His Bluestocking Bride_A Regency Romance

by Sally Britton

  “Good morning.” Marcus looked at the table and then to the sideboard. “Has Ellen been down yet?”

  “She sent for a tray.” Lucas turned a page over and continued reading. “As did Mother.”

  Mother always sent for a tray, but Ellen never had. Not in all the time they’d been married, at Orchard Hill or in town. Had her headache had grown worse? Ought he to check on her?

  “Are we going to talk about what happened at the ball?” Lucas asked. Marcus’s eyes darted back to his brother, but Lucas still wasn’t looking at him.

  “What happened at the ball that is worth speaking of?” he asked, folding his arms. “It was a ball.”

  Lucas sighed in a long-suffering manner. It was the same sigh that accompanied most of his brotherly lectures. Marcus usually didn’t mind them, but today the sound of that sigh made his eye twitch.

  “Sit down, Marc. We need to talk.”

  Marcus obliged, but chose a seat several chairs from Lucas. “Very well. What are we talking about? The perfectly ordinary ball?”

  “That is as good as place as any to start.” Lucas reached up to massage his temples. “I had my doubts about your marriage. Not because of Ellen. I must make that clear. I’ve always liked her; even as a child she showed more intelligence than most. But the way you entered your marriage with her left me disappointed.”

  Marcus folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in the chair. “I entered it in a church.”

  “You know that isn’t what I mean.” Lucas shook his head and tapped the table to emphasize his point. “I mean the haste you used, Marcus. You rushed headlong into this. You gave Ellen no time to consider what she was doing. Then you told me, the very day on which you were wed, that you’d informed her of your feelings. Or lack of feelings.”

  Marcus’s heart sank. It was true. He’d told Lucas everything, and felt the truth of such sentiments at the time. But things had changed since then.

  “Ellen married you anyway. Bless her for that. But seeing you here in town, watching the two of you, I think you’ve made an incredible mess of things.” Lucas’s drumming fingers moved more rapidly as he spoke and his brows were drawn down in an impressive scowl.

  “A mess of things?” Marcus sat straighter, affronted. “I may be in love with her. I’m trying to do things the correct way. I’m being a good husband—”

  Lucas interrupted impatiently. “After making it clear to her, excessively so, that you would not love her as a man ought to love his wife. And the ball last night proved you haven’t any idea in your head as to what you’re doing to her.”

  Marcus’s shoulders tightened and he sat straighter. “Excuse me?”

  “You danced with her, for all the world to see, in effect baring your soul to everyone.” Lucas shook his head. “You’re enamored with your wife. Mother is beside herself you decided to make such a display of your feelings, but I think it was well done. Especially given the gossip I’d heard snatches of.”

  “I heard it too,” Marcus answered, his temper flaring at the remembrance. “But I thought to correct the assumptions, and—”

  Lucas cut him off with a dry chuckle. “Did you not see Ellen’s expression while you danced? I did. The whole of it. The poor woman’s heart was in her eyes.”

  Marcus looked away. “I wanted to dance with her, Luc. Not to stop tongues wagging, but to dance with my wife.”

  “I understand. I truly do. You never had a courtship with her, and now that you’re married, and in love with your wife, you should get one.”

  Starting at his brother’s boldness, Marcus opened his mouth to protest. Lucas, in his typical fashion, did not allow it.

  “Marcus, not half an hour later you were seen with Lady Castleton. For the second time this week, I might add.”

  “How did you—?”

  “You were on the street with her, in front of a popular modiste. People saw you.” Lucas shrugged and ran his hand through his short blond hair, a frown pulling his mouth down. “Falkham told me you nearly gave her the cut direct at the ball. Your marriage, new and talked about as it is, doesn’t need more gossip attached to it.”

  Marcus slumped over, elbows on the table and face in his hands. “I hate London.”

  “Your wife does too.”

  His eyes came up at that. “How would you know? She’s always wanted to come, to see the museums and galleries, the libraries.”

  “I’m sure she has. But she dislikes society. I can’t say that I blame her. I feel it too, especially with the absurdities of our Parliament this session. We’re fighting a war with Napoleon and the Americans are in a snit over the trade embargos and impressments.” Lucas shook his head. “It’s a room full of fools at times, and the few of us with sense are shouted down. But we’re not talking of that. Forgive me. We’re talking of you and Ellen.”

  “Last night, at the ball. What would you have done in my place?” Marcus kept his voice low, trying to sound reasonable. “If it had been Abigail—”

  Lucas groaned and sat back. “Abigail and Ellen are not the same. Not at all. Abigail was born to this—”

  “Ellen can learn,” Marcus argued. He raised a hand and waved it around the room. “She can learn all of it. You said it yourself, she’s intelligent.”

  “I’m trying to tell you,” Lucas said, enunciating each word carefully, “that she doesn’t have to learn it if she doesn’t want to. We both know you don’t like it here either.”

  “I like London well enough.”

  “You think you have to like it,” Lucas said, obviously unimpressed with Marcus’s protest. “You find things about London to enjoy, but you would rather be a country gentleman than a member of the ton.”

  Marcus sat back, his hands staying outstretched on the table. “You need me here.”

  “I have enjoyed having your support,” Lucas said, meeting his brother’s eyes. He leaned forward, his blue eyes glowing with intensity. “But I do not need you here, Marcus. I can see to myself, and it’s time you do the same. Find out what your wife needs, and if it’s to stay in London you must stay. If Ellen feels as you do, if she would rather return to your home, take her back to the country and be happy.”

  Lucas’s expression changed, becoming almost pained. “But please, Marcus. Please, stop wasting time. It’s a precious thing. Do what you must to make your wife your primary concern. Court her, cherish her, and tell her how you feel. You never know when it might be too late.”

  Marcus’s heart ached for his brother. “Will you take your own advice and find happiness again, Luc?”

  The mask of the earl fell back into place and Lucas returned to his letters. “My happiness is not your concern. Ellen’s happiness is.”

  With that the conversation ended. Marcus, no longer hungry, took his leave.

  ¤

  Ellen paced the library floor, going from one end of the shelves to the other, her mind a tangle of unpleasant thoughts.

  The letter in her hand protested when her hand tightened around it. Ellen frowned down at it, her name written in Teresa’s hand across the front. Her sister’s news was simple and happy, full of excitement for her impending confinement and new baby. The letter was also full of questions about London and Marcus. Questions Ellen didn’t wish to answer.

  She tucked the letter in the band about her waist and continued her pacing.

  In two days’ time, their wedding ball would be held in the family’s townhouse, and the guest list was a yard long. When looking through it, she‘d recognized a handful of names. What was she to say to a group of strangers come to celebrate her marriage to one of their own?

  Marcus was well liked by many, that was easy enough to see. Everywhere he went, people greeted him by name. He knew what to say and how to act, even if he didn’t find pleasure in it, and fit with these people well. Ellen, on the other hand, stuck out. No one knew her or her family. They’d never heard of her until they learned of Marcus’s marriage. So far, people had either seemed mildly curio
us, completely indifferent, or openly hostile upon meeting her.

  There was no time, either, to get to know anyone. After being introduced to someone at tea, they left a quarter of an hour later. Meeting a lady at a ball meant a minute and a half of conversation. How did anyone make friends in London if this was forever the way of things?

  “You will get used to it,” her mother-in-law had told her when she ventured to speak of her concerns. “The more you are about in society, the more familiar faces will become. You will carve a niche for yourself in due course.”

  Longing to do more than socialize, Ellen had asked about the possibility of venturing out to the menagerie, or the lending libraries, or art galleries. But each time she had mentioned the possibility, Lady Annesbury had declared it impossible. She had engaged them for various teas, morning calls, or else declared it to be their at home day. Marcus had bowed to his mother’s wishes when he was present.

  Her husband had barely spoken to her for the last several days, though he was often in the same room. Marcus sat brooding, and sometimes she caught him watching her with a speculative look in his eyes.

  Was he beginning to see what a terrible choice in wife she had been? Seeing her in the light of London’s spectacles could not have been less flattering.

  Ellen paused in her steps and raised a hand to her forehead, attempting to hold back her painful thoughts. It was no use, she knew, to deny what he had seen. She was too quiet, too withdrawn, and too unused to society’s ways. She might make a very fine country wife, and indeed Kettering looked far less daunting now that she had London to compare it to, but how could she ever be like the ladies of the ton?

  Especially when all she wanted to do was curl up in a chair with a good book or escape the madness of morning calls to attend a gallery, or the Royal Society’s building. Anything would be better than sitting and listening to women discussing the same gossip she had heard three times already.

  Ellen paused and put one hand out to touch the spines of the books nearest her. Pulling one out at random, she went to sit on the couch. The moment her eyes fell onto that piece of furniture, however, all she could think on was the night she and Marcus had spent resting upon it, in each other’s arms.

  Heat crept into her cheeks and she hugged the book to her chest, staring at the spot where his head had lain. Here she stood, a married woman, and that moment when she woke in his arms had been the happiest of her life. They had never spoken of it again.

  She turned away and went to one of the chairs instead, opening the volume hastily. She sat in the chair and frowned down at the page, trying to make sense of what she saw. It appeared as though she’d chosen a volume of poetry. She flipped the book closed and read the spine. Reliques of Robert Burnes.

  “When I upon thy bosom lean/And fondly clasp thee a’ my ain, I glory in the sacred ties/That made us ane, wha ance were twain.” Ellen scowled down at the book and slammed its covers closed again.

  “Not to your liking?”

  Her head snapped up and Ellen saw her husband standing in the doorway, watching her with that strange, curious look again. It was as if he’d never seen her before and tried to puzzle her out. But he had known her so well at Orchard Hill.

  “I am not in the mood for poetry, I’m afraid,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. She stood and turned her back to him, going to the shelves to restore the book to its proper place.

  “That’s a shame.” He came further into the room, his manner casual. “What would you like to do, Ellen?”

  Ellen closed her eyes and spoke before thinking. “I would like to go home to Orchard Hill.”

  Silence, long and heavy, filled the space between them. But she would not turn to look at him, would not look to see his reaction to her words. He had asked and she answered.

  “Is London so terrible?” When he broke the silence his voice was softer but resigned.

  Ellen shook her head and placed a hand on the shelves in front of her, gripping it for strength. “No, but I find I’m not made for it.”

  His step came nearer. “That isn’t true, Ellen. It will take some getting used to, but—”

  Ellen let out a laugh and whirled around, her gaze colliding with his. “I know. And I have not given London a fair chance. But you asked what I wanted and I gave you an honest answer, which is more than what I can say for nearly everyone I’ve met since coming here. How do you live like this, Marcus?”

  He stared at her. “It’s how my life has always been.”

  “I know.” She raised a hand to her head again, a headache coming on. “But it isn’t easy for me. I’m trapped by the invitations given and received. I’m happy to make friends, but no one here seems capable of real feeling. Everyone wishes to outdo each other. There is no genuine behavior or emotions.”

  “Ellen,” he said, coming another step closer. He raised a hand as if to reach for her and then lowered it. “Ellen, would you like to come with me today? Would you like to go for a ride in the park or visit Gunter’s? Maybe we could visit the Tower.”

  Though that was precisely what she wanted, Ellen shook her head. “I have a fitting for my gown. The seamstress is coming here, at your mother’s insistence.”

  “I see.” His hands at his side opened and closed. He looked away. “Tomorrow?”

  “Ball preparations,” she answered, her tone apologetic. “And the day after that is the ball.”

  “I will at least see you there,” he said, a note of levity in his voice. “And we may dance without comment, as it is held in our honor.” Marcus raised his gaze to her, a charmingly crooked grin on his face.

  Ellen wrapped her arms around her waist, holding herself together. How could he look at her like that and not know what it did to her heart? Would he ever know her feelings as well as he seemed to know her habits?

  “That is something to look forward to,” she said, forcing a smile. “Will it be as much of a crush as the last ball we attended, do you think?”

  He shrugged and moved closer again, bringing them to stand a foot apart. “Likely, since it is the Earl of Annesbury and his lady mother hosting. Between his title and her popularity, all of London will wish to attend.” His smile was almost apologetic. Did he know how much she dreaded being a on display?

  He reached out, holding his hand palm up to her. Ellen hesitated, then put her hand in his. “You look lovely today, Ellen.” He said it simply, but with the expression she’d seen him wear dozens of times when he paid compliments to others.

  “Thank you.” Her words sounded tired to her own ears.

  Marcus’s brows drew down. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  What could she say to that? She withdrew her hand, folding it under her other arm again. “Not really.”

  “Please, Ellen. Remember, I said no secrets between us.” Marcus’s hand curled into a fist and he dropped it to his side. He attempted a teasing smile. “That should also mean no half-truths.”

  Yet how many of those had she told? And how many times had he spoken a kind word to her that could as easily have been said to a stranger? Ellen knew she was keeping plenty of secrets, locked up in her heart. Perhaps it was time to let one slip.

  “Very well. There is something that bothers me, but I know addressing it will hardly do more than cause divisiveness between us.” Ellen looked down at the carpet, thinking her words through carefully.

  “Tell me,” he said, and she watched his hand rise again, as if to reach out to her. At the last moment he withdrew it to run through his hair again. He chuckled. “I think I’m due for another haircut.”

  Ellen sighed and turned away, finding it easier to collect her thoughts when she did not stand so near him. “I’m afraid you will think me the worst sort of person or accuse me of jealousy or—I don’t know. But since we have been engaged, and every time we have come in contact with others in our marriage, I’ve heard you offer lists of compliments to people, some half-meant. You said it’s part of what people expect from you, wh
o you are. But the lack of sincerity, the ease with which flattery falls from your lips, is difficult for me to hear.”

  There was a pause before he answered. “You don’t like that I’m kind to others?”

  “I love that you’re kind to others,” Ellen said, then bit her lip when she realized she had used the word love in his presence. She was more tired than she realized. “It’s a fine quality. What I struggle with is the easy flattery. When you say such things to me, how can I believe you mean them?”

  Marcus stepped nearer her but she kept her back to him, lifting her gaze to look out the window onto the busy street before the house.

  “Ellen, I’ve never said a word to you without sincerity. In fact, there is more I would say—”

  She closed her eyes, unwilling to hear compliments she could not trust. “Please, don’t. You are too used to the part you have assigned yourself. I have no doubt you mean well, but I’d rather not have the same words you say to every woman you encounter.” She pleaded with him, her vulnerability more apparent in her words than ever. “I have so long been just Ellen and I am unused to flattery.”

  “It isn’t flattery,” he argued, stepping around her, between her and the window.

  Her eyes opened, and she could feel the sting of tears building.

  Marcus’s expression changed from one of entreaty to shock. “Don’t cry,” he said, reaching out to take her shoulders in his hands. “Ellen, I never meant to hurt you.” He pulled her gently forward, wrapping his arms about her.

  She buried her face in his shoulder, her heart aching. He’d never embraced her like this and it undid her. Ellen’s tears could not be held back and she cried into his shoulder.

  “Has it been so terrible?” he whispered into her hair, one hand stroking her back while the other supported her. “London? Me? Ellen, darling, what can I do?”

  Ellen shook her head. “Nothing. I’m tired.” She gripped the front of his coat, allowing herself to stand within his arms a moment more before she pushed herself away. “Excuse me. I ought to rest.” Turning, Ellen made it a few steps before he spoke again.