Marquesses at the Masquerade

by Emily Greenwood

  “Dearest,” she murmured from her bed. She patted about, looking for him, and then rose up, rubbing her eyes. She was naked, her breasts exposed. “There you are,” she said and smiled. “Come back to bed.”

  He gripped the pages, black rage consuming him. “What is this?”

  Her lips parted as she took in the letters in his hand. “Oh no,” she whispered. “It’s—it’s not what it seems.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Sarcasm permeated his voice. “Because on the day of our marriage, you wrote that you were supposed to marry Patrick.” He swallowed, his throat contracting in pain. “How could… how could you do this when—when you knew…”

  “I didn’t mean… I didn’t… I…” She glanced down, her shoulders dropping, resigned. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so very sorry.”

  Her apology hardly satisfied him. More and more anger poured into him, as if it gushed from some hidden reserve inside him. “You wrote all these letters to Patrick. The man who thanked me for disentangling him from ‘an ambitious, witless, unmanageable piece of fluff.’”

  Her head jerked up. Her eyes were wet. “He—he said that?” Her voice cracked.

  He approached her, the letters still gripped in his hand. “He doesn’t love you, Annalise. Don’t you understand?” He repeated his words again, pronouncing each syllable as if he could hammer them into her mind. “He doesn’t love you!” He shook his head in disbelief. “How many letters are here? How many did you write him?” He flung the pages he held at the bed. They scattered on the sheets where they had made love only hours before. “Did he ever send you one letter? Just one?”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. “No,” she choked.

  He paced, running his hands down his face. The past seemed to have crashed into the present. Everything was coming back again, recombining into new, grotesque forms.

  She pulled up the covers, hiding her body as if ashamed.

  “What… what is wrong with you?” he whispered.

  “I was lonely. I… couldn’t talk to—to anyone.”

  He knew this to be true when she was alone in the country with her parents, but it didn’t mitigate his anger. She had written to Patrick on their wedding day! “Well, you’re in luck, my dearest,” he spat. “You can give him all these letters when he arrives in London. You can tell him how you were supposed to marry him and not me.”

  “He’s coming to London?”

  The hope in her voice broke him. His ire transmuted to something icy, black, and deep.

  “Yes, he should arrive any day.”

  “H-how long have you known this?”

  “Since I saw you at the print shop.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The look on her face—the love was still there—felt like a hard punch to his gut.

  “Why?” he demanded. “What difference would it make? Would you not have married me?”

  She drew in, lowering her head.

  “Do you still love him, Annalise?”

  She bit the edge of her lip. Tears dripped off her chin onto her chest.

  “Do you? We’re also supposed to be honest with each other. Do you love him?”

  “I—I suppose. I—”

  “Suppose? You suppose?” he shouted. “I love you.” The words came out before he realized he had said them. He had never admitted to himself that he loved Annalise. He hadn’t allowed himself, because he had fallen too quick to trust himself—because he hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable again. Yet, the words tumbled out, raw and bleeding. He studied her, waiting, hoping she wouldn’t break his heart. Hoping some miracle would salvage the moment. Please, Annalise.

  “But—but we are friends,” she stammered.

  He grabbed another handful of letters from her portfolio and tossed them at the fire grate.

  “No!” She rushed from the bed and snatched up the pages, crushing them to her naked chest.

  He stared at her, thinking he might cry himself, as she huddled protectively over the letters. How was this happening again?

  “Why did you do this to me?”

  He tore from the room.

  * * *

  Annalise had gone too far. She had said words she couldn’t take back. A hundred I’m sorrys wouldn’t suffice. She revisited the morning scene over and over, but she couldn’t correct it. What had happened would calcify into a painful memory.

  He loved her. Her own husband loved her. Why did she feel miserable? She would do about anything to have those wild, obsessive feelings for Exmore that she had for Patrick. And even in this lowest of moments, she couldn’t keep down the flutter of excitement in her wretched, cruel heart knowing Patrick was coming.

  She decided she would be as affectionate, as lovely as possible to her husband, trying to make up for the truth she couldn’t hide. But a quiet voice tugged at her conscience, reminding her that he had known. He had known all along about her feelings for Patrick. He had known she didn’t love him, and he had advocated a marriage of friendship. And then he changed the rules and threw everything in her face.

  Nonetheless, the morning after his discovery of the letters, she sought him out, wanting to beg for his forgiveness. He was nowhere to be found. For hours, she waited, her frantic mind immediately jumping to the worst conclusions: He had gone to a hell and was drinking and gambling. What if a woman approached him? She couldn’t bear the thought of him with another. Yet, he was a marquess, and many married peers openly kept mistresses. She tried to tell herself that she was being unrealistic, yet these anxious thoughts continued to whirl in her mind as she went about her day, answering correspondences, meeting with the housekeeper about domestic matters, and greeting morning callers. She and Exmore had begun making friends with other married couples. It took so much strength to smile and laugh along with friends as if nothing was wrong. She sat across from the couples, watching their affectionate little glances at each other and felt like an impostor.

  She should have gone to Holland and spared Exmore this pain. She had only tried to do what she thought was best. Exmore had told her that she made him happy, but she had to think he wasn’t very happy now.

  Exmore finally reappeared in the early evening. He came to her parlor, where she was speaking with the butler about a monthly order from the wine merchant. With the servant present, she couldn’t leap from the table and embrace her husband as she wanted. The anger that had animated his face earlier was gone, replaced with coldness. He announced he planned to work in his library until Parliament began and walked out.

  Once the butler left, she hurried to Exmore’s library. She tapped on the door and entered when he said, “Yes.” He glanced up.

  She squeezed her hands together. “I’m so, so—”

  “I have to know the details of this bill by Parliament,” he said. “I’m speaking.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed and changed tactics. “Then do you mind if I sit on the sofa and read a few letters? I only want to be near you.” She often stretched out against him and read her correspondences with the beat of his heart in her ear.

  “No, no, go ahead,” he said without looking up.

  She nervously sank onto the cushion, keeping her back straight. She didn’t know what was worse—not having him around, or having him close, yet feeling separated by an invisible wall built of icy hostility. Two hours passed in this ugly silence. She would have preferred if he had verbally sparred with her or even glowered, rather than this cold nothingness.

  Finally, he rose. “I must go. Enjoy your evening.” He strolled out. Not a kiss, not an embrace, not even a glance at her.

  Now her own ire spiked. She wanted to chase after him and say, You can’t even hold a conversation with me about what happened?

  Three hours later, a footman delivered a note from Exmore.

  I apologize, but I will be unavailable to attend the theater this evening. I think your cousin Phoebe would enjoy taking my place.

  Thank heavens for the excitable Phoebe. Her e
ffervescent enthusiasm for the play and the leading man helped Annalise survive the play. She sat next to Annalise and whispered, “Oh my goodness, he’s handsome and charming. I’m wildly tingling all over.”

  Annalise didn’t find him handsome at all. Her husband was handsome and charming. This actor, with his makeup and posturing, couldn’t hold a candle to Exmore. And the depressing production about star-crossed lovers who met terrible ends did little to help matters.

  Exmore wasn’t home when she returned after midnight. Annalise lay in bed but couldn’t sleep. Tears streamed down her face. Hadn’t he said that she wouldn’t have to be alone anymore? Hadn’t he said their marriage of friendship would be full of laughter?

  She wasn’t laughing.

  In the early hours, she heard movement in her husband’s chambers. Where had he been? She dried her face on her sheets, rose, and tapped on his door.

  “Yes.” His voice was hoarse.

  She slowly entered. Her husband rested in his bed, his head propped against the headboard, an open journal in his hands. A candle burned on the side table. He smelled of brandy and cigar smoke. She wanted to ask where he had been. At the same time, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “D-did you have a good evening?” she asked.

  He set his journal beside him on the mattress. “Tolerable. And you?” He glanced up at her. This was the first time in the entire day that he had actually looked at her. She thought she might burst out in tears again.

  “Phoebe had a fabulous time at the play.”

  “It doesn’t take much to amuse her.”

  “I wish I could be so easily entertained.”

  “It’s a special gift,” he quipped.

  For a passing moment, they had lapsed into their old rhythm of conversation, but then that moment faded away, and the raw silence returned.

  “M-may I stay?” she asked.

  He pushed the journal off the bed.

  As she crawled under the covers, he snuffed the candle. She curled beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. She rubbed his chest with her hand, trying to release his tense muscles and get any tender response from him. She drifted her hand lower and pressed her thighs against his.

  His hand locked onto her wrist. “Annalise, I need some time,” he said.

  He turned onto his side, putting his back to her.

  * * *

  Each day of the following week felt like a fresh performance of the same play, only with different characters playing the minor roles. Annalise tried to reach out to Exmore, bringing his favorite books, speaking of subjects that once drew laughs, but the harder she tried, the more he retreated from her into a cold politeness.

  Two weeks since her marriage seemingly fell apart, the gray morning found her staring at the blank page on her writing desk. No amount of tea could lift her doldrums. Her pen hovered over the page, her mind bursting with words to say, but she didn’t know who to tell them to. She couldn’t write to Patrick anymore. And her husband was actively avoiding her.

  She hadn’t felt so despairing since the deaths of her parents. She had written to Patrick of her sadness then. Now, she had no one to talk to. She had gone beyond rationalizing what had happened that morning when Exmore discovered the letters. She wanted only to see the warm light in her husband’s eyes again, as when he used to gaze at her in that beautiful time before he found the letters.

  The sound of a carriage pulling up outside the home yanked her from her thoughts. Oh no, not more callers. She didn’t think she was capable of making polite conversation without breaking down. She rose and crossed to the window, edging back the curtain. Her husband stepped down from the carriage. Her hurting heart rose at his sight. She turned and hurried down the stairs. The footmen were taking away his hat and gloves by the time she reached the bottom step.

  “My dearest,” he said, bowing. She saw something in his eyes—sadness, love, yearning? It happened too fast to tell before that cold reserve was back.

  She didn’t care if he pushed her away. She rushed to him and threw her arms around him.

  “Ah, a happy greeting,” he quipped in her ear. “You must have heard that Patrick is back and coming to call today.”

  * * *

  Exmore felt his wife’s body stiffen when it had been so soft and open. She drew away from him and wrapped her arms about herself.

  He didn’t know why he had said what he said. Some vengeful devil resided in him that, despite his best intentions, pushed Annalise away. He had rambled through the days, moving from club, to coffee house, to tea shop, to bookstore, to Parliament, to gaming hell, and all the while, she had consumed his thoughts. At hells, women had approached him, but their smiles, conversation, and touch had all grated. No one could replace Annalise.

  Yet, whenever he was near Annalise, an ugly rage seized ahold of him that kept her at a distance. He knew what he had done wasn’t fair. Theirs was not a love match. He had known she still loved Patrick when he asked her to marry him, yet there had been something so visceral about the written words, It should have been you. Why did she have to write that sentiment?

  His rational mind didn’t want to hurt Annalise, but his heart punished her for not loving him, and for Cassandra not loving him as well.

  He had been musing over these thoughts earlier that morning when crossing Piccadilly. He had looked up and spied Patrick and his father approaching from the opposite direction. Before Exmore could pretend not to have seen them, Wallis nodded his head, acknowledging Exmore.

  “Patrick, welcome back.” Exmore had greeted the men through tight lips when their paths met. Exmore remembered Patrick as a self-absorbed youth, that stage of young manhood when Patrick had possessed a very limited view of the world, and that narrow perspective had revolved entirely around himself. It had been an exuberant confidence born of ignorance. Exmore had looked into Patrick’s bright, unclouded eyes to see little had changed about the brash young man. The only visible difference was that Patrick was even more handsome, his face leaner and more tan, his frame larger and more muscular.

  A mere bow hadn’t been good enough for Patrick. He had drawn Exmore into a hard, back-slapping embrace. “It’s great to be home,” Patrick had said. “Good to see you. My father tells me you married Miss Van Der Keer. My Miss Van Der Keer.” He had laughed, clearly having no hard feelings. “Something must have changed your mind after that harsh lecture you rang over me about her. Maybe you had your eye on her all along, eh?” More laughter.

  Exmore hadn’t reminded Patrick that he had been married to another woman at the time of Patrick’s departure to India.

  “Let us all go to the club and talk as proper gentlemen,” Wallis suggested. Wallis had exhibited a meekness around Exmore since the wedding.

  Exmore excused himself, claiming he was on his way to meet with his man of business. Exmore remained coldly polite to Wallis out of familial duty, but he would never forgive the man for insulting Annalise.

  “Then I shall call later today,” Patrick had said brightly, as if his visit would be the pinnacle of Exmore’s day and not the nadir.

  Now, Exmore didn’t know how to feel. He wanted Annalise to witness how little Patrick cared for her. Yet, he didn’t want her to hurt even more. So much hung in the balance. The perilous game he had dared to play was ending. He wouldn’t emerge the winner.

  Annalise had been right. Friendship wasn’t enough for a marriage. He couldn’t make Annalise love him, just as he hadn’t been able to make Cassandra love him. He had been a fool, and now he would see the consequences of his idiocy play out before his eyes. His heart ached like it had during those weeks after Cassandra’s death. What had he done?

  * * *

  Patrick arrived two hours later. Exmore met him in the drawing room.

  Annalise didn’t come down, and Exmore began to think that she wasn’t coming. His relief was short-lived when he saw the door quietly open, and Annalise slipped into the room. She wore the same clothes as she had earlier. T
he sunlight glowed through the strands of hair falling from her lace cap.

  Patrick, who had been thinking aloud about the kind of horse team he wanted to put together, trailed off mid-sentence. His lips parted. “Annalise,” he whispered.

  Her eyes widened. Patrick stared at her, seeming to lose track of the moment. Then he shook his head as if awaking. He rose to his feet. “You look…” He gestured to his face. “Lovely. Quite lovely.”

  For a long moment, neither Patrick nor Annalise spoke, but gazed at each other. Raw emotion saturated the air. Exmore’s heart felt like it was contracting. Why did he feel he was intruding on a tender lovers’ moment? And one of the lovers was his wife. He desired to stalk from the room, get on his horse, and leave behind London and the disaster his life had become.

  “Please,” Annalise said to Patrick and gestured to a chair. She glanced at Exmore. He looked away. He wouldn’t let her see his pain.

  “I’m sorry for my appearance.” Patrick nervously patted his richly embroidered waistcoat. “India’s finest tailors,” he scoffed.

  Annalise slowly sat, her hands gripping the armrest. “Did you enjoy your time in India?” Her voice had turned breathy and soft.

  “Every hour away from London was torment. Appalling climate and equally appalling inhabitants. I set forth making my way there and ignored the rest.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve read such delightful accounts of the customs and people. I thought that I should very much like to go.”

  “Surely you can find more comfortable corners of the world than a mosquito- and dung-infested cesspool,” he quipped.

  “But the art and traditions—”

  Patrick waved his hand. “Ornate rubbish. All of it.” He rubbed his lips and chin while studying her again. “I can’t decide what about you has changed so radically. You are different. What have you been doing these years?”

  Exmore waited for her to say that she had married. She made no mention of it, but said, “My parents died. I don’t know if you heard in India.”