Marquesses at the Masquerade

by Emily Greenwood

  Patrick visibly stiffened. “I’m sorry.” He paused, digesting the news. “I’m sorry. I remember how you were always telling me delightful stories about them. How you used to laugh about your father coming in from the fields with insects crawling all over him. And how your mother would sing louder than the other ladies in the church.”

  “Yes,” Annalise whispered.

  Exmore swallowed his bitterness. He didn’t know these stories.

  “I wish I had known them,” Patrick said solemnly.

  Another painfully laden silence infused the room. Exmore could hear the unspoken question that couldn’t be asked: What if Patrick had never left? Where would they all be now?

  Patrick turned to Exmore. “So, when did you know she was the lady for you?” Beneath the amicable tone was a challenge.

  Exmore wasn’t going to divulge anything about his feelings for his wife. He made a vague reference to the masquerade party. Patrick returned his pointed, bright gaze to Annalise. “Do you enjoy being a marchioness? You didn’t seem the sort when I knew you. Too casual and always laughing.”

  “I—I’m still adjusting,” she stammered. “It’s very difficult some days.”

  “Ah, but you must adore having parties,” Patrick continued. “Remember how we met at

  Lady Denning’s musical evening? You challenged me to sing Bach, and I embarrassed myself, but did it to win your admiration.” He hesitated, considering his words, an introspection Exmore hadn’t seen in him before. “I… when I was in India, I would think about those days, you know. They seemed… sweeter. I missed them.”

  Annalise regarded him for a moment, and then her eyes drifted to the window. Exmore couldn’t read her expression. Patrick had all but announced he had longed for her. She must be thinking about what would have happened if she hadn’t married Exmore. She would have been free to marry the man she had loved all along.

  Exmore reached for the decanter on the table beside him.

  Patrick continued digging about in his nostalgic memories. Annalise remained fixed on the window. Exmore sipped from his glass and followed Annalise’s gaze. A dull brown finch was perched on the sill. As soon as Exmore saw it, the bird flew away.

  “I—I have a headache,” Annalise said suddenly, interrupting Patrick’s continuing reverie.

  Patrick bolted from his chair and rushed to her as if Exmore wasn’t there. “I’m sorry. Let us send a servant for your present relief.” He touched her shoulder, and Annalise released a high, quiet hum.

  Exmore rolled the burning brandy on his tongue and stifled the urge to strike Patrick.

  Annalise’s eyes trailed down to where Patrick’s hand rested upon her. “No, thank you. I—I need to rest.” She crossed to the door and then stopped, turning back. “Welcome back to London, Mr. Hume. I hope you are happier here than in India.” She studied him a second more, then her eyes lit on Exmore. He busied himself pouring another brandy. She walked out of the room.

  For a moment, neither man spoke. Exmore drank from his brandy, wishing he could hasten the glow of inebriation. He didn’t offer Patrick a glass.

  “How extraordinary,” Patrick began, wagging his finger in the air. “I think you once said that she wasn’t fit to be a gentleman’s wife. Her nature was too wild and unyielding. When I defended her, you said she required more grace than she possessed to be my wife. Whatever changed your opinion of her?” He tried to make his words sound innocent. Exmore wasn’t tricked. He heard the accusation in them.

  “Don’t remind me of what I said then,” Exmore growled.

  “But I listened to you. I followed your advice. I sailed across the world because you told me to.”

  Exmore shot to his feet. “You put up no resistance. You didn’t fight for her at all. You walked away from her, breaking her heart. She deserved better.”

  Patrick opened his mouth and then shut it. After a pause, he said, “I broke her heart?” He seemed awed by this knowledge, his ego swelling at the realization that he possessed such power. “Well, I suppose you’ve mended it, haven’t you?” He chuckled, a low, menacing sound—a laugh he must have acquired in India. “Just don’t forget whom she loved first, my cousin. I could have had her.”

  Exmore made no words of farewell to Patrick. He simply set down his glass and strode out. It was the best option to keep Patrick’s handsome face intact.

  Exmore glanced up at the empty space that had once been occupied by Cassandra’s portrait as he walked up the stairs to Annalise’s chamber. Their marriage had ended in irreversible death. His and Annalise’s marriage would continue in name and nothing else. They couldn’t live in this tangled mess they were caught in, especially when the man she truly loved loitered about London.

  He had made a mistake persuading Annalise to marry him. This sham of a marriage was his fault. Now he had to do his best to undo the damage he had inflicted, and then he would disappear into a gaming hell.

  If she wanted Patrick, then he would give him to her. Exmore wouldn’t say a word against her if they were discreet about their affair. But Exmore wouldn’t wait around to witness the love she could never give to Exmore lavished on Patrick. Exmore wasn’t strong enough to feel that kind of pain. For a few beautiful weeks, Exmore had thought he could rise above the ashes of his life after Cassandra. He had believed he could build something new and strong, but he had based his hope on a shaky foundation.

  Annalise had been right that night so many years ago when she had vehemently cried that she would love Patrick forever. She had been right that friends shouldn’t marry. What had he done to her? To himself?

  He tapped on her door. “Annalise,” he whispered.

  She opened the door. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks damp. Scattered across the floor were the letters to Patrick. They were strewn haphazardly, as if she had thrown them.

  “Please, please,” she said and gestured him inside.

  He drew in a steeling breath and began the proposal he didn’t want to make, a pragmatic solution to this sad union. He had only to get out the words, and then he could disappear into a numbing bottle of brandy for the next months. “Perhaps we can live separate lives—”

  “Is it too late to say I love you?” she cried.

  “What?” Had he heard her correctly? No. He was afraid to believe. His heart had been damaged by hope before.

  “Is it too late to say I love you?” She pressed her hand to her mouth, sobs shaking her shoulders.

  “Oh, Annalise,” he whispered. He tenderly drew the tear-wetted strands of hair away from her cheeks.

  “I don’t know the man who called today. I surely don’t love him. I don’t even know him. All this time…” She closed her eyes. “What have I done? I’ve caused so much trouble out of my foolishness. I’ve missed you so terribly.”

  “Hush,” he tried to soothe her. “Don’t let it trouble you.” Her misery ached in his own chest.

  “I saw him next to you, and in my heart there was nothing for him. Nothing. Empty. All my love was for you. He was a stranger. But I wrote all those letters to him. Every day. I wasted so much time. And I drove you away. I hurt you. And yet, I can’t… I can’t…” She searched his face, looking for an explanation.

  “You can’t what, my love?”

  “I can’t burn the letters!” she cried. “You are right. Something is very wrong with me.”

  “May I see them?” He knelt beside her and began to read.

  My mother is in pain. She writhes. The medicines no longer help. I’m not ready to let her go. Is it selfish to still need your mama when you are grown?

  He replaced that one with another.

  My father taught me a game. I had to name all the birds that come to perch on our hedges. Now I know their names and calls. I see the beautiful coloring of bluebirds, the velvet red heads of the woodpeckers, and clever bead eyes of the crows. Once you stop and truly look, there is more and more to see.

  Then he read:

  The physician says my father
has a few months to live. He bears the news with more dignity than I can muster. I’m so terrified of death, yet he says it’s as natural as the migration of birds and rebirth of flowers. I do not see cycles, only ends. Too many ends.

  He studied the letters, all in her handwriting, in joy, grief, and wonder. Her life’s days laid out before him.

  She sank beside him. “I’m so very sorry. Nothing I can say will make up for what I’ve done.”

  “Hush.” He drew her into his arms and rubbed his cheek against her silken hair. To think he had tried to toss the letters in the grate, almost unwittingly destroying her written history. “May I have them? I want to read them and know all your stories, your life. I will cherish your letters.”

  She drew back, her brow lowered in confusion. “But they were written to another man.”

  “No,” he whispered. “These weren’t to Patrick. You have such a lovely heart, you needed to love someone. Someone who would listen to you when you had no one to talk to. A friend. I think… I think you made Patrick over into the man that you needed, and you loved that version, a dream version who gave you solace and strength.”

  Her lips trembled. “I was so scared then.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “I wish I could have been there for you.”

  “Me too. You bind me to this world. I’ve been so miserable.” She rested her head on his chest. “I had loved Patrick so obsessively—you saw me then. I thought I couldn’t love you because I don’t feel that way. I was such a fool.”

  “No, don’t say that.” He caressed her back with his hand. He was touching her again. All turbulence in his heart calmed with her in his arms again.

  “I wish I had known. I don’t love you with that wild fever that I did Patrick… well, in the short time that I truly loved him. I know now that I love you differently. I love you quietly, deeply, in a place that reaches deeper than the heart. My father said you know more in the silence, and yet, once again, I missed it. I was looking for something loud, not perceiving the quiet love surrounding me.”

  “I’m sorry I have been so cold. I thought about you all the hours. I missed you, and yet—”

  She put her finger on his lips and then let it slip to his heart. “Shhh, I understand. You needed a wife who loved you as you deserve to be loved. And I do. I truly love you. I will love you forever. There will be no one else for me.”

  He remembered her shouting similar sentiments to him years ago, frantic in her sorrow for another man. Now, the words of love fell from her lips, a stillness within them. They were as real and unbending as gravity and the cycle of tides.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “Tell me your stories and thoughts. I shall never push you away again.”

  She raised her lips to his. He drifted on their softness. A bitter journey had come to an end in a kiss, and a new, happier journey began. In that kind moment, he didn’t feel any fear for the future. Days of laughter, children, pictures, flowers, books, tea, and conversation stretched out before them.

  When she finally pulled back from their kiss, her eyes were shining with that mischievous light he adored.

  “I don’t think our marriage of friendship is going very well,” she observed.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done about it. We will have to be a true love match.”

  She laughed, the kind of relieved laugh that came after a trauma had passed. The radiance lit her face again. All the sadness had scattered away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  My Dearest Husband:

  While I do love England, I wish my country would spare my beloved his parliamentary duties this season. Alas, one more week until you return from London, and three weeks, according to the midwife, until our child is born. I know you worry about me, but please don’t. The midwife assures me that our unborn and I are progressing very well, even though I feel as if I’m as large and lumbering as one of our milk cows.

  Little Bella checks every few hours during the day to see if her new sibling has arrived. She is delighted when she places her hand on my stomach and feels the baby kick. “I think it’s trying to get out, Mama,” she said this morning. She has already named her sibling Philomena. When I suggested that she may have a little brother, she replied that Philomena would do for him as well. Yesterday, we drew coccinellids together on my bed, and I have included her darling picture for your pleasure. It’s a family portrait. The coccinellid on the left is you. “You know he’s Papa because he has more spots,” she told me. I shall let you interpret that as you may. She explained that I have another wiggly coccinellid inside me, and that is why my ladybird takes up the entire right side of the page. See how Bella has drawn herself between us, holding our little insect hands. “I love Mama and Papa more than anyone else in the world,” she assures me and warms my heart. I sometimes think my heart can’t hold any more love—that I have gorged on love and now I’m full—and yet, my heart swells anew with the idea of holding our new one.

  Thank you for recounting your delightful dinner with Phoebe and her husband. I always thought that a dashing young gentleman with a passion for the theater would sweep away her heart. It’s rather ironic that she would fall passionately in love with a staid barrister. Alas, what he lacks in drama, he makes up for in kindness, adoration, and taking such good care of her. Her letters are filled with droll domestic stories, and still the ever-glorious Phoebe, she keeps me abreast of the latest London plays. Her accounts are far more amusing than the newspapers’ versions.

  I’m grateful that Aunt Sally and her other daughters have come to us. She is recovering quite rapidly from her husband’s death and has been a great help to me in my confinement. She goes into the village and performs the charitable works that I would normally do. Already, she has made numerous friends. All ladies must consult her before buying fabric or having a gown made. I daresay, when you return, you will find that we are becoming the most fashionable village in all of England!

  My love, I fear I must take you to task. You did not warn me that our new curate was excessively handsome and single. Before anything could be done about the alarming matter, Shelley’s heart fell victim. Now, the poor man is beyond consolation because he feels he cannot properly provide for her. As I blame you for this sad state, so you must rectify it. I think a wedding in the late summer should tidy up the situation nicely.

  Last Friday, I received a letter from Mr. Visser congratulating me on my book’s publication. I had tears in my eyes as I read his fine praise of my work and my father’s. He asks me when I shall publish a second volume. I am wildly flattered, yet I fear that I haven’t the time, but still my head whirs with ideas. My father left so many papers, and the fields and moors here teem with beauty. My father would have loved it here. Sometimes, I imagine him and Mother walking arm-in-arm along the paths.

  I love you, my dearest husband. I pray for your safe return to us. A part of me is missing when you are gone. I glance at your dining room chair thinking you will be there, or I start to search for you when I read an interesting article, and then I remember that you are gone. The nights are the cruelest. Away from me, you are even more present in my mind. It is simply not enough to console myself with memories of your tender embraces. I have stored up weeks and weeks of kisses and tender embraces for you when you come home. I’m so impatient that I fear that I will bestow them on you all at once when you arrive. Until that sweet moment, I keep you in my heart.

  Your loving wife.

  The End

  A Note from Susanna

  * * *

  Dear Gentle Reader,

  It’s been a true joy and blessing to work with Emily and Grace again. They are wonderfully supportive, creative, and intelligent ladies. Sometimes our writing process makes me feel like I’m ten again, asking my friends to play, except now we play with words instead of dolls and dollhouses.

  I hope that you enjoyed Annalise and Exmore’s love story. If you would like to read more of my work, please visit
my website to find excerpts from my other stories or sign up for my infrequent newsletter.

  Happy reading,

  Susanna Ives

  The Governess and Norse God

  * * *

  by Grace Burrowes

  To those who feel out of place at the ball, even when wearing a mask and carrying a hammer

  Chapter One

  * * *

  “You’ll make all the other Vikings jealous, Papa, for you look splendidly savage.”

  Darien St. Ives, Marquess of Tyne, looked—and felt—a proper fool strutting about the nursery in trews, crossed garters, linen tunic, and fur cape.

  “My choices were a highwayman, of which there will be dozens, a Titan, which would necessitate indecent attire, or this.”

  “My papa is the best Viking ever,” Sylvie declared with the limitless loyalty of a seven-year-old. “Your longboat would be the longest, and the monasteries you sacked would be reduced to… to… mere reticules.”

  It’s not that kind of sacking. Miss Fletcher, the girls’ governess, had instructed Tyne on the inappropriateness of correcting Sylvie’s word choices when the child was trying to be gracious. He knelt and scooped up his daughter, the only plunder worth capturing in the nursery.

  “You think I cut a dash?”

  Sylvie squeezed him about the neck. “The ladies will swoon at the sight of you. When you brandish your long sword, your enemies will tremble with mortal dread.”

  The ladies would swoon with boredom. Tyne’s weapon of choice was a sharpened pencil most days, his shield an abacus. Solitude was his preferred fortress and the mathematical error his sworn foe. For a settled widower, the vast reaches of the marquessate’s estate ledger books were adventure enough.