* * *
There she goes again, Brandon thought wryly as Ellie quickly stepped apart from him. However, he wasn’t overly concerned by her withdrawal this time. His confidence was leavened by her responses to him, not only at the inn earlier, but in her simple unconscious gestures—taking his hand, gazing at him as he rode beside the carriage, teasing and smiling.
She likely didn’t realize it, but she’d spent more time frowning at Nethersole than not. And Brandon found tremendous promise in that.
He gathered that Ellie hadn’t spent much of her life truly seeing Nethersole for the immature, spoiled man-child that he was. He kept to a circle of adoring sycophants, but was otherwise seen among the gentlemen of the ton as a cocksure noble with more bollocks than brains. And now Ellie was getting a glimpse of it.
Witnessing her displeasure at a number of Nethersole’s comments and actions had given Brandon an idea.
“Nethersole, I insist you stay here instead of at the inn. That way, you’ll save me from sending out a messenger whenever the ladies decide to have a picnic, a sail on the pond, or a ride on horseback through the—”
“You won’t get Ellie on a horse,” Nethersole interrupted with a laugh. “She’s afraid of them.”
“I’m not afraid. That would be silly, considering they’re everywhere and provide our means of transportation. The reason I don’t ride is more about”—she swallowed—“having no desire to fall from a great height while moving at an alarming speed.”
Brandon felt the flesh of his brow pucker. “But what about the phaeton in the park?”
“Couldn’t go through with it,” Nethersole interjected with a chuckle. “Clambered down so fast the groom couldn’t catch her.”
A tide of anger swept through Brandon at the knowledge that Nethersole had known of her fear and had put her on the high perch of a phaeton regardless. It was quite clear that he’d done nothing to aid or reassure her. Because of that, she’d suffered a moment of panic and an injured ankle that day.
But what if that panic had overtaken her later, while Nethersole was driving her pell-mell through the park?
A shudder coursed through Brandon, white-hot and seething inside his veins. He clenched his fists, wanting to rail at Nethersole for putting her in danger. A turned ankle was the mildest of injuries she might have suffered. And now the unconscionable arse had the nerve to just stand there and tease her as if she were the butt of a long-standing joke?
This was the man she wanted to marry? Well, Brandon would see about that.
Drawing in a breath through his teeth, he cooled his temper enough to continue. “Aside from riding, there will be numerous opportunities for all of us to become better acquainted, not to mention the jaunts to the village to meet with Miss Parrish’s friend.” He turned his gaze to Ellie. “Of course, I plan to extend an invitation for her to stay here, as well, along with her aunt and uncle.”
Ellie’s eyes brightened, the corners of her mouth lifting. “That would be simply splendid.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it would be too much of an inconvenience to have my things moved,” Nethersole said as if bored.
“Good. Then, I’ll send a footman to the inn. In the meantime, I leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Tidwell. He’ll see you to Stredwick Lodge for you to relax before dinner this evening.”
Even though the courtesy pained Brandon, he no longer wanted to exclude the other man. Erecting a blockade between Ellie and Nethersole would likely compel her to latch on to the idea of marrying him all the more. And that was the last thing Brandon wanted.
She needed to see for herself and to choose the better man.
But that didn’t mean he was simply going to sit as a passive observer. No, indeed. Brandon planned to help Ellie realize that the chemistry between them was undeniable and their future inevitable.
Chapter 20
“A debutante mustn’t panic when her heart stumbles.”
—A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat
The aunts and Meg decided to rest after their long journey. Ellie tried to nap as well, but there was no convincing her eyelids to stay shut. The views from her perfectly situated, cerulean-blue bedchamber were too beautiful to leave unadmired.
The interior of her spacious room was lovely, as well. Her canopied bed hosted an array of sumptuous pillows, and the intricately embroidered coverlet caused her a pang of envy as she passed her hand over the silken threads.
The tables and wardrobe were a smooth satinwood with polished silver knobs, and the thickly woven carpet a delight beneath her bare feet. The open window framed a lovely picture of the cloud-dappled summer sky, as a gentle breeze blew in the scents of fresh hay and honeysuckle. From the colorful gardens, lush meadows and verdant woodlands gilded by the late afternoon sunlight, every part of nature blended seamlessly into the next like an intricately stitched tapestry.
She wanted to see it all before evening fell, but it wasn’t in her nature to go off wandering on her own. Typically, her friend Jane had to prod and cajole her into risking any potentially dangerous escapade. But Ellie couldn’t seem to find a reason to linger in her bedchamber when a whole new world waited beyond the door.
Thankfully, the maid had already pressed her pale lilac and bronze striped evening gown and left it hanging on the wardrobe. If there was one benefit to Ellie’s recurring nightmare, it was that she usually awoke before the servants and could manage the fastenings of her corset and dresses on her own. Her hair was another story. However, with a quick brushing, an artful twist and a few pins, she managed.
Pristine white wainscoted walls adorned with polished brass sconces led her through the guest wing and to the stairs. As she descended, she caught herself wondering about the other wing of the house where Brandon slept. A shameful rise of unmaidenly interest sparked at the mere idea of exploring that part of the house and accidentally stumbling upon his bedchamber.
Would he be resting now? Perhaps lying on his bed? Shirtless? And were the linens molded to all the hard planes and ridges of his body the same way she had been . . .
“Might I help you, Miss Parrish?”
She turned with a guilty yelp to find a maid standing there, her freckled face smiling beneath the ruffled cap. Then, true to her nature, Ellie tried to hide the embarrassment over her skittish outburst by nervously beginning to ramble. “Good day. I was just exploring a bit. But, of course, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere that . . . would have been unseemly for an unmarried . . . um . . . How do you already know my name?”
“Oh, we’ve been all astir for your arrival, miss.”
Ellie’s heart gave an uncertain leap. Then, she told herself that it couldn’t have simply been her arrival that set the collective “we” of Crossmoor Abbey astir. “I imagine that it’s good to have Lord Hullworth and Miss Stredwick here again.”
“Aye, miss,” she agreed with a friendly air, tucking the feather duster behind her back as her gray service dress swished about her legs. “His lordship doesn’t stay all too often, just a few days a month to see to estate matters and visit the Dowager Lady Hullworth. But we’re all hoping that’ll change now. After all, it’s been many a year since the abbey was a genuine home, filled with laughter and parties and the like.”
Ah. It was precisely what Ellie feared. This maid had the wrong idea about the purpose of her visit. Not wanting to build up false hopes, she decided to state things perfectly clearly.
“This wasn’t a planned holiday. In fact, it came upon us rather suddenly,” she said. Yet, as the maid’s smile only grew wider and wider, Ellie realized it came upon us rather suddenly could have been misconstrued to suggest an act of impromptu passion. Much like at the inn earlier. And all at once she was thinking about that wondrous cataclysm again. “Lord Hullworth . . . um . . . extended the invitation to my aunts and me out of generosity.”
“Aye, miss. His lordship is generous, indeed. And fair-minded and good-natured, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “He is, indeed, all those things and . . . has many other fine qualities, I’m sure.”
The maid giggled. “You’re blushing, miss. Me mam always says a girl knows it’s true love when she blushes at the mere thought of her man, even when he’s not around.”
“Oh, but he’s not my . . . You see, I blush all the time . . . a terrible failing . . .”
“Becca,” a woman called, her voice gently chiding. “Leave poor Miss Parrish alone. And I believe that duster is required in the drawing room.”
“Yes, my lady.” The maid bit her lip, trying to hide her smile as she bobbed a curtsy. “It was a grand pleasure, miss. If you need anything at all, just ask for Becca.”
Ellie wished her cheeks weren’t aflame when she met the woman who could only be Brandon’s aunt, but there was no hope for it. Turning, she saw an older woman in a black dress and wide-brimmed bonnet cross the room in a graceful stride, while stripping off a pair of soiled gardening gloves.
“I know it isn’t done this way, but I’m Lady Hullworth. You must call me Sylvia, Miss Parrish,” she said with a warm, easy smile that creased the delicate ivory skin around her blue eyes.
“Ellie, please,” she said, clasping the older woman’s fine-boned hand.
With a gracious nod, Sylvia removed her hat and touched her pale hair, absently smoothing the wayward moon-silver strands that escaped her coiffure. Even though the widow was likely well into her fifth decade, she possessed the air of someone perpetually youthful.
“You must forgive the maids, Ellie. I’m afraid the belief that spring is in the air has been with us since the day I received Brandon’s letter announcing his plan to bring you to the abbey. The instant I told them to prepare for female guests, they became all a dither, hoping that Cupid’s arrow had finally struck.” Seeing Ellie adamantly shake her head, she issued a light laugh. “Fear not, my nephew explained the whole of it to me just now when I met him in the stables.”
Ellie expelled a sigh of relief and nodded. “I’m glad. I should hate for there to be any misunderstanding.”
“I can see that you would,” she said, gazing at her thoughtfully. “My nephew prefers certainty, too. I’ve found that those who’ve experienced great loss often dislike the unknown. After all, surprises can lead to all sorts of things that one couldn’t anticipate.”
“Precisely,” Ellie agreed readily, glad to have found someone who understood.
Sylvia lifted her finger as one did when filled with sudden inspiration. Then she smiled again. “Speaking of surprises, there is one task I must see to before I dress for dinner. Would you care to take a walk with me?”
Even though the abrupt change in topic was a trifle puzzling, Ellie nodded without hesitation. “I’d be delighted.”
“Two weeks ago,” she began as they crossed the stately hall and entered an airy corridor lit by the warm glow of late afternoon sun, “a stray twig caught on the hem of my skirt and I unwittingly dragged it into the house. It wasn’t until I plucked the interloper loose that I found the chrysalis attached. A perfect little silken pod. And I brought it in here, to the morning room.”
Opening the door, she gestured to the array of potted plants and flowers in a row before a bank of mullioned windows.
“There. The third one from the left,” she said closing the door behind them.
Curious, Ellie walked over and peered between the leaves. She spotted the chrysalis, but it looked rather wilted and collapsed. Perhaps the little pod had never survived the fall from the tree, after all.
“Oh, it seems we’ve arrived too late,” Sylvia said, peering over her shoulder, but without any disappointment in her tone. In fact, she laughed again.
Puzzled, Ellie turned and saw Sylvia’s gaze directed to the painting over the mantel. She gasped with delight. A golden butterfly was slowly flexing its wings.
Then suddenly, it lifted off, fluttering with haphazard graceful wingbeats.
“Quick. Throw open the window,” Sylvia said, crossing the room.
Ellie scrambled for the handle and turned the latch, pushing one of the lead glass windows open on its vertical hinge. The butterfly fluttered past her, pausing briefly to perch on her flounced sleeve before venturing into the garden beyond.
Watching it alight on the dropping violet falls of an iris, she felt a wistful smile on her lips. “If only all surprises turned out so beautifully.”
Beside her, Sylvia picked the twig out of the plant and twirled it in her fingers, looking down at it thoughtfully. “That is what loss has taught me—to never underestimate the importance of these little accidents or a chance encounter. Even the smallest of obstacles in our paths could very well lead to discovering something beautiful and wondrous. For you,” she said, handing the twig to Ellie before she swept to the door. Smiling over her shoulder, she added, “I must go forth into my own chrysalis or else I’ll never be presentable in time for supper.”
Ellie stared after her hostess. She had the sinking suspicion that she’d just been passed a baton, of sorts, inviting her to open herself up to new possibilities. To Brandon.
What they didn’t realize was that her connection to George had been permanently fused in her mind and in her heart when she was young. Knowing she would marry him had always given her a sense of lasting comfort. She couldn’t simply change her mind and give up all the dreams she had.
With a shake of her head, she put the baton back in the dirt. She was going to marry George and it was time that everyone understood.
* * *
At supper that evening, Ellie endeavored to clear up any misunderstandings. But she wasn’t certain how, other than raising her glass in a toast to George, her future husband.
Thankfully, when they were all gathered in the dining room, she didn’t have to take such drastic measures. George offered her his unwitting assistance by sharing fond remembrances of his youthful days of living in the country, with each story featuring her.
“. . . I’d likely be at the bottom of that pond if not for my Ellie,” he concluded with a wink to her across the table.
That should settle things, she thought, as my Ellie lingered in the air. There should be no further question of who she intended to marry. And when she looked across the table to George, she expected her heart to hitch and her breath to catch. She knew it was bound to happen. It always did whenever he said my Ellie.
So, she waited for it. And she waited.
Seconds ticked by and his conversation resumed to the time he’d fallen from the ladder in his house’s grand library and his Ellie rushed to his side. But still she felt . . . nothing. Her pulse didn’t so much as issue a random flutter. Her lungs were adequately filtering air into the cavities and expelling it without interruption.
In fact, the only difference she noticed was the unpardonable peevishness she felt each time she heard George say libury instead of library. She hated to admit it, but that had always grated on her nerves.
Her gaze wandered to the head of the table to see Brandon already looking at her and she felt that instantaneous tug. Disconcertingly, that was the moment when her heart decided to palpitate. Strenuously. Her veins flooded with warm currents of blood that colored her cheeks. Her lungs constricted to the point of aching beneath the confines of her corset as if she were trapped inside the woven silk of a chrysalis.
More than anything, she wanted to be free of it.
And yet, the terrible sensation stayed with her even after dinner, when they gathered in the parlor, waiting for the gentlemen to join them for cards.
Ellie caught herself holding her breath as she watched the door. She forgot to make her wager, and Meg had to prod her to slide a fish token to the center of the table. She missed countless tricks, her nerves twitching like a cat’s whiskers at the slightest sound from the hall. She kept wondering when Brandon would come. Would he sit beside her? Would their hands brush accidentally on the table? Would she blush and give herself awa
y? Would she ever be able to look at him again and not think of their illicit encounter?
A shadow crossed the open doorway. In the same instant, Aunt Myrtle emitted a happy chirrup, “I won! I won! I won!” and Ellie yelped, nearly jumping out of her seat.
“Gracious sakes,” Aunt Maeve chided, a hand splayed over her bosom. “The two of you could deliver a heart seizure to a corpse.”
Aunt Myrtle laughed merrily, greedily drawing the tokens toward her as if they were sugar-glazed comfits. “My apologies. I didn’t realize I could be so invested in the outcome. But when Ellie kept discarding all the hearts, I got rather excited.”
Ellie looked down at her pitiful hand and laid them out like a fan on the table. “I’m afraid I don’t have a head for cards today. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll retire early.”
“Are you unwell?” Sylvia asked with concern.
With a quick shake of her head, she eased her hostess’s mind. “Perfectly hale. A bit tired from the travel, perhaps.”
Just as she stood, George strode in and called out merrily, “I say, who’s ready for a right proper trouncing at cards?”
Her aunts laughed, welcoming him over to the vacant chair.
As he ambled closer, Ellie noticed that his gaze was slightly pickled. She’d witnessed the sight too often not to recognize the signs of overimbibing. Oh, George, she thought despairingly, why couldn’t you be on your best behavior for one single night?
She glanced nervously at the doorway, expecting their host forthwith. But when Brandon didn’t appear, she stayed George with a hand on his sleeve. “Did Lord Hullworth not accompany you from the dining room?”
“Had a matter to attend in the stables,” he said, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “We chatted about you, though.”
Her stomach gave a queer flip. “Whyever . . . would you . . . talk about me?”
“He wanted to know all about little Elodie Parrish and if she was always afraid of horses. And you know what I told him? That my Ellie was an adorable little coward in a pinafore and ringlets,” he said with a wink and then turned toward the table, chafing his hands together. “Prepare yourselves, ladies. I take no prisoners, you know. Not even you, Miss Myrtle Parrish. I see all those fish you’re hoarding. Well, they are about to find more welcome shores.”
The Wrong Marquess Page 22