feeling as though it was a cage forming around him as he acknowledged the truth. “She does, indeed.”
Their host concluded his tale but quickly began describing his most recent race on Rotten Row. If the past hour was any indication, this was going to take a while.
“If not for her,” Meg added, “I daresay, we would be returning with a full basket and our tails between our legs.”
He, too, had witnessed the quiet exchange between Miss Parrish and the housekeeper when they’d first arrived and the subtle instruction for the footman to carry his basket to the kitchens. Not long after, the servants brought out silver trays carefully adorned with the picnic food as if it were being served during a seven-course service.
Though it was clear that Nethersole remained oblivious. He’d boasted that no other cook knew how to assemble such an excellent meal in great haste like his very own.
Miss Parrish had the grace, not only to leave Nethersole uncorrected but to give her compliments to Brandon when she’d said, “I’m certain no picnic has ever been more thoughtfully provided or filled with such a variety of sumptuous fare.”
In short, she was an ideal hostess . . . but for a house that was not hers.
Nethersole didn’t appear to mind, however. In fact, as far as Brandon could tell, he didn’t truly run his house at all. He offered no direction to his servants, but left them floundering.
Both the butler and housekeeper were visibly relieved when Miss Parrish had taken charge, informing the staff of the impromptu picnic on the terrace. She ensured that umbrellas were set in place, that rose-patterned china dressed the table, and sent instructions to the kitchen to bring tea and lemonade but to wait for coffee until the end.
Brandon knew from years of managing his own house that the servants had enough to do without having to wonder about place settings and menus and the like. And so he admired the ease with which she saw to these tasks.
But it grated on his nerves to see her playing the part of a wife for a man who behaved like a spoiled child.
“Our host is terribly charming and handsome,” Meg offered thoughtfully. “But what I don’t understand is why you do not like him. Even from the moment I was first introduced to him, you were all gruff-mannered. You even lied about my dance card being full.”
“Perhaps I find him a bit too charming.”
By all accounts, Nethersole was a veritable tomcat. Whenever a rumor went flying about illicit trysts behind closed doors, he was the first to take credit by boldly proclaiming innocence with a sly grin on his face. And he lapped up the accolades from his lordling sycophants like a bowl of Devonshire cream.
Brandon wasn’t certain if Nethersole was an actual libertine or just pretending to be, out of some misconstrued notions about proving his manhood. For the sake of caution, however, he was keeping Meg far from the likes of that notorious flirt.
“Ellie doesn’t mind.”
“No, she doesn’t.” That also bothered Brandon.
She seemed blind to George’s shortcomings in a way that reminded Brandon of himself when he’d been besotted with Phoebe. She, too, had been an outrageous flirt. But he’d found her bold and carefree nature utterly entrancing. It had never entered his mind that she’d been toying with his affections. That it was all just a game to her.
Then the shades had been stripped from his eyes. And, unless he was wrong about Nethersole, that same thing would happen to Miss Parrish one day.
Not that it was his concern. He’d learned long ago not to trifle with a woman whose affections were not his to claim.
“All this talk about racing is quite thrilling,” Myrtle Parrish interjected during one of the scant moments Nethersole drew a breath. “And your new phaeton and horses are quite the thing for a young bachelor, I’m sure, gadding about town, the envy of all . . .”
Maeve Parrish cleared her throat and quickly added, “But for a man with his eyes on a happy future and a glowing bride by his side, perhaps he might make his next purchase one that is a bit more sedate.”
Nethersole laughed with mock alarm. “Don’t saddle me with a perambulator quite yet, ladies. There’s plenty of time for all that fuss and bother. Right, Hullworth? London’s most elusive bachelor certainly isn’t rushing to the parson for the ole shackles.”
“No, indeed,” Brandon said, as if by rote. But when he saw the look of commiserating triumph on his host’s face, he felt it necessary to add, “However, I’m not opposed to the institution of marriage. My own parents were quite content. Their example of genuine affection, mutual trust and support left a lasting impression on me. I will not settle for less. And I wouldn’t want my sister or any friend of hers”—he glanced to Ellie—“to either.”
“No one could find fault in such an admirable pursuit,” she said to him with a warm smile.
“No one?” his sister interjected. “Ellie, you’re supposed to be my friend first. And this admirable brother of mine refuses to believe I can make my own decisions regarding my own future.”
“Forgive me, Meg. I forgot myself for a moment,” Miss Parrish said, pulling her gaze from his to grin conspiratorially at his sister. “You are right, of course. Any man who doubts a woman’s right to choose her own happiness is a veritable ogre, merely disguised in gentleman’s attire.”
“Even if said ogre wants to ensure that his sister has experienced enough of the Season to make a well-informed choice?” he asked, having heard this argument from Meg countless times before. When she was eighteen years of age, his sister believed she’d found the one she was meant to marry. But since Brandon had firsthand knowledge of how foolish one could be at that age, he’d asked her to wait and experience more of life. Thankfully, the man she’d set her cap for had agreed.
“After all,” he continued to Miss Parrish, “is that not your intention with the guidebook you’re writing?”
She inclined her head in agreement and then the corner of that tempting mouth curled up wryly. “But I do not intend to beat future readers over the head with it. After all, there is a lesson in self-discovery as well, my lord.”
Even though it wasn’t her intention, his thoughts traversed beyond the walls of this garden and dropped back into an empty glade when he was making some indisputably enjoyable discoveries of his own. Like the way her plump upper lip nestled perfectly between his own, and the way wanton sounds spilled from her lips when his tongue found that delectable fluttering pulse at her throat.
And just like that he was more than half-aroused. Bloody hell.
Shifting uncomfortably, he cleared his throat. “Point well made, Miss Parrish.”
Brandon really needed to banish that memory from his mi
nd permanently. But that would be impossible, at least for the remainder of the Season. They were bound to attend the same events. Her close association with Meg would ensure that they were in the same company, as well. Therefore, he would simply have to school his responses. Imagining the difficulty awaiting him, he reached for his glass of lemonade and drained the last of it.
“Speaking of new ventures, I have an announcement of my own,” George interjected proudly on his favorite topic—himself—and waited for every eye to fall upon him in rapt anticipation. Once satisfied, he drew in a great lungful and said, “I am taking a house in Wiltshire. My steward has been scouting properties for the past two weeks. That will give the four of us a fine place to rest our heads when we journey there, and a capital spot for my hunting trips.”
Myrtle gave an excited clap. “George, that’s wonderful!” And Maeve clucked her tongue fondly. “Such a dear boy to think of us.”
Ellie’s brow furrowed. “That is a surprise. You gave no indication that you were already planning a trip to Wiltshire when we spoke of it a few days ago.”
Nethersole shrugged and gave her an easy smile. “Must have forgot. I thought you’d be pleased by the news.”
“Renting a house is a lovely thing to consider,” she said kindly. “However, it may take a good deal of time to conclude the leasing of a property. Not to mention, readying it for habitation and hiring a staff.”
A sensible argument, Brandon thought.
But further proof of Nethersole’s immaturity was his immediate reply of “I’m sure it will all sort itself out.”
Ellie issued an uncertain nod, then turned to Meg and Brandon, graciously opening the conversation to include everyone present. “I have a friend in Wiltshire whom I have not visited for far too long. My aunts and I were planning to venture there at Season’s end. We hope to tour the county. I’ve heard of its beauty. Have you ever been?”
“The lands are simply breathtaking,” Meg supplied eagerly with a little hop to the edge of her chair. “In fact, Brandon holds an estate there.”
The Wrong Marquess Page 12