The Wrong Marquess

by Vivienne Lorret

  Brandon’s gaze shot to the door just in time to hear the bell tinkle overhead and to see her look over her shoulder. She flashed a smile that would surely linger in his thoughts for far too long. Then the door closed.

  “I’ll take that one as well, Mr. Wood,” he said, wishing Miss Parrish didn’t make the task of not thinking about her so utterly impossible.

  * * *

  Proof of that came Thursday, when he saw her yet again.

  Brandon and Meg spotted the three Miss Parrishes on the pavement outside the milliner’s shop. After stopping for a brief chat, and revealing that he and his sister had been on their way to Gunter’s for ices, Brandon insisted that they join him. It was what friends did, after all.

  Or so he told himself.

  However, if he thought seeing Miss Parrish in the park or the bookshop tested the limits of his control, then he was sorely mistaken. Because watching her eat a dish of burnt filbert ice cream had him behaving like a madman.

  It might have been the way she closed her eyes with each taste. Or the way her upper lip nestled the bowl of the spoon as she dragged it from her mouth with exquisite slowness. Or perhaps it was the way she sighed, ever so softly, right before she declared she couldn’t eat another bite.

  But the next thing he knew, he was reaching across the small round table for her dish. Without a by-your-leave, he proceeded to devour every last bite, barely restraining himself from licking the beveled glass dish clean.

  Thankfully, his episode went unobserved by his sister and the elder Miss Parrishes since they were absorbed with sampling the various flavors in each other’s dishes. Maeve declared that parmesan was superior. Myrtle disagreed, preferring the sweetness of royal ice cream. While Meg liked pineapple.

  Brandon couldn’t even remember what had been in his own dish. All he knew was that burnt filbert was on his tongue, just as it was on Ellie’s.

  He gazed at her burning cheeks, at the quick rise and fall of her breasts with every breath as she stared back at him, her eyes dark beneath the brim of her bonnet. And he made no excuse as he slid the dish back across the table.

  She swallowed and looked down at the spoon. Her delicate hands curved around the dish and pulled it closer. Without lifting her gaze, she softly asked, “Are you fond of burnt filbert ice cream, my lord?”

  “So it would seem,” he said, his voice steady and matter-of-fact, as if the lunatic he was a moment ago had been an aberration.

  She glanced up at him, her brow knitted in a confusion that he understood all too well.

  “Brandon, did you hear that?” Meg interrupted with an excited chirrup. “Our friends are to attend a concert at Hanover Square this evening.”

  Both he and his sister had another obligation. It would be rude to cancel at such late notice. Aside from that, tickets to the performance would be nearly impossible to garner. But as he was about to mention those obstacles, Ellie spoke the words that guaranteed his efforts to move a mountain, if he must, to attend the concert.

  “Indeed,” she said. “Lord Nethersole has invited us.”

  Chapter 11

  “A true gentleman honors his obligations.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  The Hanover Square Rooms were a place of entertainment and exhibition. Society was on display in all their finery beneath the vast vaulted ceiling and glow of the chandeliers. There were those who attended for the delight of the music and sat amidst the long horizontal rows of straight-backed benches facing the vast stage. Then there were those who delighted in watching, whispering, and waiting for the barest hint of a scandal. These voyeurs typically sat in the gallery along the far wall, facing the listeners.

  Situated near the stage, and ever-aware of his audience, Brandon took care not to appear obvious as he glanced back to the doorway. Miss Parrish and her aunts were late. The musicians had begun to warm up their instruments, the discordant strains of violin and cello filling the hall. The lamps were being dimmed, the scent of candle smoke filling the air. Throats were cleared for one last time. Programs ceased rustling. Gradually, the entire assembly quieted in anticipation for the concert to begin. And he expelled a breath of disappointment.

  But in the next instant, he felt a tingling sensation skim along the nape of his neck and a taut coiling burrow deep in his gut, and he knew that she’d arrived.

  From his seat beside Meg, he observed Ellie’s agitated search of those in attendance, the nervous fidgeting of her white gloved hands against the broad sash of her diaphanous lavender silk gown, and the heavy breath she expelled when she realized Nethersole was not among them. Clearly, the man had neglected to honor his commitment. Again.

  Her gaze alighted on Brandon. At first, she offered a smile of relief. But then she frowned, her brow furrowing. He didn’t take offense. She likely didn’t want to be glad to see him, or to have him bear witness to Nethersole’s abandonment.

  Brandon understood the conflict within her. He, himself, did not want to be drawn to a woman who had no intention of choosing him above all others.

  Nevertheless, here they both were in this unwelcoming hinterland between desire and reality. As her friend, he would demonstrate what a young woman should expect from a gentleman who respected her.

  With a lift of his fingers, he hailed the usher and arranged for the three Miss Parrishes to be escorted to the finest seats—which, as it happened, were near him. At least, after a few subtle displacements.

  A susurration of rumors cascaded through the crowd, building to a crescendo, until Maeve Parrish bracketed a hand by her ear and loudly proclaimed a temporary ailment that required her close proximity to the stage. Spoken with such uncompromising conviction, she subdued the gossip to a dull murmur. He would have to thank her later.

  Pink with embarrassment, Ellie acknowledged him with a nod and sat stiffly beside his sister, her aunts filing in along the row.

  “You’re late,” Meg whispered playfully to her friend from behind a fan.

  Ellie lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “When George did not arrive at our town house, I thought, perhaps, that I misunderstood our plans and we were meant to meet him here.”

  Meg cast a surreptitious glance over the assembly and shook her head. “I do not see him.”

  “He must have been detained.”

  Brandon gritted his teeth when he heard those words from Ellie. True to form, she made excuses for Nethersole. It seemed the man-child could do no wrong in her eyes. She merely accepted the meager offerings given to her.

  Didn’t she realize how much more she deserved?

  He brooded over the answer for the first four movements, the dips and swells of the music roiling inside him as he recalled making that same mistake long ago.

  When the intermission came, he went to the refreshment table and waited for the punch. Of course, he could have had the footman bring it to his party, but it was better this way. Brandon needed the distance between himself and Ellie. Not only to quiet the lingering rumors, but to ensure he wouldn’t forget himself. Standing too near her brought out an overwhelming temptation to touch her, to brush the bare strip of skin between her elbow-length glove and the ruffled cuff of her sleeve, to lean in and—

  “Why, Lord Hullworth, I thought that was you.”

  He stiffened reflexively at the sound of the familiar voice, but carefully schooled his features before he turned. “Lady Chastaine.”

  The woman he once knew as Miss Phoebe Bright flirtatiously roved her gaze over his form. “How absolutely scrumptious you look this evening. If you’ll recall, I always did like you in blue.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your second husband’s death,” he said blandly, wishing he’d remained with his party.

  Her fingers flitted in the air. “Yes, yes, well, I’m more apt to say good riddance to the old devil. He left me without a penny. Or not enough pennies, rather. I barely survived a year out of mourning.”

  She pouted prettily, her
face still a reflection of the one he’d spent years dreaming about. Before he’d spent years despising it.

  “I’m certain you’ll land on your feet, my lady.”

  “Will I, Brandon?” She issued a sigh, her dark sapphire eyes peering up at him through her lashes. “Of course, I know that my face and figure still appeal to most men, but there comes a time in a woman’s life when she wants more. Lately, I’ve been filled with so many regrets for losing my one true love.” She laid a hand on his sleeve and when he did not remove it, she smiled sweetly. “I was far too young to understand what I had. Surely, you couldn’t hold that against me.”

  “No, indeed. I doubt there is anyone present who couldn’t claim a youthful blunder or two.” He lifted her hand and summarily passed it to the late-arriving gentleman who came to stand at her side.

  Phoebe startled as Lord Savage clasped her fingers and pressed a kiss to them. It was well-known amongst the ton that she was his current paramour.

  Brandon, on the other hand, was far more discreet in affairs with the fairer sex. Unless . . . he was in the middle of a zoo . . . or seated at a table in a confectioner’s emporium . . .

  Apparently, there was something about Ellie that made him lose his head.

  “Darling!” Phoebe said in breathless surprise. “I thought you would still be at Sterling’s, enjoying an evening at the tables. You’ve often told me how these concerts are so much of a bore.”

  In response, Savage smiled with his usual unaffected air and curled her arm into the crook of his as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “What you were saying about mistakes, Hullworth, I couldn’t agree more. The marvelous thing is that, once you learn from them, they lose their ability to affect you in any way whatsoever. After all, when a candle flame burns out, you don’t simply sit in the dark. You find a fresh taper and light it. There are dozens more just like it to be had.”

  Brandon made no comment. Even though his tendre for Phoebe had dissipated years ago, he wasn’t going to belittle her.

  He couldn’t help but recall the young man Savage had once been decades ago, well before untold betrayals had turned his heart to stone. He’d always been a solid friend—as long as you stayed on his good side—and he had a robust appetite for all the pleasures that life could afford. And with his fortune, he could afford them all. But that dynamic, untamable zeal that had always shone like a beacon from his eyes had gone out somewhere along the way, snuffed like a candle flame. And while the ladies of the ton considered Savage dangerously handsome, Brandon saw a man who was dead inside.

  There were many similarities between them. Too many, in fact. An unwelcome shiver rolled down his spine at the realization.

  Once upon a time, both men had been blinded by love. Both men had lost a vital part of themselves—their trust and faith—when their eyes had been opened. But, for Brandon, it was even more than that. He’d lost the potent sense of certainty that ran deeply through his lineage.

  But as his gaze shifted to Ellie and then back to Phoebe—who was busily making excuses and using her wiles on Savage—Brandon discovered a pleasant sort of peacefulness wash over him. He could now look at her without feeling the old bitterness that had plagued him, as if she’d been nothing more than a passing acquaintance. A part of his past that was not even a ghost that could haunt him any longer. It was freeing.

  “My lord,” a footman said from beside him, his gloved hands holding a tray with five crystal cups of punch, the bright color of one of Ellie’s blushes.

  Brandon gestured toward the ladies gathered in conversation on the opposite side of the room, and the footman left to deliver them. With a bow, he addressed Savage and Lady Chastaine. “If you’ll forgive me, I’m going to return to my party.”

  Savage glanced over, his brows inching upward in inquiry. “So the rumors are true, then? You are courting.”

  “No,” he answered succinctly, feeling Phoebe’s interest heighten. The last thing he wanted was to encourage her machinations, or have her decide that Miss Parrish was an obstacle to be destroyed. “I am merely escorting my sister, who is enjoying the concert with her friend and her friend’s aunts. That is all.”

  “Well, just be careful, old man. You never know when they’ll turn on you.”

  Brandon inclined his head in farewell. As his steps took him across the hardwood floor, he understood how Savage could become cold and bitter over time, especially considering his choice of companions. But where Savage was content to continue on his jaded path, Brandon was not.

  He wanted more for his life. More for Meg’s life. And yes, more for Ellie’s, too.

  Even though he was just her friend, it irritated the hell out of him that she didn’t seem to want more for herself than Nethersole’s inconstant attention. And even if the Fates never chose to smile upon Brandon in regard to his own contentment, the very least he could do was ensure that she made her choice with her eyes fully open.

  * * *

  “Does he have to be everywhere I turn? And why did he have to bring us punch?” Ellie groused, jerking off her gloves as they stepped into the foyer late that night. They’d told Mr. Rivers not to bother waiting up.

  “Who dear? Lord Hullworth?” Aunt Myrtle asked, untying her bonnet.

  Ellie nodded on a huff and cast a disconsolate glance toward the parasol waiting in the urn.

  “He is a gentleman in every sense,” Maeve added, matter-of-fact. “Surely, you didn’t expect him to bring a glass for his sister and not for the rest of us.”

  “Well, no,” she said. “It’s just that I wish George was the one who brought us punch, took us out for ices, met us in the park . . .” and danced with me in the moonlight, she thought, and kissed me breathless in the zoo.

  Oh, why couldn’t she just forget about that kiss!

  Aunt Maeve chuckled. “There are worse things than attracting the notice of an absurdly handsome gentleman. Any other young woman would be over the moon.”

  “I’m merely his . . . friend,” Ellie said, but the word felt tangled on her tongue, and so she added with more force, “That’s all. Just his friend.”

  More than anything, she had wanted George to come to the concert. She was beginning to feel so unguarded without him around, like a ripe apple dangling on the very tip of a branch where anyone might simply reach up and . . .

  She shook her head, refusing to finish the thought.

  “Then perhaps, you’ve solved the riddle of the ages, dear,” Aunt Myrtle said, tugging on the knotted configuration she’d made of her bonnet ribbons before Maeve came over to drag her closer to the wall sconce.

  Ellie glanced at the squinting pair. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if George is truly the one you want, perhaps you should treat him as you do Lord Hullworth.”

  Maeve agreed with an absent nod. “And treat Lord Hullworth with the familiarity you would with George.”

  Ellie considered that prospect and felt a frown knitting her brow. “Oh, I couldn’t do that. And I certainly could never treat George with indifference.”

  “Is that how you think you are with Lord Hu—”

  Aunt Maeve tugged a bit harder on Myrtle’s ribbons and stared at her thoughtfully. “Of course she is, sister. And I think we need not interfere.”

  “You are both so dear,” Ellie said fondly and stepped over to them to work the knot free in a trice. “Pay no attention to me. I’m just sore at George, that’s all. But I will be in better spirits tomorrow evening when he escorts us to dine at Lady Millington’s. And then everything will return to the way it ought to be.”

  There would be no Lord Hullworth there to crowd her until she felt every finely woven thread within the fabrics that lay upon her skin. No Lord Hullworth there to cause her throat to be so parched that her glass of punch could not quench it. No Lord Hullworth there to offer his own cup for her to drink her fill—and she had accepted it, drat it all! No Lord Hullworth there to hand her into the carriage and bid her a good night with that w
arm knowing gleam in his eyes, as if he knew very well that she would dream of him.

  It was a relief that he would not be there. She’d learned from Meg that she and her brother were set to dine with Lord Butterfield instead. And Miss Carmichael.

  Of course, it didn’t bother Ellie in the least to think about it. No, she was far too thrilled by her own plans to give a passing thought to his. Let him dine with all the Miss Carmichaels of the world.

  “Dear, are you feeling quite well?” Aunt Maeve asked with quiet concern.

  Aunt Myrtle brushed her cheek. “You do look a bit peaked all of a sudden.”

  “Perfectly hale,” she said immediately. “Simply tired, that’s all.”

  Tired of being left in the lurch by the man she wanted to marry. Tired of Lord Hullworth doing everything she wished that George would do. Tired of this ripe-apple feeling. And tired of worrying that, if she didn’t snare George this Season, she would end up being left on the branch to rot, drop to the ground, and then decay into nothingness.

  Please don’t leave me dangling, George, she thought as she mounted the stairs, looking forward to Lady Millington’s dinner, albeit with a bit of trepidation.

  Chapter 12

  “A debutante must always be on her guard from wayward advances and from thieves of the heart.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  At Lady Millington’s dinner party, nothing was turning out the way Ellie wanted.

  George had sent his regrets, without even bothering to give a reason. Aunt Maeve had begged off, claiming a headache. The gentleman seated to her right was a complete lecher. And Lord Hullworth was here.

  Would the Fates ever allow her a single day without seeing his damnably handsome countenance?

  And it was impossible not to look at him, for he was seated across from her in the perfect patch of light. The same glow from the chandeliers that gilded the burnished bronze curls, artfully swept back from his forehead, also accentuated the chiseled edge of his jaw and naturally drew the eye to the shallow cleft in his chin and up to his unbearably well-formed mouth. The sight of it only reminded her how it had felt against her own, thereby setting off a tumult of escalating ailments, among which included wayward tingles, a racing pulse and a weighted sensation deep in her middle. She would likely never survive the night.