The Wrong Marquess

by Vivienne Lorret

  Yet, even with all those changes . . .

  Brandon handed her down. Both she and Prue rushed in quick strides down the pristine white stone path. Had it truly been only a year since they’d last seen each other? It felt more like a decade.

  “Prue,” Ellie said with fondness, trying to smile through the sting of impending tears. She reached out with both hands to clasp her friend’s, but instead found herself quickly pulled into a surprisingly strong embrace.

  The instant she felt Prue’s tremor and heard her stifled sob, her own blubbering began.

  “I had convinced myself that you weren’t going to come,” Prue said on a broken breath, muffled against the fabric of Ellie’s spencer.

  “Of course, I came,” she said on a sniff, wishing she had been able to visit sooner. Clearly, the letters had done little to serve as a balm for this isolation, and she couldn’t help but wonder what other pains Prue had endured from her exacting aunt and uncle in these months. “No matter what has occurred, I will always be your friend.”

  Another choked sob gripped her. “Oh, Ellie, I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that. And I am so very sorry for all that has occurred.”

  “You have no need to apologize. I’m fully capable of understanding how these things can happen when we are not quite ourselves.” She never faulted Prue for whatever occurred in the gardens at Sutherfield Terrace. And now that she’d experienced her own moments of unexpected and overwhelming passions, she could easily commiserate with her.

  Lifting her face, Prue swiped the tracks of tears from her cheeks and nodded. “Yes, that is it precisely. I wasn’t myself. Though, that is not to excuse my own actions. To tell you the truth, I thought you would hate me.”

  “Nonsense. I certainly won’t hold a grudge over a handful of letters. It doesn’t matter that you sent Jane twice as many as you sent me. I wasn’t counting.”

  Prue frowned, the flesh above the bridge of her nose corrugated. “Letters?”

  “And it wasn’t as if I spent hours of every day wondering if you saw me as the less interesting friend or any silliness like that.”

  At Prue’s bewildered glance over Ellie’s shoulder, she turned to see George standing there.

  He doffed his hat and sketched a bow. “Miss Thorogood. What a complete pleasure it is to see you after such a lengthy absence. You are even lovelier than I remember.”

  Ellie smiled at him in approval. If nothing else, she could always rely on George’s charming nature to lift her friend’s spirits and put a blush in her cheeks. However, when she turned to face Prue again, she saw that her complexion had gone even whiter.

  At once, Ellie realized that a woman who’d been shunned by society might see the usual flirtations as mockery . . . or even, she thought with a shudder, a threat. After all, it wasn’t uncommon for men to prey upon a woman that society deemed as fallen.

  Looking at Prue’s stark expression, Ellie couldn’t help but wonder, once more, what all she’d endured.

  She came to her friend’s side and took her hand. “George is such a flirt, but you needn’t worry that he means anything by it.”

  “No. Of course not,” Prue said on a swallow and slipped her hand free to chafe it roughly down her arm as if she were chilled on this warm sunny day. She glanced toward Brandon and Meg, who were still waiting at a discreet distance.

  Ellie waved her hand, bidding them forth and introducing them.

  Ever the gentleman, Brandon was amiable and engaging, remarking on what a perfectly situated house her aunt and uncle had. And Meg was so affable and effervescent that it was impossible not to like her.

  And yet, after the introduction, Prue seemed withdrawn and tired, like a person who’d arisen from a sickbed all too soon.

  “I wish I could I invite each of you inside,” Prue began, her feet shifting on the stones, “but my aunt and uncle are at the vicar’s cottage on their usual morning visit and they don’t approve of callers when they are not at home.”

  “Of course,” Ellie said immediately, though with some surprise. She wondered why Prue’s missive had suggested they come at this time if she expected her aunt and uncle to be out. “I can call later, or even tomorrow if you prefer.”

  Prue nodded. “I’ll send a card to you and we’ll decide from there. It’s just that”—she paused, hesitating, and lowered her voice—“I’m not entirely myself at the moment.”

  Ellie nodded in quick understanding. It stood to reason that Prue might very well feel uncomfortable in the presence of too many people who weren’t well acquainted with her. Or she might have been overwhelmed and needed time to acclimate herself to society, small though it was.

  Worried about her friend, Ellie offered a supportive smile. “I will be here whenever you wish, for as long as you wish. My aunts and I have no fixed engagements for the coming weeks, and Lord Hullworth has been more than generous to offer us lodging.”

  “Any friend of Miss Parrish is welcome to Crossmoor Abbey, as well,” Brandon offered gallantly as he came to stand by Ellie’s side.

  George stepped forward again. “And I’m planning to take a house in the area soon. I’ll undoubtedly have a party to celebrate. Until then, Miss Thorogood, I am ever your servant.”

  He reached out and grasped Prue’s fingertips, but she frowned and snatched back her hand. Cheeks aflame, she looked at Ellie one more time.

  “You must forgive me, but I . . .” Her words trailed off as she shook her head. Then she rushed back inside.

  When the door closed, Ellie swatted his arm. “George, I would thank you not to terrify my shy friend in the future.”

  “What did I do but pay her a compliment?”

  She heaved out an exasperated breath. How to explain George to himself?

  As they headed down the path toward the waiting carriage, she said, “Prue is reserved and quiet. Someone with your nature is likely to send her into hiding. So please, as a favor to me, try to be on your best behavior.”

  “Well, that’s the thing of it, Ellie. I’m always on my very best behavior when I’m with you.” He winked before he sauntered off toward the horse. Calling over his shoulder, he said, “And now, I’m off to take a scenic tour myself. You don’t mind if I keep this Arabian a bit longer, do you, Hullworth? Good.”

  George never really gave Brandon a chance to answer. He simply untied the horse, stepped into the stirrup and swung his leg over. Then he spurred his mount and set off.

  Chagrined, she turned to face Brandon. “I apologize for George. He means well, but occasionally takes things for granted. I’ll have a talk with him later.”

  “It’s clear that he takes a good deal for granted”—he frowned, watching the rider disappear down the lane, then he looked down at her—“including you.”

  She bristled but only mildly because she happened to notice the same thing. “That isn’t fair.”

  “Perhaps not. But neither is it your place to apologize for a grown man. He’s accountable for his own actions and, if I have an issue, I will speak with him myself.”

  She nodded in agreement and walked beside him to the carriage. “As for my friend, I mistakenly believed that she would be eager for society. Had I known the truth, I’d never have pulled you away from estate duties you doubtlessly need to attend to after being in town for months.”

  “Your only fault, Miss Parrish—at least as far as I can tell—is that you mistakenly imagine that I would rather be holed up in my study, poring over estate ledgers, instead of enjoying this beautiful day with you and my sister.”

  His frank statement caused a rush of ebullience to leaven her mood, making her feel lighter and brighter. She tried not to let it show as she slipped her hand into his waiting grasp. “But surely you have other obligations.”

  “Come to think of it, I do,” he said, assisting her into the carriage. “I have it under good authority that there are plums ready for picking in the grove. I would be shirking my responsibility, indeed, if I did not see for myself.
But I would require assistance, of course. Meg is never any help. The indolent plum-eater merely picks one and sits beneath a tree to devour it.”

  Meg scoffed. “Pay no attention to him, Ellie. He’ll have you believe that he doesn’t eat as many as he picks. He hardly leaves enough from the first harvest for our cook to make the most divine plum and rosemary sauce. It’s a secret family recipe. I can already hear Maeve and Myrtle trying to wheedle it out of my aunt Sylvia.”

  “You know them so well,” Ellie said with a laugh. Then she looked to Brandon and, without any fear of bee stings or falling branches or whatever nonsense her mind could conjure, she said, “I should like nothing better.”

  It wasn’t until much later that she thought about George at all.

  Chapter 24

  “Patience is a gentleman’s greatest asset . . . even if it should kill him.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  Brandon wondered if anyone, other than Ellie, would truly mind if he just happened to murder George by accident.

  He’d been having a glorious afternoon with Ellie in the grove. Meg had conveniently abandoned them, once she’d declared she had picked the perfect plum, then sat beneath a tree to appreciate it. During that time, Brandon had assisted Ellie. Since she was afraid of ladders, he was obliged to lift her by the waist on occasion to reach her intended fruit, and stole a kiss or two as he lowered his blushing armful to the ground.

  It was a superb day until . . . he walked into the stables as Nethersole returned his Arabian with a slight limp. The man-child merely shrugged and suggested that the horse had taken a rock. Which ended up being true. Nevertheless, his insouciant manner of delivery poked at Brandon’s ire.

  Then during dinner, Brandon again endured Nethersole’s countless tales of life with his Ellie. And now, in the music room, he had to listen to Nethersole sing and entertain everyone while Ellie accompanied him on the piano. The worst part of it was, they were actually good together. Her fingers were light and quick on the ivories and he had a baritone rich enough to earn him a place on any stage.

  But if Nethersole rested his hand on her shoulder or winked at her one more time then . . .

  Well, that brought Brandon back to his quandary. How to murder Nethersole and make it look like an accident?

  “I’ve seen that look before, nephew,” Sylvia said as she strolled over to where he was standing near the open balcony.

  Hoping that his lethal thoughts weren’t obvious, he attempted a harmless smile. “And what look is that?”

  “Thoroughly besotted,” she said and he expelled a breath of relief.

  His gaze naturally settled on the lovely pianist across the room. “I am, indeed.”

  “I’m glad for you, truly.” She patted the hand he had resting on the balustrade. “It is also clear that you are ready to begin the rest of your life. And, if you are anything like your uncle, you don’t want to wait a single day.”

  The mention brought a smile to his lips. “I never knew Uncle Phillip was impatient.”

  “Oh, yes. He was the most persistent and stubborn man I ever knew,” she said fondly, her eyes soft and wistful. “Back when he was courting me, he had the same look that you’re wearing now. I don’t know if he ever told you our story, but I was once in Ellie’s shoes. At the time I met Phillip, I was thoroughly besotted with someone else.” At her nephew’s surprise, she nodded. “That gentleman had been courting me with the intention of marriage and I couldn’t wait to be his wife.”

  Brandon frowned. This was nothing like the fated story his uncle had told, the one that he and his cousin would roll their eyes over whenever they heard it.

  “But then, one day, Phillip knocked on my door by mistake,” she continued. “He was actually paying a call on my neighbor, the beautiful Miss Trentham, who was like a siren to the men of the ton. In fact, he wasn’t even the first to mistake my address for hers. And yet, I took one look at him and all at once I knew—”

  “That he was the one you were going to marry,” Brandon interrupted with dogged certainty and relief, until his aunt shook her head.

  “—that I wanted to avoid him at all cost,” she admitted candidly. “There was something too magnetic, too potent, about him. It frightened me. And, more than that, it made me question my feelings for the other man. Your uncle, stubborn as he was, had already made up his mind about our marrying, no matter what I told him to the contrary. So he decided that I needed prodding. He kept pushing and pushing, and the harder he pushed the more I wanted to give my heart and soul to the other gentleman. What I felt for that man hadn’t frightened me at all. It was simple and pure and we could have had a fine life together.”

  Again Brandon frowned, feeling the sting of betrayal on his uncle’s behalf. “I thought you always said that you regretted waiting a single day to marry Uncle Phillip.”

  “It’s true. I do regret it. But I never would have waited if Phillip had just given me a moment to breathe and to realize how much I’d loved him from the very start.”

  The news did not improve Brandon’s mood. If he recalled correctly, at the start of his acquaintance with Ellie, she called him King Goose. Not exactly an auspicious beginning. “But what if Uncle Phillip had given you room to breathe as you’d asked? You might not have realized he was sincere and determined. You might have chosen to marry the wrong man.”

  She shook her head. A silver tendril escaped the tight coil at her nape and drifted against her cheek. She absently brushed it back, her gaze straying to the gold band she still wore on her finger. “There was never any chance of that. There was no passion between the other man and myself. I didn’t blush whenever I looked into his eyes. But when I looked at Phillip”—she breathed in and out with a wan smile on her lips—“I could see midnight stars and sunrises enough to fill my entire life.” Then she looked at Brandon. “I want that for you.”

  “But what if,” he hesitated as he glanced across the music room to see Ellie smiling up at Nethersole as they reached the crescendo, “she still doesn’t choose me?”

  Lifting her hand, Sylvia touched his cheek with a fond pat. “Then you deserve someone who does. It’s as simple as that. And as difficult as that.”

  As she left the room, he stared after her and pensively watched the vacant doorway, thinking of his next steps. Every part of him yearned to haul Ellie up from the piano bench, kiss her soundly and leave no question in her mind or in anyone else’s how right they were for each other.

  But that wasn’t the answer. Just because he was certain, didn’t mean she was. And the last thing he wanted was to push his skittish Ellie into Nethersole’s arms.

  If he’d learned anything from his experience with Phoebe, it was that he wanted to be his wife’s first choice. Her only choice. And if that meant he had to give Ellie room to decide, then he would do that, even if it killed him.

  Therefore, at the end of the evening, he did not ask about her plans for the morrow or speak of his own hope to watch the sunrise again with her. He merely bid her a good night in the same manner that he did her aunts, his sister and . . . George.

  * * *

  Early the following morning, Brandon walked to the loggia without any expectation.

  Lamp in hand, he entered the long gallery. Then he smiled when he saw the silhouette framed by the pale lavender of fading night and a single candle flame.

  “Good morning, Ellie.”

  The way she tucked her chin to her chest told him that she was blushing. “Good morning, Brandon.”

  He wanted to pull her into his arms so badly that resisting the urge was like trying to stop a boulder from careening down a mountain. Somehow he managed, but found himself flirting quite close to temptation by leaning against the other side of the door frame. Close enough that the hem of her dress brushed the toes of his top boots. Close enough that her sweet fragrance filled every breath. And close enough to see that her gaze slipped to the open neck of his shirt.

 
“Are we watching the sunrise together?” he asked, deciding to cross his arms so he didn’t accidentally reach out, grab her and kiss her a thousand times. And he noticed that she started to fuss with the end of the sash tied at her waist as if she were struggling with some inner temptation too.

  “I thought we might. However,” she said, hesitating as she drew in a breath and he suspected he knew what she was about to say, “I also wanted to speak to you about yesterday.”

  “And would this be in regard to the carriage or the grove?”

  “Both, actually.” Her gaze dipped again to his chest, her fingernail beginning to fray the edge. “You shouldn’t have called me sweetheart in front of your sister. Nor should you have kissed me in the full light of day where anyone might have happened upon us beneath that tree.”

  “Don’t forget the other tree.”

  “I could hardly forget that one . . .”

  “Neither could I,” he murmured, listing closer. But then, remembering what his aunt had said, he stopped, telling himself to be strong. “Nevertheless, I’ll have you know that I gave myself a stern lecture for my behavior.”

  “Did you?” she asked with a small grin.

  He issued a scholarly nod, his lips pursed. “Then, of course, myself countered with the argument that he regretted none of his actions and that, if given the chance to live those stolen moments in the grove all over again, he wouldn’t change a single thing.”

  “I see,” she said and swallowed. “Well, I had a similar conversation with myself but she wasn’t nearly as strong-minded.”

  “The bashful sort, hmm?”

  She nodded. “It stands to reason that she would be, considering that she has always imagined spending her life with a man who was not with her at the grove or at the . . . um . . . inn.”

  “And now?” Brandon asked, his gaze drifting to the pulse fluttering at her throat, beneath the surface of the delicate skin where his lips had been not a full day ago. Damn but he wanted to return to that spot.