Her Missing Marquess

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Perhaps you ought to have issued your warning yesterday, my lord.” Her voice was tart.

  “I did.” He flicked his gaze back up to her gorgeous face. Not even hours beneath the sun she was unaccustomed to having upon her skin could alter her beauty. Even sunburnt, weary, and in pain, she was so lovely she made him ache. “You told me to go to Hades. Repeatedly.”

  She pursed her lips. “I do think I also told you to affix leaden weights to your ankles and wade into the lake.”

  She had.

  He had chosen to ignore the barb then as he did now. He took her left ankle in hand and lifted her ravaged foot. Just seeing the angry, red blisters on her heel left him shaken. She had done herself such grievous injury, all to escape him. And what had he done? He had followed her.

  “Surely you were in pain yesterday,” he observed instead, gently using the cloth upon her raw flesh.

  She hissed out a breath in much more violent fashion, her entire body jerking at the touch of the cloth to her heel. “I was too busy attempting to flee your odious presence to take note. That smarts like the very devil, Needham. Must you be so rough? I do think you take too much enjoyment out of causing me pain.”

  Never. He never again wanted to hurt her. Not physically. Nor emotionally.

  He cleaned her broken blisters with slow, gentle strokes before returning the cloth to the basin and wringing it out, rinsing the soap. “I have no wish to hurt you, Nell. I am attempting to help you. Witness me, on my knees, before you.”

  It was true. He had never been on his knees before any woman other than her. He could recall all the occasions upon which he had been situated thus. And on all those occasions, his face had been buried between her pretty legs instead of hovering over her injured feet.

  She studied him, her fingers clawing the arms of her overstuffed chair with such strength, her knuckles were white. “I do not trust you.”

  She had made that more than apparent. For the last three years.

  He dropped the wet cloth back into the basin and took up the clean, dry towel, gently dabbing at her puckered flesh. When she flinched and winced, he took note, slowing and gentling his ministrations. As he did so, he could not help but to admire her feet. They were dainty, so small. At least half the size of his own beastly affairs.

  “You can trust me, Nellie,” he said at last, daring to use the sobriquet he had once used for her.

  She stiffened and attempted to tug her foot from his grip, but he held fast. “Do not call me that.”

  He took up the tin of salve, opened it, and applied a liberal swipe over her blisters. “Why not?”

  “No one calls me that,” she snapped. “I am Nell. Nellie was a stupid girl. A naïve twit. A hopeless dreamer.”

  He tied a gentle, makeshift bandage around her heel and then looked back up at her. “You still look like Nellie to me. You still taste like her, too. You kiss like her. You smell like her.”

  She shuddered. He absorbed the effect his words had upon her, his fingers still lingering on her ankle. He had another foot to tend to, but he was working on more than her blisters, and they both knew it.

  Perhaps he was the cruel villain she believed him, but in a different fashion entirely.

  Because he could not seem to stop. Jack was selfish and greedy and hungry. He had no mercy when it came to her. He had already waited far too long. He wanted her back, and he meant to win her, to woo her, to earn her, however he must.

  “I am not the girl you married,” she insisted. “I never could go back to being her. I do not want to. I have learned far too much.”

  He did not want to think about what she may have learned. Some of her knowledge would perhaps have been carnal. The gossips certainly suggested so. He could not dwell upon that which he could not change. She was still the woman he loved, despite her protestations to the contrary.

  “You will always be the girl I married.” He endeavored to keep his voice calm and even as he retrieved her other foot and set about performing the same ablutions. “You cannot change that, no matter how much you wish you could. You will forever be my Nellie, the girl who fed me pineapples and grapes from her hand, who read me poetry and fed the birds in the lake, who went galloping across the park with me, who made love with me in the gardens that moonlit summer’s night…”

  “Stop,” she ground out. “Stop talking.”

  She was not unaffected by him, by their memories, by who they were to each other. He knew that. He sensed it. Yesterday, when she had kissed him back, he had his answer to the question that had been plaguing him ever since he had decided he must return to her regardless of her wishes.

  Could he win her?

  Yes.

  He had hope. She was not a fortress.

  “Do you not care to remember, Nellie?” he asked calmly, applying salve to the broken blisters on her other foot.

  “Cease calling me that,” she ordered him through gritted teeth.

  Her voice was almost desperate. He should take pity upon her, but she was hell-bent upon distrusting him, upon believing the worst of him, upon leaving him for another man.

  Never. Not whilst I still have breath in my body.

  He wound a bandage around this heel as well. “Cease calling you Nellie, or cease reminding you of what we had?”

  “Both.” Her tone was harsh. Cutting. Embittered. “What we had was a lie, and as I have already told you, I am not the same girl you knew.”

  “What happened to her?” he asked, caressing her ankle, although he had finished his task.

  He could not bear to sever this moment, their connection. If he could not reach her emotionally, he had to believe he could physically. He caressed the protrusion of her ankle bone with his thumb.

  “A new Nell rose from the ashes.” She tugged her foot away from him. “One who wants nothing to do with you. Thank you for your kindness. But now please do get out. I wish to dress.”

  He thought about offering to play the part of lady’s maid as well, but then decided not to push her too far. When it came to winning back his wife, he would need to wage a slow and steady siege.

  He rose and offered her the pot of aloe. “As you wish, my dear. But you may want to use this upon your sunburn. It does wonders to cool and heal your skin—trust me on this matter. I will see you at breakfast.”

  Chapter Six

  Nell avoided breakfast.

  Instead, she took a tray in her chamber, had a note sent to Tom in the village asking him to join her so they might speak at last, and then hobbled to the library. She settled herself by the massive windows overlooking the lake, a book in her lap, and attempted to distract herself.

  But no matter how hard she tried to become engrossed in the latest volume of poetry published by her dear friend Maggie, Marchioness of Sandhurst, she could not seem to stop thinking about Needham’s travel writings, hidden in her chamber, the first volume half-read. Nor could she stop thinking about him tending to her blistered feet.

  Where had the salve and ointment he had given her for her sunburn come from?

  Why was he being so solicitous, so kind? As if he were concerned about her?

  She frowned down at the page and then turned her gaze to the window. The grass was green, the hill sloping down toward the lake. On the opposite side, clumps of flowers blossomed in yellow, pinks, and lavenders. The day was sunny and warm once more.

  “I thought perhaps I would find you here.”

  She jumped and emitted an unladylike squeal at the unexpected, low voice slicing through the peaceful silence. Needham stalked over the threshold of the library, wearing riding boots. His wavy hair looked as if it had been tousled by the wind. His trousers hugged his lean, muscular thighs.

  She huffed an irritated sigh. “What are you doing in here, Needham?”

  It seemed to be the question she was asking him with far too much regularity.

  “I live here.” He flashed her one of his effortless grins that put her in mind of their courting days.
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  She had somehow forgotten how very charming her husband could be. How dratted handsome as well. He exuded a rare, sensual magnetism most gentleman could never hope to possess. When he walked into a chamber, the air seemed to sizzle.

  “I know why you are at Needham Hall, or at least why you claim to be here.” She fixed him with a pointed glare. “I meant to ask why you are in the library. Can you not see I desire to be alone?”

  “Perhaps I wished for some reading material of my own,” he suggested, his sangfroid impeccable as he sauntered toward her. “Or mayhap I wished to check on the welfare of my patient. You were not at breakfast this morning, my darling invalid.”

  “I am not an invalid,” she argued. “My feet are feeling better, however. Thank you.”

  The last, she offered grudgingly.

  His gaze traveled over her face as he neared her. “You did not apply the aloe to your face, did you?”

  She pursed her lips. “No.”

  “Stubborn.” He clucked his tongue and seated himself beside her on the divan.

  Far too close. His thigh brushed her gown. His scent washed over her—fresh air, the outdoors, sandalwood, musk. She shifted away from him, seeking escape.

  “I am not stubborn. I merely had no wish to smear your concoctions all over my face before Tom arrives,” she countered, striving for a calm to match his.

  He stiffened. “Why the devil is Sidmouth returning?”

  “I asked him to visit me.” Nell’s irritation surged once more. “It is altogether unreasonable of you to expect me not to see the man I intend to marry.”

  He took her hand in his. “You are already married, Nell. To me.”

  As if she could forget that unfortunate fact. She withdrew from his touch, hating the way it spiked her pulse. “That problem is easily remedied if you will but use logic.”

  “Obtaining a divorce is not easy, and if there is anything more illogical than the two of us ending our union, I cannot think of what it would be.” His voice was grim. “Do you deny the passion that is between us?”

  How could she?

  Her reaction to him was irksome.

  Thoroughly unwanted.

  “My reaction was instinctive.” Again, she scooted toward the opposite end of the divan. “It is the same for me with everyone I kiss.”

  That was not true, of course. No one had ever affected her the way Needham did. She had been a fool to suppose time and distance would lessen it.

  “Everyone?” he bit out, his voice tense as his green gaze probed hers. “How many others have you kissed, Nell, aside from me?”

  Needham had been her first kiss. Once upon a time, he had been the only man she had ever kissed.

  She met his gaze, defiant. “I lost count.”

  He flinched as if she had struck him. “I see.”

  Why did she know a stab of guilt at his reaction, as if she had betrayed him? She did her utmost to banish it.

  “We were living apart, Needham.” She looked away from him then, turning her attention to the window once more.

  “At your insistence,” he added, correctly.

  “Because you bedded another woman whilst you were married to me,” she returned. “I have no wish to engage in another endless round of arguments with you, Needham. Neither one of us will win, and it is fruitless.”

  “I was not arguing, Nellie. You were.” His tone was mild once more.

  Unaffected.

  She did not like that either, not any more than she liked being called Nellie in his decadent baritone. “I told you to cease calling me that name.”

  “You have told me a great many things since my return.” He sounded amused.

  Her gaze swung back to him. His eyes were crinkled at the corners. Her heart gave a pang, and she did not like that either.

  “Someone has to disabuse you of your wrongheaded notions.” Oh, how she despised herself for the sudden breathless quality of her voice. “I do not know how many more ways I can make it plain to you that I have no wish for this farce of a marriage to continue. Nor do I want to be called Nellie or reminded of the past. Leave it where it belongs, Needham, and leave me be.”

  His expression turned contemplative. “Why does it bother you so much? If you were as unaffected as you pretend, you would not mind what name I call you by, and neither would you object to our shared history. If you felt nothing at all, you would not have kissed me back.”

  She gritted her teeth and flashed him a smile she hoped was feral. “Ah, but as we have already established, I would have kissed anyone back.”

  “Is that what we have established, my love?” He leaned forward, until his breath flitted warmly over her lips. “Because it was my understanding that the only thing we have established is that you are a liar.”

  She swallowed, tamping down a rush of longing. “I am not a liar.”

  “Yes, you are.” He gave her his half grin, the swoon-worthy one. “Do you know what I think? I think you do not want me to call you Nellie because it brings back all the memories of what we were to each other. It is easier for you to carry on with this nonsensical belief you want Sidmouth when you are not thinking of what you stand to lose.”

  She ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. “I already lost what we had. Indeed, I never had it. Whatever we once shared was a fiction. A chimera. Lies.”

  “Was it?” He stroked his jaw with those long, elegant fingers. “When I made love to you, did it feel like a fiction? When I told you I loved you, did that feel like a chimera? Tell me you have a fraction of the passion we shared with Sidmouth. I dare you.”

  She stared at him, at a loss. Because he was right, damn him. She did not share this passion with Tom. Tom did not make her feel desperate. He did not send white-hot longing through her by merely sitting next to her on a divan. He did not make her nipples harden with one bold look.

  Indeed, Tom had never given her a bold look. Not ever, at least not in her recollection.

  Tom was…sweet. Kind. Good.

  Tepid, suggested a voice within. She silenced that traitorous voice.

  Safe. Tom was safe. Because she knew she would never care for him the way she had once cared for Needham. She knew that while she cared for him, she did not love him. Not in the reckless, wild, all-encompassing way she had once loved the man before her.

  “Tell me, Nellie,” Needham murmured now, his gaze dipping to her mouth. “Go on.”

  “What I feel for Tom is different,” she managed, her voice trembling. Hesitant. “He cares for me a great deal.”

  His head lowered a fraction. “But what do you feel for Sidmouth, Nellie?”

  What did she feel? Theirs was a comfortable relationship. She trusted Tom implicitly, and that trust had been hard-won by him. He had shown her, over time, that he would wait for her. That he was patient. That he had loved her from afar, even when she had been courted by Needham. He never pushed her. Not even for intimacy. He did not kiss her and make her feel as if she were about to turn into flame.

  But maybe that was the difference—one man was permanent and true. The other had been exciting but far too charming, too unpredictable. One had betrayed her and the other never had.

  “It is none of your concern what I feel for Tom,” she told Needham. “My relationship is with him and him alone.”

  “Your relationship is with me, darling.” His smile turned grim. “You are my wife. You are his lover. One has far more permanence than the other.”

  Oh, how she loathed his stubborn insistence that they would remain tied to each other. She wanted freedom. It had been within her reach at last, as had the chance to become a mother.

  “Tom has promised to give me what I want, which is more than I can say for you or any other man,” she said truthfully, before she could ponder the ramifications of such a statement.

  Needham, however, seized upon it, his dark eyebrows quirking. “Indeed, darling wife? Tell me, Nellie sweet, what has Sidmouth promised to give you that I have not?”
r />   She refused to look away from his gaze. “Children.”

  The lone word hung in the air between them.

  Children.

  Nell wanted to become a mother.

  Having been raised by a mother who had been far too young when she had borne him, and suffering a cold, icy father, Jack had not wanted children as soon as they had wed. He had instead taken every effort, in fact, to avoid such a prospect, thinking it important for them to grow together. To know each other. To spend time drinking wildly, having parties, making love in every bloody chamber.

  The thought of his child in Nell’s womb filled him with a burst of longing so strong and sudden, he nearly trembled beneath the force of it.

  The thought of another man putting his child there first made him want to commit murder.

  “I can give you children,” he told her, stating the obvious as he struggled to make sense of her revelation. “You are my wife. Say the word, and we can retire upstairs and begin our attempts now. Bloody hell, we can begin right here.”

  She shook her head, her expression pinched. “No. I do not want children with a man I cannot trust.”

  Devil take it. How could he prove to her he was worthy of her trust? He had not known the answer to that question three years ago any more than he knew the answer now. And each conversation with her was akin to running into a brick wall. Just when he thought they were making progress, she proved implacable once more.

  “Do you love Sidmouth?” he demanded, the very question filling him with a bitter burst of agony.

  If she loved another, how could he force her to stay? He, too, had his pride.

  Her nostrils flared. Before she could answer, however, a knock sounded at the library door. Of all the rotten timing…

  “Enter,” he bit out.

  Reeves appeared at the threshold. “Lord Sidmouth has arrived, my lord, my lady.”

  “Tell him to return from whence he came,” Jack bit out.

  “Bring him to me here, Reeves,” Nell said simultaneously. “My feet are quite aching, I find.”

  The butler looked from Jack to Nell.

  “If you attempt to keep me from seeing him, I will find a way,” Nell warned, her voice low.