Her Missing Marquess

by Scott, Scarlett

  Curse her, she likely would. And wind up injuring herself worse than she already had in the process. Or, worse, running off with the bastard. Jack could not countenance either of those outcomes. “Bring him to the library, if you please.”

  “As my lord and my lady wish.” Reeves bowed, and then disappeared.

  Jack turned back to his wife. “You did not answer my question.”

  She blinked at him. “I have forgotten what you asked.”

  He would wager everything he had that she had not. “I asked you if you love Sidmouth.”

  “That is none of your affair.” She stood suddenly, crying out as she did so.

  He rose as well, reaching for her. “Damn it, Nell, your feet are raw. You should not have even walked this far from your chamber.”

  “I am fine.” She held up a staying hand as if to ward him off. “Do not come any nearer. I merely forgot my feet were blistered. Your salve does wonders when one is seated, but the effect is not nearly the same when one is moving about.”

  “You should be resting,” he insisted, irritated with her.

  Angry with her.

  For her stubbornness. For failing to take proper care of herself. For chasing after Sidmouth. For refusing to believe him.

  “I have blisters. I shall live.” She made a dismissive gesture.

  Blast her.

  “You are also sunburnt.” He allowed his gaze to roam over her, taking in her dress for the first time since entering the library. It was silk, sky-blue, and fit her gorgeous silhouette to perfection. She looked every bit the elegant marchioness rather than the wild, wicked woman about whom gossips loved to wag their tongues.

  He wondered which Nell was the real Nell.

  She was a cipher, his wife.

  “I used my pearl powder, and it is quite hidden now,” she said, bending to retrieve the book she had held in her lap, which had thumped to the floor in her haste to rise.

  So she had applied powder, he thought grimly. He had noticed it when he had been near enough to kiss her. The freckles he loved had been scarcely visible on the bridge of her nose. More evidence of the care she had taken with her toilette, all for Sidmouth.

  Jack wished the bastard had a second nose for him to break.

  Nell rose to her feet, wincing again. Jack reached for her, placing a staying hand on her waist when it looked as if her knees went weak.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  With her free hand, she pushed at him. “Cease touching me, Needham. I will not have you pawing at me when Tom arrives.”

  “God forbid,” he told her acidly.

  She clutched the book in a tight grip. “I will not have you presiding over my meeting with Tom as if you are some draconian chaperone. Have you nowhere else to be?”

  Like hell he would allow her to be alone with Sidmouth.

  “Darling, I will eat my riding boots before I leave you alone with your lover,” he drawled, hating the word on his tongue.

  Lover.

  Hating the man.

  Hating the situation.

  Hating himself.

  But not hating Nell. No, he could never do that. He loved her far too much. He always had. Always would. And he would fight for her, too. Fight for her as he should have done so long ago.

  “Why do you persist?” Nell hissed at him, her eyes flashing indigo fire.

  “Because you are my wife,” he returned. “And because I love you. I loved you three years ago. I loved you on the day I made you mine. Good God, I think I loved you from the moment I first met you. I have never stopped loving you, Nell. Believe what you will of me, but do not doubt the way I feel for you. Not ever.”

  He had not meant to say the words aloud, nor with such broken vehemence. Not here, not now. The timing was…bloody dreadful. No other way to describe it. What a seasoned charmer he was, telling his wife he was in love with her when her lover was about to arrive at any moment.

  He should have told her yesterday when he had been kissing her senseless beneath the warmth of the setting summer’s sun. When she had been pliant and acquiescent in his arms. When she had been kissing him with a ferocity that shook him to his core.

  And Nell? Her lips parted. She looked stricken. Then as if she was about to say something…

  “Lord Sidmouth,” Reeves announced at the threshold of the library, breaking the tenseness of the moment.

  Fuck.

  He clenched his fists and pivoted to take in the most unwanted arrival. Sidmouth entered the chamber and bowed formally. Jack suppressed a bitter laugh at the action. As if he had not smashed his fist into the bastard’s nose just yesterday. As if the man were not attempting to steal his own damned wife from him.

  As if he had not cuckolded him.

  But no, he would not think of that. He would not think of the lovers Nell had taken. It served no purpose, for he knew the truth of his feelings for her, the terrible depths: in spite of what she had done to him, in spite of what she thought of him, he would love her forever. Nothing could change that. Not time, not distance, not bloody Sidmouth, not anyone, nor anything.

  He offered a curt return bow, and Nell dipped into a curtsy though her feet were surely aching her.

  “Sidmouth,” he bit out.

  “Needham,” his former friend acknowledged, equally solemn.

  The viscount’s nose was swollen and discolored, the only imperfection on the man’s otherwise flawless face. Sidmouth had been a quiet lad, given to romantic notions and poetry. Where Jack had been involved in athletics, Sidmouth had been absorbed in the arts. Still, they had been friends, because Jack appreciated both the physical and the aesthetic.

  Their differences seemed glaring, here in the bright light of day, in the midst of the library, the woman they both loved standing between them. Jack was dark, as his mother had been, with his father’s cold, green eyes. The viscount was fair. Golden. Good God, he matched Nell, quite as if the two were a pair.

  “Tom,” Nell greeted him warmly, her smile genuine, her affection apparent.

  “How is your nose?” he asked Sidmouth pointedly.

  Sidmouth’s gaze broke away from Nell at last, landing upon Jack, and in that dark-brown gaze, he detected a great deal of resentment, fury, pent-up rage. “Passable. No thanks to you, Needham.”

  “I owe you far more than a broken nose,” he returned, meaning those words.

  He was not a man who ordinarily indulged in violence. Indeed, he could count on one hand the number of times he had ever thrown a punch, unless it was in a good-natured sparring match. But being in the presence of Viscount Sidmouth made him desperate.

  “I have nothing but the utmost respect for Lady Needham,” Sidmouth told him calmly.

  Too calmly.

  Damn the bastard. Could he not at least lose some of his confidence?

  “As I have nothing but respect and warmest regards for you, Tom,” Nell said, offering her lover a warm smile.

  The sort she had once given Jack.

  The sort he wanted her to bestow upon him again.

  This was deuced untenable. He made certain to keep his stare trained upon Sidmouth rather than Nell. What he was about to suggest would require every modicum of bravado he possessed.

  “I will be clear with you, Sidmouth. You seem to persist in the hope that I am amenable to a divorce from my wife. I am not. If I were to sue for divorce, the process would take time and involve considerable scandal for us all. Is that truly what you wish?”

  “She does not want to be married to you,” Sidmouth returned. “Do you truly wish to force a woman to remain tied to you when she loves another?”

  “Ah, but has she told you she loves you, Sidmouth?” he could not resist needling the other man.

  This, too, required mettle. He was assuming Nell had not spoken the words to her lover because she had hesitated in her response.

  And Jack could not deny the smug pleasure washing over him at the manner in which Sidmouth’s calm dissipated.

 
“This conversation serves no purpose,” the viscount snapped.

  “At last, a subject upon which we can agree.” He did his utmost to inject calm into his voice, into his mien.

  “Stop this,” Nell interrupted then, giving them each a quelling look. “You are behaving like children. Needham, I would like some time with my guest.”

  “Not a bloody chance,” he growled at his wife.

  “Please, Needham.” Her tone turned pleading. “I want to speak to Tom without an audience. It is the least you can do.”

  His response was instant. “No.”

  Anger and jealousy warred for supremacy within him.

  “Needham, be reasonable,” she prodded, her voice softening. “Grant me this courtesy. It is all I ask. An hour’s time, nothing more.”

  Her stubborn chin was tipped up, and he knew instinctively this was not a battle he would win.

  “Half an hour’s time. That is all I will give you.” With great reluctance, he turned to Sidmouth. “If you touch her, I will break the rest of your face.”

  “I will be ready for you this time,” Sidmouth dared to say.

  Jack’s fists were already clenched at his sides. He was similarly prepared. But it had occurred to him that if he was willing to compromise, Nell may be equally amenable.

  So he held his tongue, offered the two of them a mocking bow, and stalked from the library. Because he would win this siege, if not the battle.

  Chapter Seven

  Nell waited for Jack to leave, and it was not until his broad back had disappeared over the threshold that she realized she had been holding her breath. He left the door ajar, of course, and she would not be surprised if he lingered in the hall to eavesdrop, taking his rendition of a matron even further.

  “Come and sit with me,” she invited Tom, settling herself back on the divan she had so recently vacated.

  Her feet yet ached, and she had grown weary of standing.

  Tom was at her side in a trice, and she could not help but to notice the difference between his presence and Needham’s. Tom made her feel at ease. He made her feel comforted, treasured.

  But there was no desire.

  None.

  He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips for a reverent kiss. “How are you, my dear? Needham has not pestered you, has he?”

  She looked at the bruising and swelling on his poor nose. “I am well, and he has not. But what of you, Tom? Your nose…”

  “Shall heal,” he finished. “Do not fret over me. You know I am made of stern stuff.”

  Yes, he was. Strong, good, true.

  She knew a fierce stab of guilt then as she thought of how she had kissed Needham the day before. Of how he had made her feel.

  “I am so very sorry,” she told him, giving his fingers a squeeze. “Had I any notion Needham would come charging back here like this, I never would have asked you here. Indeed, I never would have written to him at all.”

  Tom gave her a sad smile. “If you had not written to him, you could not have asked him for a divorce.”

  A divorce which her husband seemed increasingly disinclined to give her.

  “It was better the way it was before, though, was it not?” She sighed, attempting to muddle through her heavy feelings. “I was free to live my life as I wished.”

  “Was it how you wished?” Tom frowned. “All these house parties, drowning yourself in wine. You did not drink too much at the house party without me there to temper your indulgence, did you?”

  She tugged her hand from his. “Of course not. And you are hardly my keeper, Tom. I am a woman grown, quite responsible.”

  What a wretch she was. All she seemed to do was fib.

  “I saw Hilburton at the rail station,” Tom said gently. “He told me you were dancing on the tables again.”

  Drat Hilburton and his wagging tongue. Tom had asked her to stop acting recklessly. To drink less. To host fewer house parties.

  “I was celebrating,” she defended herself to him, much as she had to Needham. “I believed my freedom imminent. What else was I to do?”

  “You promised you would behave,” he said.

  “I promised I would try.” She attempted a smile, but there was precious little levity to be had in this grim moment, and she knew it. “I suppose I failed.”

  It was not the sole endeavor in which she had failed, Lord knew.

  He sighed. “Nell, I love you. You know I want nothing more than to make you my wife, do you not?”

  He was handsome in a different fashion than Needham, and that, too, had been part of his allure. He was light where Needham was dark, quiet and calm where Needham was intense and wild. But what was the use in comparing the two?

  She swallowed. “Of course I know that, Tom, and you know I want the same.”

  “Nothing has changed with Needham’s return,” he added, his expression turning somber. “I will fight for you. If need be, we will run away together.”

  “We cannot run away,” she dismissed instantly. “What of your reputation? The scandal of living openly with a married woman would taint you.”

  “It may be the only way,” he insisted. “Think upon it, Nell. If you live openly with me, the path to your divorce will be easier. I will be named in the suit, but I will gladly bear any scandal to free you from him. To make you mine.”

  Tom’s selflessness made another stab of guilt skewer her.

  “He kissed me,” she blurted.

  Tom flinched as if she had struck him. “Needham forced himself upon you?”

  “No.” The word was torn from her, for it was an admission. “He did not force himself, Tom. It was yesterday. I was on my way to see you, and the axle broke on the carriage wheel. Needham insisted upon accompanying me. When the driver turned back to fetch a replacement carriage, I decided to walk home myself rather than linger with Needham. But somehow…he kissed me.”

  A muscle ticked in Tom’s jaw. “You said he had not pestered you, Nell.”

  “I…” She struggled to find the proper words and failed. She needed to be honest with Tom, that much she knew. “His attentions were not forced upon me, Tom.”

  He paled. “What are you saying?”

  What was she saying, indeed? The truth of it was, her emotions were a hopeless, confused muddle. She had enjoyed Needham’s kisses. She had loved the way it had felt, being back in his arms. The passion he stirred in her was undeniable, every bit as real as it had always been. She did not want to want him. But she did.

  “I enjoyed it,” she admitted, because she knew she must. “I am sorry, Tom. I am confused. Hopelessly, horribly confused. I did not want him to kiss me. Indeed, I never intended for it to happen. I stopped it, of course, and I walked home after that. But I wanted to be honest with you. I will not have lies between us.”

  Tom stood as if the divan had caught fire, stalking away from her, raking his fingers through his hair. His silence was deafening.

  “Tom?” Hating herself for her revelation, for her weakness where Needham was concerned, she rose, closing the distance between them. Agony shot from her blistered feet, but she ignored it as it radiated up her calves. “Will you not say something? Please?”

  He spun about, an emotion she was not accustomed to seeing sharpening his countenance. “What would you have me say, Nell? He is your husband, and I am the man you have not even welcomed into your bed. Do you want him instead of me? Have you changed your mind?”

  She stared at him, struggling within herself to find the answer. “Of course I do not want him. I… It was old sentiment, rushing back to me. I forgot myself. It will not happen again, I promise you.”

  He raised a brow. “As you promised you would behave? As you promised you would not drink too much port and go about dancing on tables?”

  Had he struck her, he could not have inflicted more pain upon her. “I am sorry for hurting you, and I am sorry about the port and the dancing. I am sorry for everything, Tom. Can you forgive me?”

  Tom’s
expression remained unrelenting. Fierce. “Do you love him?”

  Yes, said her stupid heart.

  “No,” she denied. “Of course not.”

  “Do you love me, Nell?” he asked next.

  Curse Needham for his question earlier. It hung between them now, heavy and dangerous. Ah, but has she told you she loves you, Sidmouth?

  “I care for you, Tom,” she said, knowing she could not deceive him about this, her feelings.

  “But you do not love me.”

  “I do not know that I even believe in love,” she said. “I have been truthful with you about that always. After this disastrous marriage, what am I left to believe? All I know of love is pain.”

  He gave a bitter, humorless laugh. “How familiar.”

  “I am sorry,” she repeated. “It will not happen again.”

  He looked crushed. And she had done that. She was the source of his pain—both his broken nose and heart.

  “You need to think about what you want, Nell,” he said at last. “I have loved you for years. I am willing to wait for you, to fight for you, to weather scandal to have you at my side. But if you would rather remain at his, I need to know.”

  “That is not what I want.” She reached for his hands, taking them in hers, wishing the touch of his skin upon hers gave her the same jolt of awareness Needham’s had. “I want to divorce him, and I want to be your wife. I want to be a mother.”

  “Good.” His gaze searched hers. “If that is what you want, then come with me.”

  His words left her feeling strangely hollow. Numb.

  But this was what she was supposed to want, was it not? It was what she had been convinced she longed for.

  “When?” she asked, wetting her suddenly dry lips.

  “I will need some time to make arrangements. Three days, perhaps four.”

  She had time then. Why did the knowledge feel so reassuring?

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I will go with you, whenever you are ready for me. It is what we must do. I very much fear Needham will not release me from this marriage any other way.”

  Tom raised each of her hands to his lips then. “I will send word. Wait for me. And if he tries to force you or coerce you, promise me you will leave.”