Marquesses at the Masquerade

by Emily Greenwood

  Exmore’s favorite part of the play happened when Phoebe caught Annalise yawning during a supposedly heart-wrenching love scene. A terrible sin! Although he couldn’t hear what they were saying, the animated conversation between the two ladies was far more entertaining to watch than what was on the stage.

  At intermission, the lobby was flooded with people. Their chatter, echoing in the great hall, formed a roar of sound. Exmore edged through the crowd, the smell of perfumes and hair oils assaulting his nose as he searched for Annalise. He finally spotted her leaning against a marble column, just outside a circle formed by her uncle and his family. His heart quickened, and a smile spread over his mouth.

  Her eyes widened with recognition as he drew nearer. He raised his fingers, a small, silent greeting. Her lips parted. She glanced at her uncle and then at Exmore again. She held his gaze for several moments, before turning and slipping into the crowd.

  What?

  It took a moment for him to fully comprehend the small exchange.

  Annalise had cut him.

  He stood there for another few seconds, staring at the column where she had stood, his anger flooding in.

  How dare she treat him this way?

  No woman had ever turned him away.

  Did she realize how many other women vied daily for his attention?

  He had an urge to chase after the ungrateful lady and tell her that he regretted saving her from social disgrace.

  These were ungenerous thoughts, yet they bubbled in his mind.

  He strode back to his seat. Why was he so wildly angry? Not annoyed, as he should have been, but viscerally irate. Hot, black rage coursed through him. When the next act started, he trained his glass on Annalise.

  She sat, expressionless and wooden, watching the play.

  Scene after scene he watched her, stewing in his anger and mentally admonishing himself. All the while, he waited for her to look his way.

  What was he doing?

  Then it finally happened. She glanced in his direction. Their eyes met. Then she glanced back at the stage.

  Damn her.

  He bolted from his seat and left the theater. He walked in the cold night, avoiding eye contact with prostitutes, peddlers, and conning thieves until he came upon a grimy tavern and entered. He edged through the eclectic, drunken crowd of dock workers, solicitors, seamstresses, and ladies of pleasure until he found a quiet corner in which to hide. He ordered a brandy, and when it arrived, he studied its warm, amber glow in the firelight and sank into his anger at Annalise.

  He had saved her from social ruin, and this was how she thanked him. Did she somehow think she was his better? He was a marquess. She was a nobody. Worse than a nobody, she was almost an outcast before he had stepped in.

  A drunken customer began singing at the bar. Exmore almost yelled for him to shut his hole, but the man’s lush tenor was surprisingly good. Wonderful, to be more accurate. He wasn’t a trained opera singer, but he had the voice of the common people. He sang of the loss of his love to another man. The tavern turned quiet and somber. The man’s plaintive singing reached to the pain that had driven Exmore’s fellow drinkers to this grim hellhole to drown their despair.

  Exmore stared at the tenor but didn’t see him. His beautiful voice summoned Annalise’s face in Exmore’s mind as she had been the night they danced. How her sweet smile, which lit her eyes, had made his heart light, as though he could rise above the disaster of his life.

  His anger receded, leaving the seemingly bottomless despondency that had consumed his life since his wife’s passing.

  Why did Annalise have to turn away from him?

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  He told himself he wouldn’t go to the lecture. The morning Visser was speaking, Exmore instead headed out in the rain to a club that was in the opposite direction of the Royal Institution. Yet, when he saw Colonel Lewiston sitting by the window, Exmore kept on walking. At another club, the conversations of others rankled Exmore’s nerves, and he couldn’t keep Annalise out of his thoughts. He wanted to confront her and understand why she had cut him. He composed a mental peal he desired to ring over her, which contained the words gratitude andkindness, but not the phrase, Why did you hurt my feelings? Maybe he had to solve the mystery of her sudden coldness, or express how he felt, even if she didn’t care, or merely see her, but he was driven into the pounding rain to Visser’s lecture after all.

  Exmore didn’t spy Annalise among the dusty men in ill-fitting clothes crowding about a man who Exmore assumed was Visser. The gentlemen appeared to know each other and were excitedly chatting about their own botanical studies. They didn’t notice Exmore slip into a chair at the back of the small room. The clock set on the mantel showed three minutes until eleven. What if she didn’t come? What if he had to suffer through a lecture by Visser, who clearly struggled with English, from the snatches of conversation Exmore had overheard. At five after the hour, Visser cleared his throat, and the other gentlemen took their seats. Exmore felt deflated, frustrated, and angry after all the mental drama that had driven him here. She wasn’t coming, despite having pleaded for the details of lecture, after she had said she could barely wait for days. His ire at her rose even higher for trapping him in a boring lecture.

  But mostly he felt let down.

  In his periphery, he saw a flutter of fabric beyond the threshold of the door and turned. She appeared, a lovely smile radiating from her face despite the wet curls plastered to her cheeks and the water that dripped from her hem. She held a leather portfolio under her arm. He couldn’t deny the lightning sensation in his chest at her sight.

  “Mr. Visser.” She curtsied. “My father, Franz Van Der Keer, and I hold you in great esteem.” She spoke quickly, her voice breathy with excitement. “I read your book on your Australian journeys to him in the last weeks of his life. I cherish your work and the memories it has given me.”

  “Franz Van Der Keer,” Visser said and then continued in slow, laboring English. “A very good friend. Pardon me. You speak very fast.”

  Annalise switched to his native Dutch. Visser’s stiff expression relaxed. Whatever he said to her caused Annalise to clutch her hand to her heart, tears appearing in her eyes. Although Visser gestured to a vacant chair in the front row, she strolled back to Exmore and slipped into the seat next to him and smiled as if the night at the theater hadn’t happened.

  “Sorry I’m rather late.” She set her portfolio on a neighboring chair. “I walked here. Although, I’m sure it appears as though I swam the entire distance.”

  He tried to remain angry, but the emotion was cracking about the edges. He couldn’t help but quip, “Don’t worry, you look quite intelligent.”

  “Is that a compliment or an insult of omission?” Her eyes sparkled. “I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you the other night at the theater. Wasn’t it a dreadful play? Phoebe thinks it’s akin to Shakespeare, no doubt due to the handsomeness of the leading man. You see, my uncle… to say that he violently disapproves of our friendship is too mild a description of his feelings. So please excuse my rudeness. I only thought of you and your well-being… and, well, my well-being, to be truthful.”

  She smiled again and turned her attention to Visser, leaving Exmore to study her profile and to ponder how hours and hours of anguish evaporated in a matter of seconds.

  The first ten minutes of the lecture were rather painful as Visser struggled with English, often looking to Annalise for help. After a point, and to the great pleasure of his audience, Visser switched to his native tongue and allowed Annalise to translate. Exmore turned his chair, putting his back to the wall beside the window, and watched Annalise’s animated face as she retold Visser’s stories of hacking through jungles or hiking across African plains searching for unknown species. He could contentedly have spent the entire lecture just listening to the sound of comforting rain and her gentle voice weaving through English, Dutch, and bits of Latin.

  Visser spoke for little ove
r an hour. Afterward, the other attendees clustered around his table, where various bones, furs, and dried plants were displayed. Exmore waited with Annalise outside the circle of men.

  “What’s in the portfolio?” Exmore asked her.

  “My father’s work. I wanted to show it to Mr. Visser.”

  “May I see?”

  She opened the portfolio on a table pushed against the wall. Exmore made approving noises as she explained each one to him, although he really didn’t know what he was looking at. He just enjoyed how her excitement transmuted into him and the tingle that rushed up his arm when she touched him. Soon, Visser joined them and began asking Annalise questions in Dutch as he flipped through her images.

  “Ah,” he said, drawing one out.

  She emitted a squeaking sound and tried to yank it from his hands. “Oh, no, that’s mine!”

  Both Visser and Exmore quickly reacted to keep her from hiding the illustration. Exmore held it up as Visser pointed to different aspects, speaking in admiring tones, as Annalise wildly—and beautifully—blushed.

  Later, after they had helped Visser pack up his specimens, Annalise and Exmore stood in the paneled hall outside the lecture room. The rain was coming down hard, but inside the building, its sound was muffled to a lull.

  “So, don’t keep it a secret. What did Mr. Visser say about your brilliant illustration?” Exmore asked.

  She waved her hand, flustered. “It’s not brilliant.”

  “Don’t disagree with me. I’m a marquess.”

  “Oh, I forgot that I must always agree with a marquess.”

  “It saved many a life in medieval times.”

  She glanced comically heavenward. “Ah, the feudal days of yore. How I don’t miss them.”

  “Come now, what did Mr. Visser say?” he insisted.

  Her lovely blush returned. He adored how it spread across cheeks and onto her upturned nose. “He liked it. He truly admired it and asked that I send him more. Can you believe that? The renowned Mr. Christiaan Visser actually approves of my work!”

  “Of course, I can. You are a naturalist like your father. Even though I have no idea what I’m talking about, I can tell that you are far more talented and knowledgeable than those other fusty gentlemen here today.”

  She shook her head. “No, no, I’m a woman.”

  “A woman and a brilliant naturalist.”

  “Could you see me hacking through the jungles, escaping blood-thirsty tribes, fording rapids, and cresting summits in the quest for an exotic fern or such?” The dreamy quality of her gaze betrayed her incredulous tone.

  “Absolutely. The first thing that comes to mind when I think of you. May I come along to the jungle? I’ll carry your supplies and do the hacking and fording.”

  “How chivalrous of you. Yes, do come. Let’s run away.”

  She was laughing, but he realized that he wouldn’t have said no if she were deadly serious. Yes. Run away from all of this.

  “Aye, miss, there you are, miss.” A fortyish woman in a heavy wool coat and ruffled bonnet rounded the last set of stairs. “London was evil before, but in the rain, you would think it’s Satan’s own parlor. I wandered about for an hour before I found decent thread that wouldn’t break off the spool. How was the lecture?”

  “Wonderful,” Annalise replied. “Heavenly. Mr. Visser knew Papa and truly enjoyed his work.”

  “But he was especially impressed with Miss Van Der Keer’s illustration,” Exmore interjected before a proper introduction.

  “Aye, she’s a special young lady who doesn’t belong among the sinners,” the woman said. “She needs to be back in the country with the flowers and green fields, not in this teeming rubbish heap.”

  “Lord Exmore, may I present my faithful servant, Mrs. Edward Bailey. She accompanied me here. We sneaked away from my uncle’s house together.”

  “Partners in crime.” He winked at Mrs. Bailey. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Thank you for taking such good care of Miss Van Der Keer.”

  Mrs. Bailey made a click deep in her throat, clearly intimidated by Exmore’s title, and stepped away. He wished politeness didn’t demand introductions. He would have loved to continue speaking with the earthy, no-nonsense Mrs. Bailey.

  “Did you really sneak away to attend?” he asked Annalise.

  “Actually, I was fibbing. I simply said that I planned to attend a naturalist lecture and that Mrs. Bailey would attend me, and everyone scurried away like I had announced that I had contracted the plague.”

  He chuckled.

  She glanced at a window in an empty lecture room, and her brows furrowed. “Alas, I fear we must brave the rain again.”

  “Must you?” he asked. “There is a warm tea shop tucked away around the corner, perfect for waiting out the deluge.”

  She paused, considering, and then shook her head. “I shouldn’t…”

  “I can’t let you go out in the wet and cold. You will most certainly catch the dreaded plague or, at the least, a deadly chill.”

  “My goodness, you make hot tea sound like life or death.”

  “Did you ever doubt it?”

  “But if my uncle finds out…”

  “I’ll be surprised if we aren’t the only people there. And there’s a table practically hidden around a chimney. No one will see you. So, you have no good reason to decline and risk your life.” Exmore had spent several mornings at the tea shop, hiding and gulping down strong tea, trying to chase away all that had happened the previous night.

  “But will there be good conversation?” Annalise asked.

  “Only the best, of course.”

  She glanced again at the pounding rain on the window and then at him. “Well, if we aren’t going adventuring in a jungle, we may as well have tea. Who cares what my vile uncle thinks? Let’s go.”

  “There’s the old Miss Van Der Keer. I wondered where she had gone.”

  “Oh, she comes out from time to time—as reckless and foolish as ever.”

  * * *

  Annalise knew she shouldn’t have followed him to the tea shop, but she positively dreaded returning to Wigmore Street. The day had been perfect, the best she had had in months, and she wasn’t ready for it to end. She wanted to hang on to its shine a little longer.

  Exmore was correct. The tea shop was quite cozy, and he led her to a table that indeed was almost hidden behind the chimney and tucked in the corner, where the light was dim. The candle burning on the table gave the impression that it was nighttime.

  Mrs. Bailey learned that the shop owner had been born in her home village, and the two fell into a conversation about whom they knew and whom they were related to. The rain thundered on the roof and windows, and steam rose from Exmore’s tea, curling about his mesmerizing eyes and gentle smile. Annalise felt her muscles relax as a deep contentment settled over her.

  Exmore poured a few drops of cream in his black tea and swirled it with a spoon. “I have to admit that I was rather upset at you before the lecture.”

  “Me? What am I guilty of? Do make it interesting. Larceny of crown jewels, disorderly conduct at Almack’s.”

  “No, no, because you ignored me at the theater. But then you prettily apologized, and my grudge disappeared as if I hadn’t been nursing it for days.”

  How odd that he should be angry at her for not speaking with him. She hadn’t thought she would be significant in his vast, colorful universe. “I’m sorry. I wanted to speak to you about the fascinating article you sent me. I’ve been thinking about it for days. Alas, my uncle read your letter when it arrived, and well, Mount Vesuvius erupts more peacefully. Might I suggest not sending letters to me, or if you do, don’t write, ‘Looking forward to our grand secret.’”

  “Dear Lord, I’m dreadfully sorry.”

  She flicked her hand dismissively. “It’s ridiculous. My uncle has lascivious suspicions. He thinks that you couldn’t possibly be friends with me. Only nefarious things can exist between you and a lady such as myself.”
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  “Such as yourself? What’s wrong with you?”

  She studied him. He was a handsome man, but not as handsome as Patrick. Or perhaps he was a different sort of handsome. He was a little more hard-featured and intense than her former suitor. He was dark to Patrick’s gingery, golden looks. In any case, it didn’t seem right that he should be here, talking to her, when he could bask in the adoration of the ton. “You’re a shining English god, living high on Mount Mayfair, and I’m a lowly, untouchable, mortal woman, baked in common mud and loitering about the edges of society.”

  “Do you think that? That we can’t truly be friends?”

  She glanced at the liquid in her cup. “I really want to be friends,” she whispered. “You are the most interesting person I know, well, now that my father is dead.” She lifted her cup to take a sip, but then put it back down before it reached her lips. “I know I need to marry. I know it’s how I’m supposed to spend my waking hours in London, thinking about what I should wear, where I should be seen, all in the hopes of securing a husband. But…” She gazed at Exmore. “I’m tired. I’m so tired. Do you understand?”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “Very much.”

  “I’ve spent all my time worrying about my parents and taking care of them and my home, and I’m not ready to be thrown into marriage just yet. I want space to breathe. I feel like I’ve lost myself, and I’m trying to find her. And I never really forgot…” She trailed off, too ashamed to talk about Patrick. She changed the subject. “I can’t imagine that you could possibly love someone after your wife’s passing. To me, you will always be married to her. I remember how much you admitted you loved her that night… well, the night of my infamous midnight visit. Her loss must be devastating.”

  He shifted in his chair and glanced toward the counter. “Yes,” he said quietly. He ran his thumb down his cup. “The night of your so-called infamous midnight visit, you swore that you would always love Patrick. And as you look at me now, I believe you still do.”