She loved him. She wanted him to love her, truly, and not merely try to win her through his flirtations and practiced words. Ellen needed him to understand her, to value her as more than a companion. If only he would love her as a man ought to love his wife, as she ached to be loved.
It would be breaking his trust to look at his sketches, like reading a diary or a private letter. Ellen gave the cover one last stroke and reached for the lamp.
“You should look,” Marcus’s voice said through the darkness, sounding nearly breathless. Ellen turned, realizing she had not heard him enter the room because he stood in hers. He stayed there, hovering between their chambers, one hand against the door frame.
“Please, Ellen,” he said, his eyes dark, his expression unreadable. “Look inside.”
Her heart pounded a steady, firm rhythm in her chest. She swallowed and shook her head. “It isn’t my business.”
But he didn’t move, or speak, his only entreaty was the change in his expression, bereft of hope but full of longing.
Longing?
Ellen shook her head and reached for the cover again. One sure way to dispel the tension would be to give him what he wished, to see why he carried what he had claimed was not important. In a hurried motion, Ellen took the corner of the book and flipped it open, laying bare a sketch several pages in. She drew in a quick breath and raised her hand to cover her mouth, lowering the lamp as she gazed upon the page on which her likeness resided.
It was her, yet not the way she saw herself. The face that looked up at her, the eyes were dark and mysterious, the smile barely present. A curl behind her ear looked as if it had just fallen free of its pins. She reached out and traced the curl with one finger, then took the page in hand and turned it, to see another sketch of her, less detailed, more fluid in depicting her walking on a garden path.
She turned back to the beginning to find an orchard as it would appear in spring, full of life and leaves, and her figure walking down the row of apple trees.
Ellen splayed her hand over the sheet and closed her eyes, steadying herself. “What is this, Marcus?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
She heard his step but did not turn. The warmth of him at her back met her and she leaned into him. One of his arms went around her waist, slowly, hesitantly, and the other hand went down to cover hers on the sketchbook.
“This is everything to me,” he said, deep voice husky with emotion. “You are everything to me. These are not empty words, Ellen, but my vow to you. I love you. And if one day you might feel the same—” His voice broke on the last word and Ellen could stand still no longer.
His words were sincere. She could see the truth of them in his drawings, giving her leave to trust him as nothing else had.
Turning in his arms, she reached up to put her hands on either side of his handsome face. The light danced in his eyes as he stared down at her, his whole being bent on showing her his sincerity. He loved her. Years of adoring him, loving him, dreaming without a hope of ever having those feelings returned, were as nothing. The weeks of their marriage were more precious, and this moment marked a new start to her life.
“Marcus,” she said, her heart leaping within her. “I have always loved you.”
His expression changed slowly from one of earnestness to one of surprise. “You have?” There was wonder in his voice, and awe.
“Ever since I was a little girl,” she admitted, her cheeks warming beneath his growing smile.
“Ellen,” he whispered, her name a caress as he spoke it. “My wife.” Then he dipped his head slowly, his arms coming up to hold her. Though she had never been kissed, Ellen knew instinctively what to do. Her hands slid behind his neck and she lifted her chin, closing her eyes and meeting his lips with her own.
The world around them shattered and put itself together again in that kiss, and others followed, each opening doors in her heart that only led her closer to him. One of his hands reached up to cradle her head, and she returned the touch, threading her fingers through his wonderful coppery curls.
How much time passed, Ellen couldn’t say, nor did she care. Marcus held her, caressed her, his tender kisses growing warmer and more urgent until he pulled back at last and rested his forehead against hers.
“Ellen,” he whispered.
“Hm?” She didn’t possess enough coherent thought to form a better answer, though she opened her eyes at last and met his.
“Don’t go tomorrow. Or take me with you. I cannot bear to be apart from you. Not now, not ever.”
“I find I feel the same.” She lifted her lips to his again, tentatively caressing his mouth with hers, and he responded at once, gathering her closer to him.
When they parted, she laid her head upon his shoulder, unable to even think of stepping away. The circle of his arms was where she belonged, had always belonged.
“When did it happen?” she asked, her eyes closed as she committed the feel of his arms around her to memory.
He gathered her closer and kissed the top of her head before speaking. “I cannot tell you. It came on gradually, I think. But the moment I finally understood what was happening, how much you meant to me, was when I started to draw you in the orchard.”
Ellen tipped her head back enough to meet his eyes, reflecting the light and his love back at her. “And when did you draw that, Marcus?”
His cheeks darkened and his dimple appeared with his crooked smile. “The night of the snowstorm.”
“I was so worried you wouldn’t even care I was gone.” The memory of that forlornness no longer pained her. “That wasn’t very long ago.”
Marcus nodded and moved his arms from around her back to settle his hands at her waist. “I loved you before, but I hadn’t stopped to realize it. But that night, as I drew you over and over again, I worked onto the page what I hadn’t been able to admit to myself. You are my whole world, Ellen. You are my friend, my partner, my dearest love.” He bestowed another gentle kiss upon her. “And you’ve really cared for me, all along?”
She nodded.
“You must be the most patient woman in all of Christendom.”
Ellen laughed and rose up to kiss him again, decidedly impatient with all their talk. She knew they ought to rejoin the ball, but nothing at all would persuade her to care. Finally, she was exactly where she wanted to be.
Chapter Twenty-Six
One week after his confession of love, Marcus and Ellen took leave of London. Lady Annesbury protested until Lucas spoke. “Mother, you can hardly expect newlyweds to want to be in society. I can think of nothing that would appeal less to me in their situation.”
Lady Annesbury had pursed her lips and looked from a blushing Ellen to a grinning Marcus and thrown up her hands in submission. “Very well. Be gone with you both. But next season, you will stay for the whole of it.”
“As much as Orchard Hill can spare us,” Marcus answered. Strangely, his mother seemed pleased instead of miffed at his answer.
Not long after the carriage was made ready.
“You don’t really mind, do you?” Marcus asked when she settled in against him. “All of those things you wanted to see in London—”
“As your mother said, there is always next season. There is work to be done at Orchard Hill.” She snuggled in closer and when his arms wrapped around her she sighed in contentment. “Are you certain you can leave your brother to himself?”
“Lucas is an earl. I think he can handle London without me. At least this once.” Marcus kissed the top of her head. “And there are many other better things for us to do at home. As you said.”
“Yes, darling. Such as begin our family.” Though her cheeks turned rosy as she spoke, Ellen laughed at his look of surprise.
Nothing in the world had ever sounded as sweet to him as her happiness. At Orchard Hill they would build their home and orchards, and a family, with joy and love.
Author Notes
Historical accuracy has always been important to me. I
f you find something in this book you believe to be inaccurate, please know I did my best to avoid such mistakes.
Ellen’s story is very dear to me. It was the first I wrote in this series, though it made more sense to start publishing with The Social Tutor and The Gentleman Physician, which is the order in which these stories have been published. Ellen and Marcus’s engagement and marriage take place at the same time as events in the other two novels, and all these love stories branching in different directions will one day connect. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy these characters and their romances as much as I have enjoyed writing them.
If you would like to be the first to know of new novels, please visit my website at sallywritesbooks.wordpress.com and sign up for my newsletter. I also enjoy connecting with readers in my Sweet Romance Fans Facebook group.
I enjoy hearing from readers, so don’t hesitate to drop me a note at my email address, [email protected]. And please, if you enjoyed His Bluestocking Bride, leave a review to help other readers find it.
Thank you for reading.
Sally Britton
Acknowledgements
There are many people to thank when a book is finished and it’s always impossible to list them all. First and foremost, I must express my gratitude to my husband for his full support of my endeavors. He is the reason I tell love stories. Second, I must thank my children for their patience and encouragement. They find me at the computer often, late at night, typing away after they’re supposed to be in bed. We have sweet conversations in those hours after bedtime.
I must also thank my incredible team of critique partners. I am amazed by the level of talent in the women I work with. Joanna Barker, Arlem Hawks, Heidi Kimball, and Megan Walker are names to watch out for. They will take the Regency world by storm.
My dear friend Shaela Kay is responsible for wrapping my books in beautiful covers and bringing my vision of these characters to life. Everyone judges books by their covers, and thanks to Shaela I feel like my books get more than fair shake. Shaela’s talents extend to her own incredible books, look for her works on Amazon.
I have an incredible team of beta-readers. Thank you, to each of them, for giving me fresh perspective and the tools to make my stories shine.
Special thanks must go to my grandmother in Michigan. She’s likely my biggest fan. She made certain my stories are on library shelves, and that is one of the most wonderful things I can imagine for these books.
Thank you to everyone who believes in me, who took a chance on my books, for staying with me on this wonderful journey.
About the Author
Sally Britton started writing her first story on her mother’s electric typewriter, and at only fourteen years old she already knew she wanted to write love stories. Reading her way through Jane Austen, Louisa May Alcott, and Lucy Maud Montgomery, Sally also determined she wanted to write about the elegant, complex world of centuries past.
Sally graduated from Brigham Young University in 2007 with a bachelor’s in English, her emphasis on British literature. She met and married her husband not long after and has been building her happily ever after with him ever since. They have added four beautiful children to their story, moved from Sally’s beloved Texas to the deserts of Arizona, and adopted an adorable dog.
Vincent Van Gogh is attributed with the quote, “What is done in love is done well.” Sally has taken that as her motto, for herself and her characters, writing stories where love is a choice each person must make, and then must go forward with hope to obtain their happily ever after.
All of Sally’s published works are available on her author page at Amazon.com.
His Bluestocking Bride: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 3) Page 22