“I can go to Holland. I have enough money of my own. This is all unnecessary.”
His fingers slid down her arms until they interlocked with hers. “I want to marry you,” he said quietly. “If you will have me?”
“But I…” She gazed up at his eyes, not expecting to see the vulnerable yearning in them. She wanted to say she loved him. She wanted to give him everything Cassandra hadn’t. But she couldn’t. Tears burned in her eyes. “I don’t love you. I’m sorry.”
“Shhh. I know you don’t love me. But you are honest. You hide nothing.”
“That is not enough for a marriage.”
He sank to one knee. “For months, I’ve wandered about in a haze of despondency. Nothing could lift me from my low spirits, except brandy and gambling and…” He didn’t finish, but she knew he found empty pleasure in women. “Then one day, I wandered into a print shop to waste hours, for I had so many hours in my day, and this lovely lady arrived. She had such a light around her, and she spoke of exotic creatures. Later, she met me at a masquerade and I concealed my identity to keep her near me longer, because she broke through my gloom. Then she spoke to me in a tea shop, and her presence was like sunlight in my darkness.” Annalise’s tears were free-flowing now. He kissed her hand, letting his lips caress her skin. “And I hope I’m not presumptuous when I say that you find happiness in me.”
“I do,” she choked through her tears. “Very much.”
“What waits for you in Holland, Annalise? Maybe love, maybe more emptiness. I am here. I simply want your companionship. That is all. We can be a marriage of friends.”
She shook her head. “No, no. Years from now, you may fall in love again. I shall hold you back.”
“I’ve been in love before, and so have you. How did it feel?”
“Don’t make me think about that!” She remembered waiting, waiting for Patrick to write, refusing to believe he had abandoned her. Days had trudged on as she had hand-fed her dying mother and learned to manage a home for her father. Her mind had known he was gone, enchanted by a new land, but her heart didn’t speak the language of her mind. It had hurt and yearned. It had driven her to write letters to Patrick, to replay all their memories, trying to recapture the magic of his love while she was cleaning oozing bedsores on her father’s body.
“I think friendship may be better than love,” he said.
Annalise wasn’t convinced. “But if we are married, you will require an heir and… and a true wife would… I don’t know if…” She released a nervous breath. “I’m having a difficult time saying this. A marriage is intimate.”
He rose to his feet, all the while keeping his gaze on hers. “May I kiss you?”
She studied his lips. They were soft, waiting, and she wasn’t averse to knowing their touch. “Yes,” she whispered.
Yet, he didn’t. He gently stroked her cheek with his thumbs, taking in her face. Then he closed his eyes, slowly lowered his lips, resting them on hers. His were warm, the edges slightly roughened where he shaved. His scent—like pine trees in the winter—filled her. He began to move his lips, asking her for more. She opened her mouth, letting him inside. Their tongues tentatively touched, tasted, caressed.
Kissing Patrick had been a wild, almost desperate sensation. She hadn’t been able to get close enough to Patrick, her body alive and cracking with wild energy. Kissing Exmore was a lulling, sweet sensation, like the steam off of the hot tea and the peaceful tap of the rain from that day at the tea shop. And like that day, she didn’t want the kiss to end, but go on and on. He finally pulled away, but only to rest his forehead upon hers.
“Will that do?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Are you sure I’m who you want? Me? Odd, curious me? You don’t love me either.”
Again, he rubbed her cheek. “Marry me, Annalise. You once said that you felt like a stranger to yourself… I know that feeling. I will give you space to find who you are. You can study botany and naturalism, and I will tell you how brilliant you are. You can delight me with your odd, curious, and wonderful insights. We can read to each other as you did to your father in the garden. We can talk over tea and let the hours fly by. Marry me.”
She couldn’t go back to her old home, and she couldn’t find the London she had known with Patrick. It had all passed away, like her parents. The future in Holland waited with relatives she had never met—strangers who were hundreds of miles of ocean away. She didn’t love Exmore in the way she had loved Patrick. She couldn’t deny the advantage of his title and that their children would always be provided for. But more than anything, she admired Exmore and trusted him. He made her laugh. And that meant so much after being lonely and sad for so long.
He kissed her forehead. “We will be content. Say yes, my Annalise.”
My Annalise. No one had called her that since her father died.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”
Chapter Eleven
* * *
The next morning, Annalise woke to wind splattering rain against her window. Beyond the glass, the world was a blurry, watery gray with people scurrying about with umbrellas. Annalise gripped her taut belly and remembered: Today, she was getting married. Exmore wanted to remove her from her uncle’s house as soon as possible. To this end, he would obtain a special license that morning, and the wedding would take place in the afternoon.
The idea of a marriage of friends was comforting. She could give up on finding love again—the passionate love she had had for Patrick and the potential happiness or pain it might cause—and just accept a situation that was good enough but not ideal. Since her parents’ deaths, the world seemed much bigger and harder, and she, much smaller and fragile. But now, in the rainy, cold morning, she realized she had made a mistake. Everything was wrong. She knew Patrick was never coming back to her. He didn’t love her. Yet, today would be the final end to her doomed courtship with Patrick. She hadn’t realized how much she had been hanging on the thinnest thread of hope for Patrick. But now, all hope, no matter how dim, was extinguished. He was gone to her forever.
“No,” she whispered. “No.” It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Her aunt swept into the room, her cheeks and eyes bright with excitement. Phoebe and Mrs. Bailey were in her wake. “Oh, my darling, you must get ready for your wedding!” her aunt said in a singsong voice. “I’ve told everyone. And a letter from your future husband has arrived and these lovely orchids for you to carry. Mrs. Bailey, put these in a vase.”
Annalise took the letter, opened it, and read.
All will be well. Come to the chapel at four, my lovely bride.
Her stomach turned. She felt she might vomit.
The only suitable wedding gown she possessed was a simple, unadorned white gown from her first Season. In her fantasies of marrying Patrick, she had envisioned having a lovely dress made that was embroidered with bluebells that matched her mother’s wedding veil. Annalise didn’t even know where that old veil was now. When she showed her aunt her choice of bridal attire, the woman pressed her palm to her forehead, aghast. “That old rag of a thing!”
Annalise uncharacteristically lost her humor with her aunt. “Oh, who cares what I marry in?” she said and then burst into tears.
Her aunt shooed Mrs. Bailey and Phoebe away. Then she sandwiched Annalise’s face in her hands. “Come now, I know you are worried,” she said with maternal knowing. “But Exmore will be gentle with his wife. It’s an awkward act that a wife must tolerate. But think, my love. You shall have an infant of your own.”
Annalise stared. Her aunt misunderstood entirely. How could she say, I was supposed to marry someone else? She knew her aunt wouldn’t understand. She lived in a very small, flat, defined world, where she never looked over the edges or questioned herself because what she would discover would be too painful.
“Now, now, see yourself in the mirror,” her aunt continued. “Aren’t you radiant? Exmore will have a very pretty wife. You should always strive to make h
im happy, my dear. Your happiness will be in his happiness.”
Annalise peered at her reflection. She didn’t see any radiance, only dark fear dilating her eyes. This marriage would be a sham. Friends shouldn’t marry.
The rain continued throughout the day. On the way to the church, Annalise clutched the flowers and watched the swollen, filthy gutters flow like rapids along the roadside. She kept telling herself that she was getting married today, yet it didn’t seem like it was really happening. Wasn’t her wedding day supposed to be more than this? Shouldn’t bells toll and horses be adorned with white ribbon? Shouldn’t she feel happy?
Her uncle’s manservant held the umbrella over her as Annalise lifted the edges of her gown and dashed to the vestry. Inside, the church was gloomy, gray stone with heavy wooden beams. The chapel was empty except for Exmore conferring with the vicar by the altar. This is wrong, she thought. This is not the man I’m supposed to marry. She should turn around now.
“Ah, there she is,” Vicar said.
She didn’t wait for her uncle to lead her down the aisle, but walked quietly on, gripping her orchids to her chest. She needed Exmore to gaze at her with those tender, reassuring eyes to calm her fears. He needed to be her hero again, saving her from her fears. But when he turned, the lines of his face were ashen, as if he hadn’t slept. His gaze was hollow and tired.
Oh God, he knows this is a huge mistake too. He acted out of honor and now he’s trapped.
The next minutes were a blur in her mind. The words of the ceremony streamed through her head. “Wilt thou… thy wedded husband… forsaking all others… I will…”
Exmore held her hand, his eyes averted as he uttered the fateful, un-retractable words, “And thereto I plight thee my troth.”
It was her turn to pledge her life. She gripped Exmore’s hand. The vicar waited. The audience of her uncle and his family grew silent. She had imagined this scene a thousand times or more. She had planned her wedding to Patrick in minute detail. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Lovely light should shine through the stained glass like God blessing the union. Her betrothed should gaze at her with a loving glow in his eyes. Her father should be beside her as her mother looked on.
Be strong, Annalise. Stop this madness.
“Miss Van Der Keer, your vows,” the vicar prompted.
Exmore lifted his gaze to hers, imploring.
Her voice cracked. “I—I t-take thee…” She didn’t know how she formed the remaining words. She couldn’t feel the air rising through her throat or her lips moving. The vow came out halting and brittle. “I give thee my troth.”
The vicar joined their hands together. “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
Blackness filled Annalise’s vision. The flowers tumbled from her fingers, and white petals scattered on the cold stone floor by the hem of her gown. Exmore caught her in his arms before she hit the ground. He kept her nestled in his embrace as the vicar hurried through the rest of the service.
“All will be well,” Exmore whispered. “All will be well.”
But Annalise knew it wouldn’t be so as she gazed at the gold band encircling her finger. It felt heavy and unnatural. What had she done?
* * *
The next hours were akin to watching a horse race by the fence line—the streaks of motion, the thundering of sound. She held Exmore’s arm like it was a raft keeping her afloat. She was beginning to awaken to the extensive duties that accompanied her vows as the staff of Exmore’s London home streamed into the rain to form a line to meet her. She mustered her courage, holding the tears at bay, and tried to be as courteous as possible. She remembered very little of his home from her one visit years ago, and she had been too distraught then to take in its enormity and ornateness. A huge portrait of Cassandra waited above the double staircases entwining up a series of balconies. Annalise was arrested by the image of the woman who had destroyed Exmore’s heart. She had forgotten how beautiful Cassandra had been. She seemed to peer down at Annalise as if to say, You don’t belong here.
Exmore must have sensed her distress, for he beckoned to a manservant and pointed to the painting. The manservant nodded.
“We must have your portrait painted and hung in its place,” he told Annalise.
“No!” she cried without thinking. She was horrified at the idea of London Society entering his home and seeing her likeness towering above them. The thought reminded her that as marchioness, she would have to host balls, dinners, and musical evenings. Dear Lord! All she really wanted was to draw wildflowers. Not this!
Wasn’t marrying a marquess supposed to be some kind of dream? Well, it was. A nightmare.
Again, Exmore whispered, “All will be well,” in her ear, but his worried tone hardly soothed her.
She was finally shown to her chamber after an intimidating tour of her new home. And she learned there were four other grander estates that Exmore also called his residences. She was so overwhelmed she could hardly keep her thoughts straight. She remembered thinking how snobbish those old matrons had sounded at balls when they spoke of marrying near one’s station. Now their advice made perfect sense: Annalise hadn’t been brought up to be a marchioness. Now she even had her own lady’s maid—a willowy, lovely lady named Marie. Annalise missed homey, unfashionable Mrs. Bailey. She desperately needed someone from her old life at this moment.
Marie curtsied. “My lady,” she said, her French accent showing.
Don’t call me my lady. Don’t supplicate to me.
“I put your things away,” Marie said.
“Oh.” Annalise didn’t remember having her belongings packed and sent over. Of course, it must have happened. How distracted she had been.
Marie pointed to the various features in the chamber, including the neighboring sitting and dressing rooms. Then she gestured to an interior door. “And that leads to your husband’s chambers.”
Annalise stared at the door. Several days ago, they had spoken at a masquerade, and she hadn’t known his name. Now, they would intimately know each other. There was so much she didn’t know about him. The little important details that made up a person. She just had his broad strokes. It was all too quick.
“I am so happy you are here.” Marie arranged bottles on a vanity. “It’s been gloomy since Lady Exmore died… Oh, but you are Lady Exmore now.”
No, I’m not, Annalise wanted to say. I’m Annalise Van Der Keer. Instead, she only smiled and wrapped her arms about herself.
Marie helped Annalise out of her wedding gown. “Do you have a special nightgown for tonight?” she asked with a knowing smile. She seemed happier about Annalise’s wedding night than Annalise.
“No, just… just the ones I usually wear.”
Marie gave her a mysterious smile, making Annalise feel stupid for not thinking of a pretty nightgown for her husband.
After Annalise had donned her plain nightclothes, Marie brushed out her hair until it spilled in shiny waves around her shoulders. “Here, then.” She dabbed floral perfume on Annalise’s neck and then left with the wedding gown folded over her arm.
Annalise was alone. The rain pinged on the windows. It hadn’t let up all day.
What did she do now?
She eyed the door. Did she visit his chamber? Did he visit hers? Who knocked first?
She felt like a five-year-old who wanted to go back home to her mother and father.
She walked to where her leather portfolios rested on a large desk. She opened the top one, which contained her letters to Patrick, and drew out the last one she had written. She turned the stationery over and hastily wrote:
Dear Patrick, I’ve made a horrible mistake. What have I done? What have I done? It was supposed to be you. I was supposed to marry you…
She heard a gentle tap and glanced down at the letter. Oh God, she had written to Patrick on her wedding night? What was wrong with her? She felt oddly like she was already breaking the vows she had made only hours before. She didn’t have time
to burn the letter, so she shoved it back into the portfolio.
“Yes,” she said.
The door slowly opened, and Exmore entered hesitantly, wearing a silk dressing gown of jewel blue and crimson. She had never seen him without a starched shirt, tailored coat, and cravat. In the firelight, his skin appeared bronze. His tousled hair shone as it fell onto his forehead and almost down to his shoulders. She could make out the planes of his chest peeking out from the V opening of his robe and the curves of his muscled calves beneath the hem. He cradled a wrapped package in his arms.
Despite his casual attire, he bowed stiffly.
“Are you well?” He nervously eyed her.
Why try to pretend? She wasn’t any good at acting. “I’m overwhelmed, scared, not sure I can be a marchioness, and I’m wondering if I made a mistake, but you… you look very handsome.” She gestured to him. “Well, you’re always handsome. But you are especially handsome tonight.”
Her words had the opposite effect than she’d thought they would. Surely, stating that she felt she had made a mistake would trouble him, but his shoulders relaxed with a long exhalation.
“I’m feeling overwhelmed myself. I saw how you struggled today, and I should have been—I should have been a better husband to you.”
“I understand,” she interjected. “I can imagine this was an emotional day for you.”
“I admit I thought I may have been too hasty, but now that I have you away from everyone and all to myself…” He studied her face. Her skin heated under his perusal. “Oh, you are beautiful.”
She became conscious of her dull nightgown, her hair flowing loose. She hadn’t been dishabille with anyone outside her family. But he was her family now. “I don’t have pretty nightclothes,” she stammered. “I didn’t expect to be married in a matter of hours after the proposal.”
Marquesses at the Masquerade Page 23