Patrick had put up a weak defense of Miss Van Der Keer, claiming she was “rather pretty.” Exmore had waited for a more ardent defense of the lady in question, but when none came forth, he had explained to Patrick that a marriageable lady for his station needed more to recommend her than being merely pretty.
Now, as Exmore studied the miss in the intimate setting of his parlor, he realized that Patrick was right. She was pretty, but she didn’t possess the type of beauty that would have tempted him. Her pale, heart-shaped face, with her small, rather pointed chin, accented her overly large lips and luminous eyes. Her nose was slightly turned up at the end. Her brown hair parted in the center and fell about her cheeks and neck in thick, heavy waves. Her face hadn’t the elegance of his wife’s classical symmetry, but fit her giggling, girlish personality.
Nor did her prettiness make up for her atrocious behavior in any small measure.
“But you are a marquess and his cousin,” she retorted, her hands balled. “He had little choice but to do as you directed.”
“Mr. Hume decided on his own.”
“Impossible!” Tears dripped down her cheeks. “He loves me! He would never leave me on his own accord. We are to be married.”
Exmore’s fingers tightened on the glass he held. “Did he propose?” Patrick had said nothing of an engagement. They would have to pay a tidy sum to Miss Van Der Keer’s father to keep the matter quiet. The imprudent alliance must be avoided at all costs. Miss Van Der Keer could not be let near his family tree.
“It—it was understood,” she stammered.
Exmore released a relieved breath. Clearly, the engagement was a construct of her overactive imagination.
“We knew each other that way. We knew there could be no one else for either of us.” She raised her eyes to his. Hers were a deep brown, almost black. The candlelight reflected in them like moonlight on water. They were potent, somehow capable of transmuting her emotion into him. He could feel the wild sorrow that drove her tonight.
“I’m sorry.” He drew out a handkerchief.
“No, you’re not,” she spat, staring at the offered cloth. “This is what you wanted. You never liked me. I can tell. You are so humorless and deadly proper. You’ve never thought me good enough.”
He measured his words. His father had died a few months before, and he watched now, powerless, as his wife struggled with her first pregnancy. He had real concerns that truly mattered, concerns that this silly girl with her lovesick tantrums would know nothing about. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket and took another sip of brandy. “I never thought your manners and conduct were good enough for him… or any gentleman in proper society, for that matter.”
“You are wrong. My father may not be titled, but he is a gentleman.”
“It is immaterial if your father is a gentleman. You decided not to behave as a gentlewoman. You thought it clever to steal a gardener’s wheelbarrow and have your friends push it about the park at the fashionable hour. You think it’s proper to play scandalous parlor games in respectable homes.”
One of her favorite tricks was to ask a gentleman for a handkerchief at a ball and then hide it from him, making him search the vases and furniture drawers while she giggled at his discomfort. Once, at a dinner party, she proposed that the young people sneak away to another room and play a game she devised where one person was blindfolded and had to guess who kissed them on the cheek or hand or such. However, Miss Van Der Keer kissed Patrick on the lips, scandalizing the other poor guests she had dragged into the game.
“You make your affections for Patrick wildly known by chasing him about with singular determination, following him about, making a spectacle of yourself to receive his attention, including lifting your skirts in public to repeatedly tie your slippers and pretending a column at the Royal Theatre was Patrick and suggestively kissing it.”
“It was a dare.”
“One you foolishly took. Have you not seen the crude cartoons of yourself in the papers this week? Have you not read your name disparaged in the Society columns? Do you not see the people avoiding you in the streets?”
She turned silent.
“My sentiments of you echo those of the Duchess of Brysessy when she warned her granddaughters away from you. You are an ignorant girl with no idea of proper behavior or gentle manners.” He was almost yelling. All the worry about his wife’s condition and father’s death funneled into his annoyance at Miss Van Der Keer. He took another sip of brandy to calm himself.
“I don’t care,” she declared. “The Duchess of Brysessy is a gossipy old harpy who finds pleasure in creating drama wherever she goes.”
“I know you feel this way about your better, as does the rest of Society, for you made your sentiments about the duchess known aloud on Rotten Row. Tell me, Miss Van Der Keer, do you give no thought to the consequences of your actions?”
She didn’t reply.
“If I did influence Patrick, it was to show him the facts of the matter. Your wild behavior would have dire repercussions on his station and future. I’m sorry your feelings have been hurt. But you’re young, and I’m sure in a month’s time, your heart will have sufficiently repaired to fall violently in love again with some other poor fellow.”
“Don’t patronize me! What—what do you know of love? You’re a marquess. You marry according to a Debrett’s entry—a heartless, cynical affair.”
The wrath he had tried to hold back surged forth. Had this girl no restraint on her tongue? It was a joke among his old friends that he was overly protective of his wife. But in her weakened condition due to carrying his child, that primitive urge to protect compounded. “Don’t you dare make assumptions about me and my affections for my cherished wife,” he barked. “I love her with a depth that you will never understand.”
She winced as though his words inflicted a wasp-like sting. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to say those words. I didn’t mean…” She pressed her hands to her face, and her body trembled with her sobs.
Again, he felt that annoying prick of compassion for her. What quality about this addled, reckless girl cut close to his bones? It wasn’t attraction—how could he be attracted to another woman when he was married to the most beautiful, most gentle creature in all of England? What about Miss Van Der Keer seemed to amplify whatever feeling passed through him? A mystery he didn’t care to explore. She had taken up too much of his valuable time.
He gestured to the door. “I shall have a footman accompany you to make sure you get home safely. I shan’t breathe a word of this to your uncle, although I should. Coming here was as reckless as it was improper. Should you be found out, your already severely impaired reputation would be beyond redemption, if it isn’t already so.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “My uncle is sending me away. He says I have shamed him because you have cut his family.”
“I have in no way cut his family because I don’t approve of a match between you and Patrick. It is no reflection upon your uncle that you require another year or two, or a dozen, in the schoolroom to mature. Good night, Miss Van Der Keer.”
“But I love Patrick.” She didn’t budge, but gripped her gown in her balled hands. “He has to come back. You can’t do this.”
“What you are feeling is adolescent infatuation. Nothing more. It’s not real love.”
“I love him with every fiber of my being. You say that I couldn’t understand the profound love that you have for your wife. But I do. I love Patrick that way. I will always love him. I am steadfast in my affections.” Her eyes pleaded, as if he possessed some kind of magic to undo her hurt and have Patrick return. Telling her how easily her lover had been persuaded to leave her would only hurt her more. And he doubted she would believe him. Best to let time or another man quell her obsession for Patrick. He drew in a breath. “One day, you will come to love another man more wisely and with more maturity than this frenzied infatuation for Patrick. You will look back upon this
moment and thank me.”
“You are wrong!” the impertinent girl persisted. “I will love only him forever. You must believe me. You must repair what you have done.”
“I have done nothing but talk sense to a young man, and therefore, I wouldn’t repair it if I could.”
“I love him.” Her voice was a trembling, broken whisper. “Don’t you understand?”
He rested his hand on her elbow, attempting to escort her out. Yes, he knew what it was like to be deeply in love. And each day, as his wife struggled with her pregnancy, he prayed that sickness or death wouldn’t part them so soon.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
In an abrupt motion, she pressed her cheek against his chest, clearly desperate for comfort—even if it came from her perceived villain. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around her, taking in her warmth. He closed his eyes. In her quaking sobs, all the worry for his wife and their unborn child, all the anxious thoughts he tried to keep hidden, rushed to the surface. Even in her manic sorrow she must have perceived his fears. She drew back, her lips parted in surprise. Then he saw something in her eyes—a wisdom he didn’t know she possessed. He began backing away, his heart racing, ashamed to be vulnerable before her.
“No,” she whispered, reaching out to him.
“Go—go home, you silly girl,” he growled. He turned from her and fled the room.
“I hate you,” she called to Exmore, her voice echoing in the corridor. “You have destroyed my life.”
“So be it!” He broke into a jog toward his wife’s chamber as if the devil were on his heels.
* * *
Cassandra lay in bed, curled on her side, as Exmore had left her to receive the hysterical Miss Van Der Keer. Candlelight flickered on the shape of Cassandra’s body shrouded in quilts and on her glossy dark curls that spilled onto the pillow. He studied her in the firelight, not wanting to disturb her. His heart began to calm in her presence. She had always had the power to soothe him. She didn’t have to say any words. Being near her healed him.
“Exmore,” she murmured, sensing his presence. He loved the sound of his name on her tongue. Her soft voice seemed to caress the syllables.
He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Are you feeling better, my love?”
They had been so joyous when the physician determined she was finally increasing after years of trying to conceive. But he and Cassandra hadn’t expected how exceptionally ill the infant would make her. She could hardly move from her bed, and she vomited what little she could eat. The physician said it wasn’t uncommon for a woman to do poorly in the first weeks of pregnancy, but the sickness would pass in the later stages. Exmore wasn’t reassured. His wife was losing weight, not gaining. At times, she could hardly sit up for dizziness and nausea.
“Yes, the broth Cook’s sister recommended is working a little.”
He smiled. “Thank heavens for wise grandmotherly types. They seem to possess more common sense knowledge than all members of the Royal Society combined.”
He sat carefully on the mattress beside her. She turned and studied him.
“What is wrong?” How she could read him. He could keep nothing from her. His every aspect was open to her.
“Do you remember the ridiculous girl chasing after Patrick?”
“Oh, her. What outrageous thing has she done now?”
“She paid me a call this evening. Unaccompanied and in a wild state. It seems I’m a heinous villain because, in her addled mind, I forced Patrick to leave her.”
“How shocking,” she said, but her voice lacked any outrage. “What—what did she say?”
“That she will love Patrick forever. That I don’t understand true love. The stuff of Drury Lane melodramatic rubbish.”
Her brows creased.
Exmore continued, “I played the wise father—heaven forbid, we should raise such a rag-mannered hoyden—and told her that she would fall in love again with equally wild fervor and other such nonsense.”
“Maybe she will,” Cassandra whispered.
Exmore lifted her hand and kissed the gold band he had slipped on her fingers years ago. “I’m sure of it. Most likely next week.”
“No, I mean perhaps she will love Patrick forever. After all, I was hardly out of the schoolroom when we married.”
“But you were far more wise and mature than this foolish child.”
“Yes, such a foolish, foolish child,” she murmured, her gaze softening, focusing inward.
Exmore wished he could pry into her mind and study its workings. She had an ethereal quality, as if another part of her dwelled somewhere else. Her mysterious inner life drove him wild, making him insatiably hungry for her.
He leaned down and snuggled next to her, keeping his feet off the bed. He only wanted to be close to her. When he carefully rested a hand protectively on her belly, she stiffened.
“My dear, I’m—I’m not feeling well,” she said.
“I thought the tea helped.”
“It did, but...”
“My love, I’m content merely holding you.” They hadn’t been intimate since she’d become ill.
“I just... I would prefer, that is, I should like to be alone.” There was an inflection of a question in her voice. He knew if he asked again to hold her, she would acquiesce. She always did as he asked. But he couldn’t be a selfish, clinging husband. He understood her desire for solitude. Whenever he came down with a chill, he wanted only to lie in bed, alone in his misery.
“I love you,” he whispered and kissed her ear.
She made a sweet, soft humming sound.
“Rest, my love.”
He strolled to the door and then turned. She had shifted onto her side again. The gold firelight danced on her curls. He watched her for a long moment and said a small prayer for her and their child’s safety, and then he slipped into the dark corridor.
Chapter Two
* * *
Three years later
Annalise clutched the leather portfolio containing her late father’s naturalist work as the carriage rolled past the Hyde Park gates. Here, Patrick had whispered, “I love you.” Gazing deeper into the park, she spied the spreading oak where they had first kissed—a quick, nervous brush of the lips. Later, in a darkened, empty room beside a ballroom, they’d enjoyed a more indulging kiss. How these memories had comforted her at night as she’d kept vigil beside her sick parents’ beds as the lonely country wind keened in the grate.
“You are smiling, miss,” Mrs. Bailey, Annalise’s family servant, remarked from across the hired coach. “I haven’t seen you smile since your papa was alive.”
“I’m so happy to be back,” Annalise cried, gazing out at the streets that she and Patrick had once walked. “So happy.”
She had chosen to come back to London after living under a cloud of dread for more than three years, nursing her dying parents in the quiet, lonely countryside. And now, although she still walked the earth, it felt as though huge parts of her were buried in the churchyard along with her parents.
“I don’t understand how this city—Satan’s broadside—can make you so happy,” Mrs. Bailey said.
Annalise couldn’t explain to poor Mrs. Bailey, who was country-bred and, until now, had never ventured beyond the county of her birth, how London shined as bright as the crown jewels in Annalise’s mind. Although her one Season had ended in shameful ruin, for a small time in London, when Patrick had loved her as much she loved him, she’d felt more alive than she ever had in her life. She wanted to live that way again—filled with hope, laughter, and love.
The coach skirted Mayfair’s perimeter before finally reaching its destination, a stately town house on Wigmore Street.
“This is it?” Mrs. Bailey hmphed. “This is your uncle’s fine London home? I was expecting one of those fancy houses by the park. This is a teensy thing. How do they get everyone in there?”
“It’s larger than it appears from the outside,” Annalise said diplomatical
ly. Uncle Harry’s family, like their home, hung at the outer edges of fashionable Society.
The front door flew open. A young lady in vivid blue cotton rushed out. Her spiraling honey-colored curls bounced around her as she cried, “She’s here! She’s here!”
Good heavens, was that little Phoebe all grown up now and rolling her hair? Aunt Sally had written that Phoebe was enjoying her first Season, but in Annalise’s mind Phoebe remained the adolescent who fawned over Annalise’s gowns and stayed up until the early hours for her return to listen, wide-eyed, to tales of the balls that she had attended that evening.
Behind Phoebe, two more girls followed—Shelley and Caroline, who had been a toddler when Annalise had been sent away. The three hopped about the walk excitedly, soon to be joined in their makeshift dance by their mother, Sally Sommerville. The daughters and mother all shared the same physical characteristics—creamy skin flecked with freckles, golden hair, long noses, and bow-like lips. Annalise took after her Dutch father in looks, but it was always said that her personality matched that of her maternal aunt and cousins. It was a long-standing family joke about the excitable nature of the female members. “Silly and high-strung the lot of them,” her uncle often quipped.
Annalise reached for the door handle and hopped down before the carriage driver could let down the steps. Her aunt and cousins crowded her, enclosing her in a large, boisterous hug.
“There’s to be a masquerade!” Phoebe announced before even inquiring about Annalise’s well-being or if her trip had been pleasant. “I wanted to go as Anne Boleyn—with my head off. It would have been delightful. But Papa says I must go as a boring shepherdess. What will you be?”
“So many parties this Season,” Aunt Sally cried, repeatedly kissing Annalise on her cheeks. “You shan’t have a single dull moment. Not a one. Oh, but you are so pale. My poor, poor dear, what you must have suffered. I’m sorry I couldn’t visit after the funerals. The children, you know. But I have the perfect potion from my apothecary that will put blooms on your cheeks again. Oh, and the draper received a darling new shipment of fabric from India. We must go tomorrow. We must! There is the most delightful gown featured in The Ladies Mirror.”
Marquesses at the Masquerade Page 13