The Wrong Marquess

by Vivienne Lorret

  Ah. Now he understood perfectly. Nethersole wasn’t ready, but Brandon was and she decided to accept the proposal of her second choice.

  Bitterness flooded him as he walked back to the other side of the desk. “I think it’s fairly clear that if he’d ever gotten down on bended knee you wouldn’t have hesitated to accept his proposal.”

  She didn’t answer, but he knew the truth. It had been staring at him all the while and he’d been a blind fool. Again.

  “Friendly word of warning, Miss Parrish. There are no checklists for someone like Nethersole. He’s reckless and thinks nothing about the consequences of his actions. And one of these days he’s going to do something that cannot be undone. In fact,” he said tightly, “I have the sinking suspicion that he already has.”

  Her gaze darted to his, her brows knitted. “What do you mean?”

  “I believe that is a question you should ask him directly. Or perhaps ask your friend, Miss Thorogood, if you’d rather have the truth.”

  “What are you saying? That he was the one who—” She shook her head, adamant. “No. No, I refuse to believe it.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” he muttered under his breath, every syllable uttered with anger and hurt. Picking up a quill, he stabbed it into the open bottle of ink and scribbled a note to send with the driver. In the very least, Brandon would ensure that she and her aunts were well provided for on their journey.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pick up her valise and move toward the door. A flood of cold finality seeped into his veins.

  This was it. She was simply going to walk out of his life. Perhaps it hadn’t been certainty he’d felt when they met. Likely, it had been a more ominous feeling, a sense of a storm approaching. A squall that would decimate everything in her path, leaving nothing but a barren landscape behind.

  But maybe not completely barren, he thought, recalling all the times they’d made love in the past couple of days and how he hadn’t been careful. Because he’d been certain they would marry.

  “You’ll send word on how you’re faring and if”—he paused—“there’s to be a child?”

  She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob and she nodded.

  “You do realize that you would have to marry me then.”

  Again, she nodded. As he stared at her profile, he saw a tear fall from the tips of her lashes. And he moved before he was even aware of it.

  His hand braced against the door to keep it shut, and she surprised him by turning to him, throwing her arms around him with her face buried against his coat.

  “I love you,” she whispered brokenly, trembling. “But you deserve someone strong, someone who isn’t so afraid.”

  He cinched her closer, his voice taut, pleading, “Then stop being afraid, Ellie.”

  “I wish I could.”

  He tried to hold on to her, but she slipped away and out the door.

  Chapter 35

  “A debutante must awaken her inner lion-tamer.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  “Elodie, dear,” Aunt Maeve said as she entered the parlor, slipping into her gloves, “Myrtle and I are going to the park so she can flirt with the nut seller.”

  “When I told Etienne that filberts were your favorite, he promised to have some today,” Aunt Myrtle added with an overbright smile as she situated her bonnet on her silver-floss hair. “Do you feel up to joining us this time?”

  At the mention of filberts, the needle slipped and Ellie stabbed the tip of her finger. She instantly drew it to her lips, thinking of sharing burnt filbert ice cream with Brandon. And she hated that everything and every place reminded her of him.

  The only reason they’d returned to London instead of the country was because of George. He wanted to be near the excitement. In recent years, more members of the ton were staying in town during the summer, having let their country houses out of financial need. But to her, these months tended to be stifling, the air humid and fetid. It made her long for Crossmoor Abbey . . . and the lord of the manor who was still there.

  However, since she would never return to that particular patch of heaven on earth, she wished she were at least at her own country house instead of in London where memories of Brandon were too vivid. And she might have been, if not for George.

  Though, as it turned out, she needn’t have bothered putting his ever-inconstant wishes above her own. Because just as Ellie and her aunts had opened the town house on Upper Wimpole Street and settled in, George had come by to tell them that he was leaving for a week or more on estate business. She didn’t know what that might entail. After all, he surely wasn’t thinking of renting that property in Wiltshire any longer. Not that it mattered to her. His using “estate business” as an excuse was likely a polite pretext for engaging in his manly pursuits and oat sowing. She did not care either way.

  Ellie pulled her finger from her lips and absently examined the hole the pinprick left. There was no more blood. No death by slow exsanguination, then. Not today.

  “I’ll just stay in,” she said to her aunts. “I like to be alone.”

  Once the words left her lips, she felt a small jolt of surprise at how well she’d just lied. She didn’t stammer or blush at all. Then again, she didn’t do any blushing these days.

  Aunt Maeve stepped farther into the room, her handsome features drawn with worry. Then she came over and sat beside her. “You remind me of someone I knew, long ago. She had a falling-out with the man that she loved over an obstacle that was insurmountable, or seemed to be back then.” She drew in a breath and exhaled slowly as she smoothed the loose threads from underneath the tambour. “They went their separate ways. He married another, while she . . . preferred to be alone. She felt that it was safer than risking her heart. After all, if you don’t trust someone with it—if you never give it to them—they cannot break it.”

  Ellie felt tears sting her eyes and she blinked them away. “I understand what you’re trying to do, but it isn’t that simple. Not when the heart is already broken beyond repair.”

  “I never said it was simple.” She patted her on the knee and rose, crossing to the door again. “And as much as I love you, Elodie, you know nothing of a broken heart until you watch the man you love live a full life with a woman you have tea with every Tuesday.”

  Aunt Myrtle sniffled and squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “Adelaide Millington never deserved him.”

  “Lady Millington?” Ellie said with a start, having never suspected during all the years of their acquaintance. And when her aunt nodded, she suddenly remembered that Lord Millington had passed away last summer.

  Last summer, when Aunt Maeve had taken ill and they couldn’t find a physician to heal her.

  Those stinging tears returned with a vengeance, welling in her eyes until she was unable to blink them away. “Oh, Aunt Maeve, I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I. Every day,” she said quietly and left the room on the arm of her sister.

  Ellie wiped her tears with the corner of her sampler and listened to her self-pitying sobs echo in the empty room. “Actually, I hate being alone. It’s so . . . lonely.”

  But she’d done it to herself. She’d left the man she loved more than life itself because she was afraid. Afraid that he would die and leave her alone to suffer in agony without him.

  Meanwhile, she was suffering in agony without him anyway.

  She’d thought about crawling back to him a dozen times a minute since she’d walked out his door. But she was certain, by now, he’d realized that he deserved someone better. Someone stronger to stand by his side fearlessly. Miss Carmichael, perhaps. Someone who wasn’t afraid of everything, including happiness. What kind of idiot was scared of being happy?

  She’d thought it was safer than risking her heart. Ellie heard Aunt Maeve’s voice in her head.

  The words made her think about George.

  As a girl, Ellie had always thought of him as her romantic hero, her armored k
night, her stalwart neighbor who would be by her side no matter what. As she grew older, however, she saw that he was often unreliable and easily distracted. Still, she’d held on to her idealistic notion of him, ignoring how many times he’d proved her wrong.

  Though now, she wondered if she’d clung to the dream of marrying George simply because he was her connection to the past, to her youth, to the days when the inevitable end of life and an eternity alone inside a coffin seemed too far away.

  But when little Elodie Parrish grew up, she’d become so focused on not dying that, somewhere along the way, she forgot to live.

  At least, until she met Brandon.

  Suddenly, a thousand candles sparked to life inside her. “Risking your heart isn’t supposed to feel safe, is it? That’s why we fall in love. And it’s terrifying,” she said to the parlor walls. “Especially if there’s no one there to catch you.”

  She stood up so quickly that her head spun. Normally, she’d have been worried over potentially dying of a stroke if that happened, but she was too lost in a new plan.

  Racing to the open window, she looked to see if the carriage was still out front.

  It was! She cupped her hands over her mouth and called down, “Aunt Maeve? Aunt Myrtle?”

  In response, she heard a chorused, “Yes, dearest?”

  “I think I’ll join you after all.” And perhaps, she could persuade them to go to the Zoological Society Gardens once more.

  Ellie decided that it was time to learn to stand on her own, to face her fears. And it was time to feed a bear.

  * * *

  A few days later, Ellie was locked in a death grip with the ladder in the library when the butler announced she had a caller waiting in the parlor.

  “Very good . . . Mr. Rivers,” she said panting, her eyes squeezed shut. She’d made it to the second rung from the bottom when a wave of dizziness overcame her and icy perspiration bloomed along her scalp and forehead. “I’ll be there presently.”

  “Would you like”—he paused to clear his throat and there was a distinct curl of amusement in his voice—“assistance, ma’am?”

  “That would defeat the purpose. I’m conquering my fear of ladders.”

  “And doing splendidly. Shall I send to the kitchen for a tea tray for your guest?”

  She managed a shaky nod. “Thank you.”

  Ellie wasn’t certain how long it took her to descend to the floor. However, it seemed like an age. She even wondered if she looked as old and exhausted as she felt.

  As she blotted her face with a handkerchief and tucked it up her sleeve, she realized that she hadn’t inquired on the name of her caller. And a sudden flurry of vulture wingbeats flapped inside her stomach and her footsteps halted just outside the parlor door.

  Could it be Brandon?

  But no. She knew he was still in Wiltshire because she’d called at his town house yesterday to see if he might have decided to return to London.

  He hadn’t. Apparently, their time apart had only driven an insurmountable wedge between them.

  Hearing a soft, melodious humming sound, Ellie knew at once who it was.

  Stepping into the parlor, she saw Prue standing near the window to study one of the samplers in the light. Ellie was about to rush to her, to embrace her. But she stopped on the verge between the doorway and the rug, remembering awkwardness between them when they last saw each other. And it didn’t help that Brandon’s accusations regarding George and his possible connection to Lord F were lingering in her mind, no matter how hard she’d tried to dispel them.

  Prue’s gaze met hers. She went still, watchful in the way that a squirrel in the park stopped and stared, waiting for the parasol-wielding pedestrian to pass by. Then she was the first to move, gesturing with the tambour. “You were always better at needlework. Even your knots are tidy.”

  “And you were always the better songstress. You could charm a bird from his nest, to live on your windowsill.”

  She smiled wanly. “How are you, Ellie?”

  “I’m only embroidering in shades of black, gray and the darkest violet if that tells you anything.”

  Prue laid the ring down on the table. “So then it’s true. You’re not returning to Crossmoor Abbey. On my walks there seemed to be a dark cloud always hovering over the grounds.”

  “A good deal has happened since I last saw you there.”

  “Because of”—she hesitated—“Lord Nethersole?”

  Ellie shook her head. But the question that had been on her mind for the past week pricked sharply on the tip of her tongue, like a splinter that needed to be pulled out no matter how painful. “Is George Lord F?”

  Prue startled. Then her wide eyes collected with swift tears that must have been waiting just beneath the rim, ready to break. And when they did, she slumped onto the high-backed chair as if exhausted and put her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking on silent sobs.

  “I apologize for my blunt delivery,” Ellie said, crossing the room to soothe her friend with gentle passes down her back until the tears subsided. Pulling out another chair, she sat beside Prue and offered her handkerchief.

  Taking it, Prue blew her nose. “You have every right. You should be railing at me. I deserve it. But I swear to you that I never meant for anything to happen.”

  “Of course you didn’t. I know too well how charming George can be, and I remember all that you said when we were standing in the gallery. So I do not blame you. But why did you refer to him as Lord F?”

  “Because I wanted the reminder that he was forbidden to me.”

  “Lord Forbidden.” Ellie’s brows lifted in wry humor. “Oh, how he likely relishes such a moniker.”

  “He doesn’t know. But after reading your letter, he made mention of Lord F so he knows that I was attempting to keep his identity a secret from you.” She looked down at her hands on the table, fiddling with the scalloped lace edges of the handkerchief. “I knew that it was absolutely unforgivable to engage in even the smallest flirtation with the man my dearest friend had her heart set on marrying. So I accepted my father’s banishment out of remorse. I never imagined that George would follow me to Wiltshire. It only increased my guilt.”

  “You must have been angry at him for what he’d done, to damage your reputation like that,” Ellie said, feeling plenty of her own anger toward him. The unthinking man! Did he care about anyone other than himself?

  “I was, at first. I resisted every attempt of his to see me,” she admitted. “But as time drew on and the isolation from my friends took hold, he became the only connection to the life I once had and I started to crave the times when he would come. I even felt mystified that he would drive all that way just to see me. After all, in the eyes of society, I was ruined. But the way he talked, always making plans for a house of our own and parties, it made me feel like I might have a respectable future. He even had me convinced that you and he were like brother and sister.”

  Ellie frowned, a sour taste at the back of her throat. This wasn’t the George that she thought she knew. Yes, he was a flirt and undeniably charming. But this reeked of manipulation, especially when he was also promising to marry Ellie “one day.”

  “And he said such wonderful things,” Prue continued. “That he’d never loved anyone the way he loved me. That ours was the only future in his dreams. Then he laughed and looked almost bashful when he said that he’d never been overcome by such romantic drivel but that I brought out the best in him. And I”—her breath stuttered—“believed him.”

  Ellie would have believed him, too.

  In the past, she’d always thought that George was simply boyish and impulsive. A man with a youthful spirit and a zest for life. But after really listening to him that day they’d walked through the village, she’d realized he was a man who had never truly matured. Like a child, he only thought about himself, and was driven to satisfy his own desires without considering consequence.

  As she looked at her friend’s stark gaze beneath the sh
adow of downcast cornsilk lashes, a fresh new fear came over Ellie. She wondered if George was truly capable of what she now suspected in the back of her mind.

  A kiss in the garden was one thing. But would he have truly ruined her friend beyond repair?

  Even though part of her was afraid to know, she had to know. “And so, when my letters contained nothing of George but a good deal of Lord Hullworth, I imagine it was difficult to keep your heart from taking a leap of faith and allowing yourself to believe what he was telling you.”

  Again, Prue’s eyes flooded with tears. She swallowed them down and nodded.

  “Did he,” Ellie hemmed, “make an offer for you?”

  “Of sorts. After we . . .” Her voice shook and it took her a moment to stifle her sob. “He offered to put me up in a house. To keep me content. To keep me. But not to marry me.”

  Absorbing all this, albeit numbly, Ellie covered her friend’s hand with her own. George, what have you done! It was unforgivable.

  “Did he bring you to London?”

  “No. I left a note for my aunt and uncle, not that they’ll shed a tear. And then I brought myself. Well . . . mostly. I took the mail coach until it became all too apparent that it was not prudent to travel in such a manner when you are the only woman aboard and you have neither a ring on your finger nor a chaperone.”

  “Prue!” Ellie cried. “Tell me you were not harmed.”

  “Fear not. The worst I received were leering glances. But they were enough to put me of a mind to find another way when the coach was jarred to a halt after hitting a rut. When the drivers stopped to repair the wheel, I took my satchel and began to walk.”

  “All the way to London? Alone?”

  Prue shook her head. “I would have done, for I was in such a temper and angry at every male who ever roamed the earth.”

  “And you had every right to be.”

  “Thankfully, soon after I began, a fine coach and four stopped. Lady Chastaine, a woman who had called upon my stepmother on several occasions, opened the door. Since I was acquainted with her, I felt confident enough to accept her invitation to travel with her and her companion—the gentleman who happened to own the carriage. Or rather, I should say that she was his companion, or had been until their arrangement recently ended.”