The Wrong Marquess

by Vivienne Lorret

  He offered her beleaguered senses a slight reprieve as his lips grazed the delicate shell of her ear, trailing to the place just behind the bare lobe. Then he opened his mouth over her, tasting the sensitive skin. And oh yes that was lovely.

  “Your pulse is quite fast,” he murmured against the harried flutter.

  “If it bursts through my skin, my death will be on your hands.”

  “Well, we cannot have that,” he said, laving that tender place with the flat of his tongue, lifting her higher along his thigh.

  A soft, surprised moan escaped her and he growled in response, taking her mouth again. He gripped her hips, his kisses deep and drugging, as if he were feeding his own patented cure-all directly into her veins. And she suddenly felt alive, infused with vitality in the tight cinch of his arms. She wiggled, struggling to get closer, to rise up the length of the leg he braced between hers.

  But just as she was starting to enjoy her symptoms—especially if this was the prescribed medicine—he stopped.

  Abruptly, he lifted his mouth from hers, tucked her head against his panting chest and whispered, “We’re not alone.”

  She startled, trying to hold her breath.

  Sure enough, on the other side of the hedgerow, the sounds of another couple’s amorous encounter drifted to them—a lilting feminine giggle, then a low masculine chuckle.

  “Phillip, not here. We shouldn’t.”

  “My love, I need to be inside you again. To feel your wet flesh clamp tightly around my aching—”

  “Shh! You’re such a naughty boy. But I’ll not let you ruin my dress. No, no. I mean it this time.”

  The statement was followed by a giggle, then the quick patter of receding steps. A gruff chuckle answered as heavy footfalls followed in pursuit.

  Hullworth shifted his hold, moving his thigh to the outside of her own. But he still held her close—close enough that she felt the hardness of his body, the imposing ridge pressed against her soft midriff. And all at once she understood what he’d meant by more.

  With arms helplessly entwined around his neck, she lifted her gaze, uncertain. “I don’t think kissing was a very good idea.”

  “Likely not,” he said on a taut exhale.

  She nodded, believing it was for the best that they abandon any thoughts of purging the overwhelming urge for more. “Just as long as we’re both aware of what’s between us.”

  “It is utterly undeniable,” he said, easing his mouth over hers briefly for one more searing kiss before setting her apart.

  Her head was still spinning by the time she got home that evening. And it wasn’t until much later, when she was alone in her bed, that she suddenly realized the real reason she didn’t want to travel to Wiltshire with Hullworth. Because it meant that she would be side by side, between the man she planned to marry and the man she couldn’t seem to stop kissing.

  Chapter 15

  “Take heed—a marriage-minded gentleman may darken your door when least expected.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  The following morning, Mr. Rivers handed Ellie a missive from Lord Hullworth. She accepted it with a mere nod of thanks, but inside her heart suddenly burst into a ramshackle rhythm that threatened to bore a fatal hole through the cage of her ribs.

  Stealing upstairs to her bedchamber, she pressed the folded letter to her bosom and closed her eyes, willing herself to live long enough to read it. And she wondered if, perhaps, it contained another startling admission like the one he’d confessed about her pink skin last night.

  But in the minute that followed, as she greedily skimmed the efficient scrawl, she realized there were no such passionate declarations on the page. Which was a relief, of course. Because she should only want love letters from George.

  The contents pertained to their travel arrangements. She was both awed and amazed over the amount of work he’d managed to accomplish in the matter of a few hours. Apparently, they were set to leave the day after next. He even offered the use of his own serving staff to aid the preparations of her and her aunts, if need be.

  And then the letter was signed: Your friend, B

  Somehow the mere mention of the word friend caused her body to react with a flood of heat and heady pulses that left her in need of a cool breeze. But the morning air through her open window was stifled and humid, frizzing her hair. She had to settle for splashing water into the basin to dampen a square of flannel, wringing it out before she bathed the perspiration from the surface of her skin.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss last night. It had become part of her being, as identifiable as the color of her eyes. Her tongue knew his taste. Her nose knew his scent. And her body knew the feel of him against her as if he’d left an indelible imprint behind.

  This intimate knowledge was something she would have to accustom herself to as the years passed. And when she married George, she would just consider this her one and only, well-sown oat.

  By the time afternoon arrived, she managed to pull herself together enough to agree on taking a jaunt with her aunts. However, that didn’t mean her thoughts weren’t still lingering in the gardens at Sutherfield Terrace. In fact, as she left her bedchamber, she realized she was dressed in a walking costume of mossy green velveteen that suspiciously resembled a certain gentleman’s eyes. She only hoped no one else would notice.

  Coming down the stairs to the foyer, Ellie stopped short when Mr. Rivers opened the door to Lord Nethersole.

  “And don’t you look fetching,” George said, causing her heart to leap guiltily in her throat as he swaggered toward her. “Your eyes are bright, cheeks aglow. You must be thinking about me, hmm?”

  “Of . . . course . . .” She swallowed, gripping the banister. “My thoughts would be on you since I haven’t seen you in more than a week. Doubtless, you’ve come to discuss the changes in our travel plans.” When he stared back at her blankly, she added, “I wrote about it in the missives I sent to your house.”

  Removing his gloves, one after the other, he shrugged. “I just returned yesterday to find heaps upon heaps of letters and ledgers that my steward is waiting for me to read through. But I ask you, Ellie, what’s the point of paying his salary if I have to do all the work? One of these days, I’ll just leave all that up to you.”

  Usually, when he mentioned one of these days, she could picture their life together—their wedding, their children, their house in the country with a familiar view from every window. But that didn’t happen this time. Her mind remained blank, like an empty slate.

  Surely, that meant nothing. Her hopes for a future with George were still the same. She simply had other things on her mind, like packing for the trip and closing up the house and midnight kisses . . .

  She cleared her throat. “Well, if you haven’t come about the letters, then what brings you here?”

  “What else but my need to see your smiling face?” Stopping at the bottom step, he took her gloved hand and brought it to his lips. “I was out for a ride and my first thought carried me to your door.”

  The news brought a pleased smile to her lips. It was definitely progress in the right direction. “Is that so? Well then, I must know what this thought is so that I might encourage more of them.”

  “It’s this damnable button. Apparently, my valet missed the fact that it’s loose. I certainly don’t look smart enough to dandy about town with my button bobbling.”

  She glanced dutifully at the coat button. “And . . . would you like me to mend it for you?”

  “You see, Ellie. That’s precisely the reason your name popped into my head.”

  Oh. So that was the reason for his visit. She turned away, carefully concealing her disappointment as she headed back upstairs for her sewing basket. Doubtless, her aunts would see this in a positive light, stating that he thought of her when he imagined the perfect someone to mend his buttons.

  In the next moment, she heard them chatting about the confectioner’s shop t
hey planned to visit, and whether or not they could finagle the recipe for custard tarts from him before they left town.

  The instant they saw George pacing impatiently in the parlor doorway, they erupted with bright cheerful greetings. “George!”

  “My darling boy!”

  “Whatever brings you here today?”

  Threading the needle, Ellie exhaled a slow breath as she heard him say, “What other reason than to see your smiling faces?”

  As she had done, they also fawned over him. Only, in her case, she was left feeling foolish.

  “And how did your estate business fare?” Aunt Maeve asked.

  Seeing his brow knitted in confusion as he shrugged out of his coat and absently tossed it to Ellie, Aunt Myrtle supplied, “Remember, dear? That was the reason you’ve been gone for over a week.”

  “Oh, that estate business. Right. Well, funny thing is, I’ll have to go out of town again tomorrow morning for the same reason.”

  “But we’re leaving earlier than planned for Wiltshire. Lord Hullworth and his sister will be here the day after next. Didn’t Elodie mention it?”

  “I didn’t have the chance yet,” Ellie interjected as she continued her task, not bothering to mention the three letters she’d sent to George’s town house, informing him of the abrupt decision to travel ahead of schedule.

  “No need,” George said, dusting his hands together. “If it’s settled, then all the better for me. The last time I traveled with the three of you, we had to go back a half dozen times because of something you’d forgotten.” He chuckled, not remembering the story correctly. The trip they’d taken together was to leave him at school, and the reason they’d gone back was because he had forgotten his favorite riding crop. “I’d sooner give Hullworth the onerous task of wrangling you lot into a carriage and save the fun for me.”

  “George!” Aunt Maeve said with a playful swat on his shoulder. And Aunt Myrtle did the same, saying, “Incorrigible, boy!”

  Ellie frowned down at the button, tying the brown thread before she snipped the end cleanly with her scissors. “All finished.”

  George moved toward the settee and took the coat but then set his finger beneath her chin, tilting up her face. “What’s all this gloom about? Is it that you find Hullworth’s company abhorrent?”

  “No. Not at all,” she said honestly, ignoring the wayward flutter in the pit of her stomach at the thought of their escort. She stood and smoothed her skirts in place.

  “Then you’re just pouting because you prefer mine, isn’t that right?”

  She smiled at him, but it felt as if it were an applique she had to stitch in place. “Of course.”

  He shrugged into the garment and grinned back at her. “I knew I was right to come here instead of going back to my valet. He’s as slow as treacle in February and I have important places to be.” Then he did something that surprised them all. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Ellie. That’s so you won’t forget about me in the meantime. See you in three days, hmm?”

  She touched her cheek and nodded. “Three days.”

  George winked and sauntered out of the parlor. The aunts waited until the door closed before they made a fuss over his thrilling, yet unexpected, display of affection. They began discussing her wedding cake and whether or not it should be apple and pear, or fig with walnuts.

  But meanwhile, Ellie was distracted by the peculiar realization that the cheek beneath her fingertips remained perfectly cool, and not flushed pink at all.

  * * *

  Ellie decided not to join her aunts when they went to the confectionary shop for recipe espionage. After George’s visit, she didn’t feel like venturing out. Her thoughts were too preoccupied by his impulsive kiss.

  George lived on impulse, often flitting off at a moment’s notice. It was impulse that had brought him to her doorstep to mend his button, and impulse that would likely compel him to marry her. One day.

  The thought usually brought her a measure of comfort. But after last night, she was beginning to wonder if she might not want . . . more.

  She immediately shook her head in denial, chiding herself firmly as she began to stuff her sewing and samplers into a woven valise. “No, Elodie Marie. George is all you’ve ever wanted. As for Hullworth, he isn’t even looking for a wife.” She stopped at once. A wife? Now where had that come from? What part of her own overblown ego believed that she, out of scores and scores of debutantes, had snared London’s favorite bachelor? Ha! Again, she shook her head. “Not that it should matter to you either way. You’re just friends. Friends who . . . really enjoy kissing each other,” she said, her words trailing off on a sigh, until she pricked the tip of her finger on a needle.

  She hissed and drew back sharply as a tiny red dot welled to the surface, then put it to her lips before she bled to death, albeit slowly. Though, an agonizingly lengthy exsanguination would serve her right for spending so much time thinking about the wrong man.

  “Forgive me for coming in unannounced, Miss Parrish.”

  Ellie turned with a start as the man himself stood in the doorway. Her finger jerked out of her mouth with a pop. “Lord Hullworth?”

  “Mr. Rivers is discussing the luggage and trunks with my butler in the foyer and I thought I’d see myself up. I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient—” He broke off, glancing down to her finger, and strode into the parlor without delay. Brow knitted, he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and took her hand in his, pressing the folded linen to her wound. “Surely, you have a thimble to save yourself from injury.”

  “Had I known you would come all this way merely to scold me, I’d have donned a thimble on every finger and thrown them at you, one after the other,” she said with equal curtness, even as her pulse quickened.

  A reluctant grin quirked at the corner of his mouth, his gaze meeting hers and warming as it brushed her cheeks. It was only then that she realized she was blushing. Again.

  “I also came here for another reason.” Leaving the handkerchief in her grasp, he reached into his pocket, then withdrew a small paper-wrapped parcel. “For you.”

  A mixture of uncertainty and anticipation filled her as she stared at the mysterious object. It would be highly improper to accept anything else from him. And yet, the desire to discover the contents therein filled her with such childlike glee that she couldn’t contain it. Absently, she tucked the square of spotted linen up her sleeve, the tiny puncture in her skin indiscernible, and likely not fatal. She took the package. Her fingers trembled as she opened it. Spreading the paper, she found a fresh ledger, the leather cover smooth and warmed from the heat of his body.

  “I hardly know what to say. You have given me so much already . . .” She smoothed her hand over the surface and brought it to her nose to inhale the rich fragrance, feeling a sharp tug on her heart. Looking into Lord Hullworth’s gaze—nay, Brandon’s gaze, for he could only be Brandon to her now—she said, “Thank you.”

  He inclined his head, appearing almost shy. “Open it. There’s something more inside.”

  She complied, unbuttoning the clever fastening to find a thick pad of blank pages, bound and stitched into the spine. He leaned closer to point out a small loop of sueded leather on the side, and said, “That is for a pencil. I thought you would like a fresh ledger for our journey.”

  She gazed at him in speechless wonder, an overwhelming rush of tenderness filling her with that alarming effervescence. It did terrible things to her conflicted heart. And he looked back at her with such intensity that she was sure he was an instant away from pulling her into his embrace.

  He took a step back and shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not certain you do.”

  “You think it would be perfectly natural to rush into my arms and show your appreciation by showering me with kisses. But I won’t have it.”

  Caught off guard, a laugh bubbled out of her. “You won’t?”

  “No, indeed,” he said wi
th mock severity. “After your behavior last night, I must admit that I’ve become worried that you would try to seduce me again.”

  “You’re calling me a seductress?”

  “How else can a man describe a lovely young woman who boldly lures him out into a garden to take advantage of the first opportunity to scramble his wits.”

  “Mmm . . . yes, I see. Have I scarred you, then?”

  He issued a solemn nod. “I may recover; however, there is no guarantee. All I know is that there will be no kissing on our travels, no matter how much you plead with me. I understand how tempted you are. I am London’s most elusive bachelor, after all.”

  “London’s most elusive lunatic, you mean. You are positively mad,” she said, grinning broadly.

  “Then, this madman bids you adieu,” he said with a formal bow and a smile that displayed sprays of the most attractive crinkles beside his eyes.

  For a breathless moment, she couldn’t help but wonder what his smile might look like in twenty years, or in forty. And with her mind wandering—somewhere near his eightieth birthday where she envisioned the most appealing wrinkles of all—he turned and left.

  Alone in the room, Ellie realized that he didn’t call on her to give her the ledger. He came to ease her mind, in case she had any misgivings over traveling with him after their kiss.

  It would likely be prudent of her to cry off . . . but she no longer wished to avoid him. In fact, she was looking forward to the trip.

  That strangely light, unidentifiable sensation bubbled inside her as if her blood were filled with pockets of air, ready to lift her off the ground. A body could explode from such an ailment. And yet, it didn’t cause her a moment’s panic.

  Chapter 16

  “It is entirely possible that Pandora’s box was, in reality, a picnic basket.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat