And he did, albeit stiffly, his brow furrowed and his mouth drawn taut. “No?”
“What I mean is,” she began, flustered and breathless, “not yet. Take me to our picnic first?”
His breath rushed against her cheek and his arms enfolded her once more. “Are you sure?”
She swallowed but held tightly to him. It was knowing that she didn’t have to brave this—or anything—alone, that gave her the ability to say, “I am.”
* * *
Two hours later and with his pink-cheeked fiancée on his arm, Brandon walked up the lane toward Crossmoor Abbey. Toward home.
For the first time since he’d succeeded the title, he could look at this place and think about the future, instead of all those he’d lost. He and Ellie had navigated the arches, enjoyed their picnic, along with a few other delights, and she’d said yes to his proposal without any hesitation.
“That had to be a record number of sighs and swoons,” he said smugly. “How many was it exactly?”
She looked up at him with her heart in her eyes and then rolled them skyward. “So arrogant. What makes you think I’d put your proposal in my book? You said you’d love me every day for the rest of your life . . . even when I’m being impossible. Hardly romantic.”
“Your eyes were filling with tears and I’d needed to make you laugh. It puts me through hell to see you cry,” he admitted quietly. “Now, see? You’re doing it again.”
Turning to her, he brushed away the wetness from her sooty lashes with his thumbs and then with his lips.
“It’s your own fault. I’m just too happy,” she chided with a soft smile and lifted her hand to smooth back the curls from his forehead. Then her expression turned somber and serious. “I want to marry you now. This very day.”
“As much as I would like to—even if that means Gerbold would marry us—I don’t have a special license.”
“Then lock us inside your bedchamber before anything or anyone interferes.”
Only then did he see a brief glimpse of panic dart across her gaze. He held her close and soothed her fears. “You don’t have to worry about being too happy, Ellie. It happens to people all the time and they survive it. So will we.”
She wobbled her head in a nod and issued a self-deprecating laugh. “You must think I’m completely mad—a woman afraid of being happy.”
“I would never think that.”
“Good,” she said and hugged him tighter, her cheek pressed to his chest. “It’s just that I’ve never felt this way before.”
He tenderly kissed the top of her head. “Tell me the symptoms of this new ailment.”
“The need to be near you, always. Finding random excuses to touch you. Watching you in your study through the crack in the door. Yes, I confess I have done that quite often. I’ve even become jealous of your teacup when you put it to your lips.”
“I shall have it banished forthwith.”
“Good,” she said with a smile in her voice. “And the worst ailment by far is an absolutely ridiculous notion that you are perfect in every way. It’s almost unbearable how much I love you. Is there a cure, do you think?”
His heart soared as he held her. “I hope not.”
“And you know, there’s a very good chance that my aunts—” She broke off and drew in a breath. “Do you smell something burning?”
Lifting his head, he scented the air and, sure enough, there was.
This wasn’t a hearth fire from a chimney, but something different. Perhaps Mr. Weymouth was burning brush. Whatever it was, Brandon wasn’t inordinately alarmed. At least not until he turned and saw the curls of black smoke rising behind the abbey.
Chapter 33
“But sometimes, happiness is as elusive as smoke.”
—A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat
Meg was the first to greet them as Brandon and Ellie rushed to the back of the house. But he noticed no alarm in her expression. In fact, she was grinning from ear to ear.
“You are so full of surprises,” she said, tugging on his hand to pull him around the corner. “Why did you not tell me you invited a balloonist here? How thrilling!”
“What?” His gaze swerved to the field of clover and there it was. Billows of smoke pouring from the fire to fill the giant red-and-gold balloon.
Beside him, Ellie gasped. “That wasn’t your brother who extended the invitation. It was—”
“There’s my Ellie,” Nethersole said, swaggering through the terrace doors. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. And now Hullworth has spoiled my surprise. Well, no matter. What do you think? Are you ready to finally be rid of that pesky fear of heights? Once you’re up in that basket, you’ll never think my phaeton’s too high.”
“George, you have overstepped. It isn’t your place to invite people to Brandon’s house.”
Nethersole’s brows lifted in quick speculation over the informal address, his gaze shifting between the two of them as if he knew nothing of their involvement. But no sooner than Brandon could even look to Ellie in question, Nethersole affected a smile and bowed in a false show of deference.
“Forgive me, Hullworth. This is only my meager attempt at enlivening the party. It never occurred to me that you would take offense at something so trifling. Perhaps, you and I can explain the misunderstanding to the balloonist together?”
Seething, Brandon inclined his head and set off, intending to handle the matter straightaway. Nethersole, on the other hand, proffered his arm to Ellie and brought her along as well, keeping a step behind.
As Brandon left the back garden, he saw Sylvia, Maeve and Myrtle step through the terrace doors and address Meg, who likely had no idea what was going on. Well, they were all about to find out when he gave Nethersole the boot and told him that he was no longer welcome at the abbey.
“Mr. Sinclair is a right solid chap,” Nethersole continued in his usual garrulous manner. “Told me everything there is to know about ballooning. Just wait till you see it up close, Ellie. The basket is shaped to have a hole in the center to make room for the fire. Then, the smoke wafts up and fills the balloon until it expands. And the thing would rise on its own and drift off for a couple of miles if it wasn’t tethered by those ropes. What do you think of that, eh?”
“I think it sounds dreadful.”
At the tremor in her voice, Brandon stopped and turned around. He ignored the irritation he felt at the sight of her arm curled around Nethersole’s. “Ellie, if you’d rather go back, I’m sure that your aunts and my sister would like to know what’s happening.”
“If she had any qualms or complaints, Hullworth, she would voice them. I should know, for she’s been scolding me for decades,” Nethersole said charmingly and gazed down into her upturned face. “No need to treat her as though she’s made of glass.”
“I know very well how strong and capable she is. What I doubt is your ability to heed any wishes other than your own.”
Nethersole chuckled. “Do you hear that, Ellie? If we were already married, I can imagine you giving him an earful.”
Already married? Brandon was now fuming. Obviously, during the conversation Ellie had had with Nethersole earlier that day, she’d neglected to mention that she was in love with another man.
Had it been too difficult for her to speak the words? To make a choice? It hadn’t seemed that way last night. Or this afternoon, for that matter. However, it was becoming all too clear that, when in Nethersole’s company, her affections were still divided.
Even so, he knew that Ellie was incapable of being deceitful in any way. So, this was simply a matter to be sorted out later, between the two of them.
Before he did or said something he would regret, he turned to address the mustachioed Mr. Sinclair, who was wiping smears of soot from his forehead with a red handkerchief that matched the giant balloon.
“Sir,” Brandon began, “I believe there has been a misunderstanding . . .”
For the next few minutes, he spoke a
miably with the balloonist and offered to compensate him for his time. The man was apologetic, having not realized that Nethersole wasn’t the lord of the manor. When the smoke from the fire drifted in their direction, they stepped off to the side to conclude their conversation.
But from a short distance away, he heard Ellie’s voice, strained and frustrated. “George, I really don’t want to see it.”
“Don’t tell me you’re so afraid of the balloon that you cannot even stand next to it while it’s inflated?” He tsked. “Come now, it isn’t going to hurt you.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Brandon glimpsed Nethersole’s attempt to lift Ellie into the basket. Rage suddenly filled his veins.
She struggled and thrashed to be free. “George, put me down this instant! It isn’t amusing in the least.”
“You just need to give it a go.”
“Nethersole, take your bloody hands off her!”
* * *
Ellie had known something terrible was going to happen. But she never imagined this. Every moment that followed blurred together into one horrific nightmare.
She pushed away from George at the same time that he let go of her and she tripped over one of the ropes. She fell, hard, landing on her hands and knees.
Brandon rushed to her side. But when he saw the smear of blood on her palm, he cursed in an animalistic growl and then launched himself at George.
They punched and grappled. The sounds of pained grunts and the sickening smack of flesh hitting flesh filled the air. She’d witnessed a bout of pugilism before and never imagined that she would look back on it and find it civilized. Today she felt differently.
These men were feral. Their coats were stripped, sleeves rent, cravats tangled and discarded on the ground. One moment they were both standing, the next they were on the ground, unleashing their inner beasts as they wrestled for domination. And it only grew worse from there.
Shoving George out of the way, Brandon tried to come back to her, chest heaving for every breath. Then George came at him from behind, jumping onto his back and cinching an arm around his throat. Brandon staggered, falling against one of the tethers. The balloon shifted, bobbling in the air as the basket groaned and crackled from being too close to the fire.
Hearing a shout from Mr. Sinclair, she turned for just an instant. But by the time she looked back, she saw that Brandon and George had fallen into the basket, still fighting and oblivious to the sudden jerk of the last tether rope as it was wrenched from the earth.
Ellie knew that she would wake up at any moment. This couldn’t be happening. Not really.
But then she heard Aunt Maeve and Aunt Myrtle cry out behind her and saw Meg and Sylvia grip each other tightly as the balloon lifted off.
Ellie wanted to rush forward, to grab the rope and hold on for dear life. But she was frozen, trapped in a nightmare and unable to move.
And then, to her utter horror, Brandon tumbled over the edge. No! No!
Ellie wished she would faint. Wished she would collapse and then, later, someone would tell her the dreadful news.
But she didn’t faint as Brandon fell through the air. She watched, helpless, for the entire agonizing drop. For the boneless thud that followed. Her gaze fixed on the still form lying on the ground.
Her legs moved on their own, rushing to his side. But it took forever to reach him, as if she were running through worm-clotted mud. And all the while, she saw flashes of him lying in a coffin, heard the dirt being emptied by the shovelful onto his grave.
His chest was so still and tight beneath her hands, his face contorted in a rictus of agony, and she wanted to scream but no sound would come. Only blinding tears.
This must be what it felt like to have her soul ripped from her body.
Shudders and wrenching sobs tore through her. Her nightmare had come true. She could feel the dirt in her hands. The rawness inside her. And the cold emptiness that surrounded her like a shroud.
She knew then that this was what she’d been afraid of all along—to love him so much, to imagine a life with him, only to have it ripped from her grasp. How could she bear to live without him?
She didn’t know how long she lay, collapsed over his supine form. Yet, gradually she felt hands on her back. She imagined they belonged to one of her aunts in an attempt to comfort her.
But they weren’t her aunts’ hands.
She heard the strained wheeze beneath her ear. The strangled spasm of air into arrested lungs. A cough. And then she felt arms cinching around her. Strong arms, just like Brandon’s.
She thought she was dreaming. Or that she’d lost her mind and couldn’t accept the fact that he was never coming back to her. Either way, she would rather stay in this dream, and so she remained perfectly still.
“Ellie,” he rasped, his voice like gravel. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Come on now, my dear,” Sylvia said softly. “You need to stand up so that we can see if my nephew has anything broken.”
“I’m fine, Aunt. Just a bit of wind knocked out of me.”
But he wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine. It never would be again.
Yet, as the minutes ticked by, Ellie came to her senses enough to realize that Brandon was holding her and soothing her. He truly was alive . . .
But she couldn’t allow herself to rejoice. Not now. Not when she’d had a sample of the agony she would suffer from losing him. And she’d only just begun to love him. How much worse would it be to lose him later, after they’d started their lives together?
He thought she was capable and strong. But to her, this only proved that she wasn’t. And she wasn’t ready to face a life without him either.
So she let Sylvia draw her away, helping her to stand off to the side. A crowd quickly formed around him—his aunt, Meg, Mr. Sinclair, the gardener, even the butler and his valet had rushed from the house.
Ellie slipped away, walking numbly toward the sound of her aunts’ voices.
She’d nearly forgotten about George.
The balloon, it seemed, had gotten caught in a nearby tree. He likely would have survived the ordeal completely unscathed, if he hadn’t leapt from the basket, only to get his arm tangled in one of the ropes. The aunts were quick to fashion a sling out of one of their shawls.
Even though he was injured, he still had a smile for her. “There’s my favorite nursemaid.”
“Are you in pain?” she asked as if by rote. The truth was, she didn’t care about anything at the moment, or feel anything. She was numb inside and tired. So very tired.
“A little,” he admitted. “But more than anything, I think I just want to go home. What do you say, Ellie? Would you like to go home?”
She nodded and looked to her aunts who stared back at her with concerned furrows along their brows. “I would. Today, if we can manage it.”
“Very well, dear,” Aunt Maeve said, coming to her side.
Aunt Myrtle kissed her damp cheek. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
Chapter 34
“A marriage-minded gentleman will not have patience forever.”
—A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat
Damn it all to hell.
Brandon felt like he was still falling from the balloon. His life was coming apart and he couldn’t figure out a way to make it stop.
In his study, he stared with incredulity at Ellie, who simply stood there, gripping the handles of her valise, her face pale and void of expression, as if she were empty inside.
“So you’re just leaving? With him?”
Her head jerked in a nod. “I have to go. George doesn’t have anyone. I’ve always looked after him. And besides”—she swallowed—“this entire ordeal was partly my fault. It wouldn’t be right for me to stay.”
“None of it was your fault.”
“Not true. George mentioned the balloonist and I didn’t take him seriously. I should have mentioned it to you. If I had then . . .�
�
This wouldn’t have happened, he thought, finishing her unspoken sentence. They were supposed to be celebrating. Planning the rest of their lives. Instead, she was leaving, choosing George over him.
How could this have gone from the happiest day in his life to the worst?
He stepped around his desk and stood in front of her. Taking the valise from her hands, he set it down then he cupped her shoulders in a tender massage, trying to warm the chill emanating from her.
“Sweetheart, listen, this was all a mistake,” he said. “I know it was hard for you to witness the fall, but we have to move beyond this. You cannot let fear control you. There’s nothing we can do about what’s already happened. It was an idiotic stunt that Nethersole pulled by bringing the balloon here, and he went much too far when he tried to force you inside. So I’ve ordered him to leave, but you needn’t go with him. This is your home.”
And I need you far more than he does, he thought, but didn’t say it aloud because the words were too raw and too true. He knew that Crossmoor Abbey would never be a home to him unless she were here, filling the halls with laughter, sharing her thoughts in a single look across a room. He loved her. Their connection was stronger than any he’d ever experienced before, as if they’d been formed from the same clay.
But, right now, he hated how vulnerable that bond made him feel.
Ellie took a step back, just out of his reach. “You’re wrong about George. He didn’t mean any harm.”
Brandon’s empty hands closed into fists and his frustration came out in a growl. “Unbelievable. When are you going to stop making excuses for him? He’s a grown man, Ellie! He knows perfectly well what he’s doing. And he’s got you wrapped around his little finger.”
“This isn’t about him,” she said, her eyes flashing.
“Isn’t it? Then why didn’t you tell him about us? About our plans?”
“It wasn’t the right time. And besides, I knew he was never going to be ready for marriage. Not really.”
The Wrong Marquess EPB Page 33