The Wrong Marquess

by Vivienne Lorret

  “Actually,” she persisted, albeit carefully. “Since last we spoke, my thoughts regarding the future have changed.”

  He reached over and tweaked her bonnet ribbon. “Not possible. I know you too well. And if there’s one certainty in life it’s that people never change who they really are.”

  Ellie was about to try again, but her words stalled on her tongue. For the first time in her life, she heard George. Had she ever truly listened to what he was saying? No. She did not think so. Instead, she’d spent too much time searching between his words to find some hidden meaning, some secret key that might have unlocked their long awaited happily-ever-after.

  It was a peculiar realization. And yet, not entirely startling.

  His primary interests had always been his own pleasures and pursuits. His favorite topic of conversation was himself. And she could never imagine him dropping on bended knee at a garden party and pledging his heart and soul to her.

  Oh, he liked her well enough. He might even love her in his own way. And she would always love him in her own way. But not like she loved Brandon.

  “And there’s some news I have that’ll interest you,” he continued, oblivious to the complete and utter rearrangement of Ellie’s views on the past and the future and everything in between. “There are preparations for a festival underway. I happened to hear that a man with a Montgolfier balloon is lodging at the inn. What do you think—shall I have Hullworth invite him over to dinner and compel him to take us up in his basket?”

  She paled, her previous thoughts temporarily suspended in a pool of icy dread. “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t want anyone I care about to step inside one of those death traps.”

  “Just as I thought.” He chucked her gently on the chin. “But, you know, one of these days you’re going to have to get over these silly fears of yours.”

  “Some fears, like falling from a basket hovering over the earth, are perfectly sensible,” she groused, disliking how much he teased her about these things. He’d never once tried to help her. “And by the by, you shouldn’t have taken Meg’s horse without asking permission.”

  He merely grinned back at her. “Are you finished scolding me yet? If this is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life, then maybe I won’t marry you after all.” Again, he laughed. “Oh, Ellie! That look upon your face is utterly comical. It’s as though I’ve condemned you to a life of spinsterhood.” Then he reached out to steal her hand and brought it to his lips for a quick kiss. “Fear not, my girl. When the time comes, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “The first to know what, exactly?”

  Hearing Brandon’s voice behind her, Ellie turned with a start. Her wide-eyed gaze collided with his thunderous one as he darted a quick glance down to where her hand still lingered.

  Abruptly, she snatched it from George’s grasp and awkwardly crossed her arms. “My . . . my lord, whatever brings you out here?”

  “Indeed, Hullworth. I’m surprised to see you away from your study in the middle of the day. Run out of ledgers and ink?” George interjected with a sardonic chuckle before Brandon could answer. “Spend any more time at your desk and you’ll be a hunchback by the time you’re forty. Take a lesson from me, old man, and learn to enjoy yourself a bit more. You’ll soon discover that any estate will eventually run itself.”

  Brandon looked at him with an unreadable expression. Then, without a word to George, he turned back to Ellie.

  “What brings me here is my sister,” he said. “She came into my study a short while ago to find me quite distracted, scribbling whatnot in the margins. In fact, she accused me of woolgathering.”

  George issued a disbelieving scoff at this.

  But Ellie’s heart fluttered at the idea of catching Brandon daydreaming, his eyes unfocused. Charmed by the vision in her mind she felt her lips tilt up at the corners. “And what did you say to that?”

  “I told her I was doing nothing of the sort and that my mind was most definitely engaged in a proposal of the utmost importance.” His choice of words was not lost on her. He was skirting the line between giving her time to settle matters with George and hurrying her along. She squinted at him in warning and he flashed an unrepentant grin before adding, “After all, I have it on good authority that certain speeches require the proper phrasing, for the sake of posterity and guidebooks for future generations.”

  Not only was he arrogant and overbearing, he was also incorrigible. In the best possible way. She should be mad at him, but instead she wanted to laugh at his audacity.

  “And this authority,” she said, doing her best to sound disapproving, “would likely tell you that proper timing is also of the utmost importance.”

  He arched a brow at this and his gaze veered pointedly toward the folly. “So then, this authority would never think of making a spontaneous declaration herself, hmm?”

  Well, he had a point, she thought. But surely, he wasn’t intending to propose to her, here and now. Was he?

  George uttered a grunt of boredom, his head dropping back toward the sky. “Whatever it is, it sounds like it requires far too much effort. And anything that takes that much forethought is never worth it.”

  Brandon stiffened, all good humor vanishing from his countenance as he slid a glance to George. “If you’re finished riding for the day, Nethersole, I’m sure the stablemaster will be relieved by the return of my sister’s horse. Though, in the future, Mr. Warton and I would appreciate knowing in advance before you plan to borrow any mount in the early hours.”

  George smirked as if the matter were of little importance and Ellie cringed in apprehension when he opened his mouth to speak.

  So, before he could, she interjected, “That sounds like a splendid idea. George, why don’t you take Hamlet back to the stables and then you and I can finish our chat.”

  “Not possible, Ellie. I’m simply too tired from hunting. And I’ve been invited to dine with Gerbold later. So, how about I take you on a drive tomorrow, hmm? We’ll have a jaunt through the village. What say you?”

  “Well . . .” She looked with uncertainty to Brandon and to the muscle ticking at his jaw. “I suppose one more day wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Good,” George agreed and, before she could prepare herself, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Until then, my Ellie. Good day to you, Hullworth. Try not to be too industrious or else you’ll be London’s most elusive hunchback before long.”

  And with that, he swung back onto his mount and rode toward the stables.

  When she turned back to Brandon, he was offering her a handkerchief, his expression hard and unbending. She took the linen and dutifully wiped her cheek, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

  “You needn’t be jealous. After all, you know very well that George and I have never . . . well . . . you know.” She blushed. “What did you expect me to do?”

  He snatched back the folded square and crammed it into his pocket. “I’ll burn it for you.”

  “Not about that, about George,” she said on a sigh. “After all, I am going to speak with him tomorrow.”

  “And you’ll take a chaperone.”

  “Brandon, you’re—” She broke off, gritting her teeth. “What is your middle name?”

  “Christopher,” he enunciated crisply.

  “Brandon Christopher Stredwick, you are being ridiculous,” she fumed. “I’ve known George all my life. We can certainly have a simple conversation without the need for a chaperone.”

  “And you should be glad I don’t demand an armed guard instead. Not to mention the fact that it is taking every ounce of my willpower not to throw you over my shoulder, carry you inside the abbey and lock us in my bedchamber for the next fifty or sixty years,” he growled, crowding closer, nostrils flared.

  But it wasn’t anger or even irritation she saw in his gaze. He was looking at her as if he wanted to devour her, right then and there.

  Strangely, his primitive male display caused a thrill to rise inside her, inciting
an unexpected swell of feminine power. Reaching out, she slipped her hand in his and heard the catch in his breath as his fingers curled around hers.

  Holding his gaze, she bargained, “Your carriage. Your driver. No chaperone. And tomorrow, I’ll talk to George. Then, I’ll talk to you.”

  After a lengthy moment, he nodded. Taking her hand, he laid it against the center of his chest, the heavy thud of his heart rising up to meet her palm. “One more day.”

  His words were spoken with such resolve that it left her wondering if he was making a concession . . . or making a plan to wait twenty-four hours before locking her away in his bedchamber.

  Chapter 31

  “When writing a letter to a gentleman, a debutante should choose her words wisely.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  That afternoon, Brandon took his usual ride with his steward to inspect the property. Their conversation gradually turned to the daily report of the comings and goings of the guest at Stredwick Lodge.

  Early on, he’d asked Mr. Weymouth to make a few casual inquiries around the village about Nethersole. He just couldn’t shake the sensation that the man-child was up to something. But the report only revealed that Nethersole engaged in a few flirtations with the local laundress as well as a few of the widows. Nothing altogether scandalous or corrupt. By all accounts, he was merely a man unencumbered by obligation, who enjoyed his life to the fullest. And yet, he seemed a bit too discreet for a man who enjoyed the limelight so much. Far different from the Nethersole who bragged to his sycophants in London.

  Besides that, what man would simply decide to travel to a small village in Wiltshire and then return often throughout a year’s time, without sharing an acquaintance with one of the inhabitants?

  As far as Brandon knew, the only newcomer to the village who had any connection to Nethersole whatsoever was Ellie’s friend.

  When the dark suspicion had first entered his mind, Brandon had asked Mr. Weymouth to make a few unobtrusive inquiries into Miss Thorogood’s habits.

  What he discovered did not set his mind at ease.

  She was regarded by many of the villagers as a fine young lady, quiet and very kind, who enjoyed long walks. However, there was one account from an old gardener on a nearby estate, who’d said that he’d seen her with a young gentleman in fancy togs on occasion, and that he would be relieved to hear happy news that they were to marry.

  The information was not definitive. However, if Brandon took into account what he’d witnessed between Nethersole and Miss Thorogood himself, then it was highly suspect.

  The report from Mr. Weymouth troubled him and, all night, Brandon wondered how he would talk to Ellie about it. Or even if he should mention it at all without proof.

  But he knew one thing for certain, there was no way in hell he was going to leave her alone with Nether—

  Brandon’s dark thoughts stalled at the rustling sound outside his bedchamber door.

  From his chair by the fire, his gaze shot to the ormolu clock on the mantel. It was a quarter of two in the morning. He stood to investigate, watching as a folded scrap of paper slipped beneath his door.

  He crossed the room in two strides, opening the door with such haste that it caused the chamberstick in his visitor’s grasp to sputter out, but not before he saw her amber eyes widen with surprise.

  “And just what have we here, an interloper in the lord of the manor’s wing?”

  She gasped as he took hold of her wrist and tugged her inside. “Brandon, you startled me. I thought you’d be sleeping.”

  Closing the door, he bent to pick up the missive. “And what’s this?”

  “Just a note.” Her cheeks colored as she reached for the letter. “I could tell you about it later, tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to . . .”

  He stilled her hand, keeping it in his as he shook the page open.

  My Dearest Brandon,

  I do not need to wait a moment longer. If you have a question for me. The answer will be yes.

  Ever yours,

  E

  Brandon’s heart galloped as he read it twice more to be absolutely certain of the contents. Then, as nonchalant as he could manage, he laid the missive on the marble console table by the door, followed by her chamberstick.

  “I see,” he said. “Though I have to wonder, Miss Parrish, if that yes applies to any question. You weren’t very specific, after all.”

  Her head tilted quizzically and she blinked. “I presumed it was obvious . . . after this morning.”

  Seeing her cheeks flood with new color, Brandon could hardly resist the temptation to kiss her. But he had much more than kissing on his mind. Something that would take hours and hours and complete privacy.

  Shifting to the door, he turned the key in the lock. “To be precise, that was actually yesterday morning. Nearly a full day ago. That gives a man a good deal of time to think of more questions. In fact, I have a few in mind right now, such as—do you want me to undress you? Do you want me to taste every luscious inch of your body? Shall I begin right here?”

  “Brandon,” she rasped as he pressed his mouth to her throat. “You know very well what I meant.”

  Hands braced on the wall on either side of her, he shook his head and clucked his tongue. “No, sweetheart, that isn’t the answer you promised me. I think it’s time for another lesson for your ledger. I’m going to teach you all the ways a marriage-minded man likes to hear the word yes.”

  Chapter 32

  “Fear not, debutantes, there will come a time when happiness will settle in the palm of your hand. All you must do is take hold of it.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  Ellie never expected to awaken to a nightmare that night. Not when Brandon had left her thoroughly exhausted and pleasured and sleeping contentedly in his bed.

  But before dawn’s approach, her dream-self stumbled to an open grave, a clod of dirt in her hand. And when she gazed down into the yawning hole, she saw Brandon’s pale, lifeless body arranged on black silk inside a coffin.

  She was sobbing quietly, curled on her side, when she felt Brandon’s arms slide around her, pulling her back into his comforting embrace. He didn’t ask her about her dream, but simply held and soothed her, distracting her with gentle caresses and wicked kisses that left her gasping and shattering until she drifted into dreamless slumber.

  That afternoon, the nightmare was forgotten.

  She smiled up to Brandon’s profile as they walked down the lane, side by side.

  He turned to grin back at her. “You’re still blushing.”

  “And you’re awfully smug.”

  “But you like me this way.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the abbey in the distance, then reached out, hauled her to him, kissed her breathless, and then set her apart again. And she staggered a step until he secured her hand in his.

  He made it impossible for her to think. In fact, her thoughts had been so distracted by him that, when George popped by to speak with her earlier to postpone their outing for another day, she’d completely forgotten to broach the topic foremost on her mind. However, considering how he still wasn’t ready for marriage, and perhaps never would be, she imagined that he’d accept the news without any qualms. At least, she hoped he wouldn’t be hurt.

  “Not much farther now,” Brandon said, drawing her out of her musings.

  She squeezed his hand for reassurance. “Aren’t you going to tell me where we’re going?”

  “Like I said before, you’ll just have to be patient.”

  “I don’t like surprises, you know.”

  “You’ll like this one.” He hesitated. “Mostly.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that either. And when she looked ahead and saw where the path was leading them, she was certain she wouldn’t like this particular surprise.

  Her feet became sluggish. “Brandon, is there a reason we’re heading toward the bridge?”

&n
bsp; “Yes.”

  She waited for him to elaborate, but instead he turned down a narrow side path, guiding her down the slope with him. And then she saw it.

  Her heart sputtered to a stop. She dug her heels into the hard-packed earth underfoot. “You are not thinking of putting me in that boat on the river, are you?”

  “Only when you’re ready,” he said tenderly, coming back to her to brush his knuckles over her chilled cheeks. “I thought we might run through the checklist together. I have a mooring line tied to the trunk of that dogwood. And there’s a picnic waiting on the other side.”

  Her wary gaze drifted from the boat to the water to the bridge.

  My father called this the marriage bridge, because of the two arches and how they support one another, Meg had once told her.

  Ellie recalled the story about the Stredwick family tradition of navigating the two arches beneath the marriage bridge. The betrothed couple were to float down the river through one, then paddle up the other together.

  Together, the word lingered in her mind. A single arch would only have been half as strong. That bridge, as well as any future she might hope to have with Brandon, required the strength of two.

  He put his arms around her and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Another day, perhaps. To tell you the truth, I’m already tired of waiting to ask you my question. It’s been burning a hole through my heart and I just cannot contain it any longer. And so . . .”

  He started to kneel.

  “No,” she said abruptly, her own heart rabbiting as she gripped his shoulders in an effort to make him rise again.