Turning away to face the darkened window, he saw something that surprised him in the reflective glass.
Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who cringed in that moment. Miss Thorogood didn’t appear to like the idea of Nethersole and Ellie marrying either. But was her expression because of concern for her friend’s ultimate happiness? Or was there another reason?
Chapter 27
“Acts of lunacy can be liberating.”
—A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat
The following morning, Ellie stood by the door to the loggia, a single chamberstick in her grasp, thinking of her conversation with Prue.
She should be glad that her friend had come and they’d finally shared the conversation that Ellie had been needing to hear, confiding in each other as the friends they used to be. And yet, by the time they’d joined the others, Prue had slipped back into her distant self, hardly speaking a word.
Turning back to the sky lit by only a band of silver-frothed clouds along the horizon, Ellie tried to reason it out. It was understandable, she supposed, that Prue likely felt as if she were under the quizzing glass every time she stepped out into society since her expulsion from town. And, last night, George hadn’t helped matters any.
He had been . . . well . . . different. For the most part, he’d behaved himself, which Ellie appreciated, of course. But there was just something peculiar about his sudden decision to play the gentleman.
At one point, when they’d gathered in the parlor after dinner, he’d insisted on holding Ellie’s chair. Then as he’d nudged her forward, he’d bent low and whispered in her ear, “You look quite fetching, Ellie. If I wasn’t already besotted with you, I would most assuredly be tonight.”
Her breath had quickened, but more in surprise than pleasure, and her heart had not fluttered. Instead, it beat in a disorderly rhythm, her stomach twisting in guilty knots as her gaze swerved to Brandon, only to see him looking over at her with a glower.
Ellie felt as though she were standing in the center of a seesaw. Part of her wanted to cross the room to Brandon and place her hand over his, letting the statement speak to the entire party. But another part of her clung to the idea of marrying George, because that’s what she had done her whole life and it didn’t scare her as much as the unknown that a life with Brandon offered.
Confused, she had returned her attention to George as he assisted Prue with her chair. In that instant, she caught sight of his ungloved fingertips absently brush along the bare skin of her friend’s shoulder, just above her clavicle. Prue had stiffened, casting an alarmed glance to Ellie, clearly uncomfortable. George’s gaze alighted on Ellie, too. He’d begged forgiveness for the accidental touch, blaming it on clumsiness.
But Prue had not been the same for the rest of the evening. In fact, she’d appeared more than withdrawn, but stricken and lost. And Ellie’s heart ached for her. She found herself also wishing to go back in time, back to before Lord F—whoever he was—had entered her friend’s life.
Distracted by these thoughts from the previous evening, she only heard Brandon’s approach when his footfalls were directly behind her. She turned to see him, eager to be drawn away from these musings.
“Good morning,” she said, but frowned when she saw him coming toward her in a dark blue morning coat and cravat. “You’re dressed.”
He flashed a grin. “The disappointment in your tone does my ego tremendous good.”
“Your ego requires no assistance, I’m sure,” she said dryly as he reached out to take her chamberstick. And just before he pinched the flame to immerse them into the surrounding shadows, she thought she noticed the dubious lift of his brow.
“The reason I am dressed,” he offered as he took her hand, his voice low and intimate, “is because we are not watching the sunrise from here.”
A pleasurable shiver chased through her, and her breath caught at the feel of his lips on her fingers. “We’re not?”
“I have something else in store for you, Miss Parrish.”
He left his statement to hang mysteriously in the darkness as he led her through the gallery and down the hall to the stairs. It surprised her even more when he took her outside.
They walked together, their steps guided by the silver light of a gibbous moon rising above the tree line and the pale sliver of gold on the horizon. He took them beyond the formal terraced gardens, and stepped down behind a wall of climbing roses.
A laugh escaped her, the instant she saw what he had in store for her.
There, resting atop the still, glassy surface of the rectangular reflecting pool, sat a rowboat.
Ellie was caught somewhere between amusement and adoration at the sight. Turning, she gazed up at him with a smile that felt as if dawn were breaking inside her, shining out like a beacon. “You are a madman.”
“Obviously,” he said drolly, leading her to the side of the pool. Standing there, he began to speak with all seriousness as if he were a sailing tutor, and she had to smile. “Now, the first things one does before setting sail, is to ensure the seaworthiness of the vessel and the weather conditions. Do you see a leak? Is the hull making any alarming groaning noises? Are the clouds threatening gale force winds or storms? Are the waves rising over the bow?”
“No. But . . . you do realize, do you not, that my fear of boats is more about capsizing and being carried under the waves? If we were to capsize in your pool, the worst I would suffer is a wet hem and ruined slippers.”
“Well, if you are fearful on that account, then I would not object to you removing any article of clothing you choose. I’ll even assist, if you like.”
“How gallant,” she laughed.
With a roguish glint, he turned from her and swung a leg into the shallow vessel, gripping the sides. It rocked for a moment, shifting beneath him with a splash that lapped water up to the lip surrounding the pool, but he quickly found purchase and sat on the cross thwart near the stern.
“Steady on, Parrish. I’ve got you,” he said, extending his hand toward her.
Without hesitation, she took it. However, her own efforts to navigate the side of the pool and up into the boat were far less impressive. Her knees and ankles gave her all the support of isinglass jellies and she ended up falling onto him with an unladylike grunt.
He chuckled and arranged her limbs so that she was sitting before him, his arm around her waist, her bottom perched intimately between his solid, widespread thighs. Goodness! Facing away as she was, he couldn’t see her blush, and yet she had no doubt he knew her cheeks were aflame.
“See?” he said, his husky voice slipping inside the whorls of her ear to curl pleasantly inside her body. “It just took a moment to gain our sea legs.”
“You make approaching my fears seem so simple. But if we were on the river—”
“Then we would go through our inspection, just as we did here,” he said assuredly. “But we’re not facing the river today. No amount of worry will make us suddenly appear on the river either. We are here in this ridiculously tiny boat on the reflecting pool awaiting the sunrise together. And the most important question is, how do you feel in this moment?”
As jolting as it was to sit thusly, there was no denying how safe, warm and secure she felt. She was lulled by the steady cadence of his breathing at her back and the gentle rolling lap of water against the hull. As if it were the most natural thing, she eased fully against him, resting her head near the curve of his throat, her fingertips roaming lightly over his, exploring the knobs of his knuckles and sparse dusting of hair.
“I feel contentment. And the boat isn’t ridiculously tiny, at all. It’s cozy.”
Against her temple, his lips curved in a grin. “As you say.”
They said nothing after that, but only watched the sun rise on a new day until golden light shimmered over the pool and gilded the dewdrops on every petal, leaf, and blade of grass, turning the world around them into a tapestry of rich colors.
A while later, h
e helped her out of the boat as it teetered beneath her feet, escorting her over the edge to solid ground. Curling her hand into the crook of his arm, he led the way back. But instead of taking a direct path, he turned and began the longer walk around the side of the abbey.
She knew why in an instant. He was helping her avoid the arches of the lower loggia which led to the main hall at the rear of the house.
Ellie tugged on his hand, halting him. “There’s no need to go around.”
“Are you certain?” he asked, his warm hand lifting to cradle her jaw as he tilted up her chin, his eyes searching hers.
She nodded and they walked together toward the loggia. “Although, I am tempted to take the long way around, if only to keep this morning from ending.”
“Then I’ll endeavor to make tomorrow morning its equal. In fact, I might already have a plan.”
She slid a sideways glance to him. “Should I be worried?”
“Should you be? No,” he said with utter assuredness that gave her comfort. Then he smiled and brought her fingertips to his lips. “But I know you will be, regardless.”
* * *
The next morning, Ellie felt perfectly justified for having nursed a small kernel of apprehension the previous day. “You must be joking!”
“Afraid not,” he said gravely. “I fully intend to get you on the back of that horse.”
Tethered to the post near the mounting block, Samson looked blandly over at her, then went back to eating the hay piled before him. But she wasn’t deceived for a minute. He was enormous. At least seventeen hands high.
“What part of fear of falling to my death don’t you understand?”
“That’s why one always checks the saddle straps to ensure they are secure. Go on, give it a good tug.” He took her numb-fingered hand and guided her through the process. “There. See? Now, you’ll want to ascertain the temperament of your horse. Does he startle easily? Is he agitated and flicking his ears or shifting from side to side?”
She eyed the beast who merely stood there docilely, his big brown eyes blinking slowly. “I think he’s almost asleep.”
“Well then,” he said and without warning, lifted her by the waist and set her feet on the mounting block.
She issued a tiny squeal of alarm. And the only reason she stayed there was because she was leg-locked from terror.
Gripping the stile behind her, she said, “I hope you know that I hate you right now.”
Not bothered in the least by her declaration, he set his own foot in the stirrup and easily swung his leg over. Situated in the saddle, he must have done something with his movements that caused the horse to shift sideways, drawing closer to her.
“Then come here and hate me as much as you like,” he said, holding out his arm. “Or . . . we can just go back inside and I can stop being so overbearing—”
“That isn’t likely,” she groused.
“—and you can go back to doing only the things that make you feel perfectly comfortable, and worrying about the things you’ve never tried before,” he concluded, but there was a knowing smirk lingering in the corner of his mouth, as if he already knew what she’d do.
She narrowed her eyes. “You are insufferable. If I die this morning, I’m going to haunt you for the rest of your life. You’ll never have a moment’s peace.”
“Promise?”
She huffed. The man was far too pleased with himself. And if her hands turned any clammier, then she wouldn’t be able to hold on to the stile.
“I won’t let you fall, sweetheart,” he crooned gently as if she were a skittish horse that needed calming. “Turn around and close your eyes. I think it will be better that way.”
Too afraid she’d lose her nerve if she asked what he had planned, Ellie complied.
In the next instant, she felt the solid strength of his arm slide around her waist. Before she could even form a gasp, he plucked her off the mounting block and pulled her across his lap.
She scrambled over him, clinging and twisting to wrap her arms around his neck, behaving like one of the monkeys at the zoo. But it couldn’t be helped. He issued a grunt of pain and then adjusted her hips so that her bottom was more securely between his thighs. All the while, she kept her eyes screwed shut. Then his hands trailed down her back, arms and hips in soothing passes, easing the panicked tension gathered in the frozen muscles.
With her face buried in his cravat, she breathed in the warm scent of him, taking in huge lungfuls. “Is it . . . over . . . yet?”
But then she felt the horse shift beneath them and she emitted another startled squeak.
“That was just Samson getting used to you, nothing more. You’re safe, Ellie.” His heated palm began working at the knots at the nape of her neck, his lips at her temple. “But I don’t want you to take my word for it. I want you to trust your heart. How do you feel right now, in this moment?”
By the time his capable massage meandered to the small of her back, she felt as supple and relaxed as freshly kneaded dough. A soft sigh escaped as she wiggled closer. His other hand drifted down her leg, aimlessly charting a path around the cap of her knee, pausing to squeeze and soothe and massage. He did that with every pass, down to her stocking-clad ankles and back up again, even over her hip, kneading the plumpness of her flesh, heating her blood to a luscious simmer.
“I feel the strength of your arms around me and your legs beneath me. They’re quite solid, like an arch,” she added with a small grin. “An arch fitted over the saddle.”
His muscles flexed beneath her. “Good. And what else?”
“The drumming of your heart is steady and strong and it makes me feel”—she angled toward him, her fingertips sifting through the wavy layers of his hair—“as if nothing terrible could happen. You wouldn’t allow it.”
“That’s right. I wouldn’t.”
Bravely, she opened her eyes.
But her heart quickened in something just short of alarm. Not because she was afraid of being up so high on Samson’s back, but rather because of the way Brandon was looking at her with such tender intensity that she finally understood exactly what it meant.
He loved her.
Perhaps she’d known it for a while. Though, for some strange reason, she’d wanted to pretend otherwise, as if hiding from the truth would keep her from realizing she loved him too. But it was no use. Somehow, she’d gone from falling slowly to slipping headlong into a love so deep and fathomless that she may never find her way to the surface again.
It frightened her because she’d never felt this way about George. This was new. This was the unknown. And yet, she refused to deny it to herself any longer.
“Just so you know,” she said softly, her voice shaking, “I wouldn’t let anything terrible happen to you either.”
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingertip exploring the sensitive shell. “I’m glad to hear it. But we don’t have to think about that right now.”
“All we need,” she agreed with a nod, “is to enjoy this moment and not worry about what might happen in the future.”
Chapter 28
“A debutante can always rely on a marriage-minded gentleman and his trusty steed.”
—A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat
They met even earlier the following morning. The dawn was still dreaming while a full moon hung over their heads, and a silver glow blanketed their path to the stables.
But Brandon noticed something different about Ellie. She was quiet and contemplative, and it caused an unwelcome sense of worry to spring to life.
He’d thought everything was grand between them. In fact, he was going to tell her that he loved her.
He knew that what he felt for her was different than what he had for Phoebe. It was deeper and more intense in a way that made him question if he’d ever actually loved before. Looking back, his feelings for Phoebe seemed more like a youthful infatuation. She’d dazzled him with her coy flirtations like a spider spinning a p
retty web and he’d been naively ensnared.
With Ellie, he tried so hard to deny and resist his feelings that he refused to admit that he’d fallen in love with her. It was a love so intense that he feared he’d never recover from it. And perhaps that was the true reason behind his sense of worry.
Reflexively, he reached out and took her hand. He was instantly rewarded with the soft press of her palm, her fingertips weaving into his own. But she was still quiet, the sounds of her footsteps just a soft susurration over the small stones and hard-packed clay.
“Something on your mind?” he asked.
She nodded absently. “The book. I was just thinking that it has been a while since you’ve contributed any advice on the thoughts of marriage-minded gentlemen.”
“Have I been shirking my duties as your fount of information?”
Her mouth twitched. “You have, indeed.”
“Then allow me to remedy that this instant.” Brandon lifted her hand to press a kiss to her fingers. “He will always endeavor to ensure she understands that she is his first thought every morning and his last thought each night.”
She squeezed his hand and smiled in apparent approval of this lesson.
Inside the stall, he carefully went through the steps of saddling Samson. He was gladdened by her enthusiasm to be part of the process, and her growing confidence. It was even clear by the lamplight gleaming in her gaze that she was looking forward to it. And he was all too eager to have her in his arms again.
These sunrises were the only moments he allowed himself to be near her, to touch and embrace her, albeit far more chastely than he preferred. It had been an eon since he’d kissed her and felt the press of her sweet body flush with his own. And he wasn’t sure he could endure another morning of agony like he had yesterday.
Having her on his lap and feeling how well she fit against him had been the most exquisite torture of his life. All he’d wanted to do was kiss her endlessly, caress her until she was shuddering in ecstasy beneath his hands, shift her pliant and willing body to straddle his hips, and sink inside her welcoming heat.
The Wrong Marquess Page 28