The Wrong Marquess

by Vivienne Lorret

  “I do, very much,” she said, eyes dancing.

  “Then it just so happens that I stitched a small white crane the other day. The wings are ever so slightly lined with silver. And if you stitch it in place right about . . . here, I should think,” she said, twisting to reach over her shoulder to tap a portion of the scapula, “it would hardly be noticed at all. Then again”—she shrugged and lifted her brows in impish challenge—“it might be noticed quite a bit.”

  Hearing the conversation, Aunt Maeve was already at the sewing box, opening the lid to retrieve the crane. Meg went to her and waved the little bird like a victory flag. “Thank you, Ellie. I’ll call on you tomorrow with a full report.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Before she could leave, Aunt Myrtle put a few comfits inside a handkerchief. Then Ellie watched Meg take the doctor’s arm as they stepped into the hall. The aunts followed, chatting animatedly.

  Ellie was surprised, however, that Lord Hullworth lingered behind.

  He said nothing at first, but merely waited in the doorway, watching the others depart. Then he went back into the corridor only to return an instant later, holding a box. A rather long, rectangular box like the ones containing long-stemmed flowers. And it had a red ribbon on it as well.

  She blinked up at him in confusion. “Did Mr. Rivers carry up a package during Dr. Lockwood’s examination?”

  “Not exactly,” he said mysteriously and proceeded to place it across her lap. “Just open it, Miss Parrish.”

  “Overbearing,” she muttered in singsong under her breath. Even so, she felt a thrill rush through her as she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.

  Inside the red velvet lining, lay a frilly lace parasol with a thick ivory handle, carved in the shape of a cockatoo’s head, set with glittering amber eyes. It was surprisingly heavy. And beneath, she noticed the small white card.

  As sturdy as a cane, but disguised as a parasol to shield your vanity.

  B

  She gasped and looked to Lord Hullworth, only to discover he’d moved to the doorway, ready to take his leave. “From you?”

  He inclined his head. “Considering the fact that we are friends, I wanted to make amends for my skepticism regarding your injury.”

  There was something in the way he held her gaze that made her feel flushed from head to toe. Perhaps, it was merely the warm temperature of the room. Or perhaps . . . it was because Meg mentioned they’d visited three different shops. And all for her.

  “This is an awfully pretty apology.”

  “As you say,” he said simply.

  She averted her face so he would not see her blush, and traced the delicate featherwork with the tip of her finger. “Does this mean I’ve managed to quell all your suspicions where I am concerned?”

  Neither his answer nor the curl of amusement in his voice surprised her when he said, “I’m afraid not.”

  She nodded, believing him to be a hard-won skeptic. But she would convince him in time. “I really shouldn’t accept this. There are rules of decorum that one must abide. After all, I cannot imagine you would allow Meg to accept such a thoughtful present from a gentleman, no matter what his reason.”

  He didn’t respond and, when she looked again to the doorway, he was gone.

  Ellie sank back against the settee on a sigh, wondering what this meant. But surely, considering the parasol came from London’s most elusive bachelor—a man who was neither interested in marriage nor willing to trust his sister’s newfound friend—it meant nothing at all.

  Even so, the episode might be something worth jotting down in her ledger. If only she knew where it was.

  Chapter 6

  “Gentlemen are perplexing creatures. A debutante must resign herself to this irrefutable fact.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  Brandon didn’t know why he hadn’t returned Miss Parrish’s little ledger yet.

  It had been a week since he’d first tucked it inside his inner coat pocket. A week of Meg visiting the town house on Upper Wimpole Street. In the very least, he could have given it to his sister when dropping her off from the carriage for her morning call, or left it with the manservant at the door when arriving to escort her home again.

  And yet, he never remembered to do so.

  Therefore, each night he would remove the palm-sized booklet from his pocket and place it on the marble top of his bedside table. Then, each morning, he would tuck it into a fresh coat and tell himself that he would see it returned promptly.

  He never intended to read it.

  After all, he had agreed to be her friend. He shouldn’t have invaded her privacy. Or in the very least, the instant he realized that the pages contained Miss Parrish’s private thoughts—instead of the collection of poetic verse he’d expected to find—he should have closed it at once.

  But he had not.

  He’d like to tell himself that he first opened the sueded leather cover while alone in his study out of a sense of obligation to his sister, a need to protect her from a stranger he knew very little about. Since he valued honesty, however, he refused to lie to himself.

  The truth of the matter was, he was curious about Miss Parrish. And not just in regard to her friendship with Meg.

  He wanted to know more about her: the inner workings of her mind, how she passed her time, and why the color of her blush made his mouth water. His thoughts had become consumed by the shape of her mouth, that enticingly plump upper lip, and with the need to feel how their flesh would fit together. He wanted to taste her gasp, her tongue, that tiny fluttering pulse on the side of her throat.

  But most of all, he wanted to know why he still felt this way after he’d read the damned ledger.

  He still wasn’t entirely sure about the purpose of the contents written on the pages in a neat, feminine scrawl. Though, it seemed to be a collection of her observations of gentlemen. Quite a number of gentlemen, in fact. Pages and pages of how they stood and talked and gestured with their hands.

  But it was the last entries that left him the most irritated of all. They read:

  Proposals

  The first, behind the hedgerow:

  “I cannot let lack of fortune stand between us any longer. I care not what my family says; I must make you my wife.”

  What it lacks in forethought, it excels in passion—two sighs, zero swoons.

  The second, beneath the arbor:

  “I find myself inexplicably in love with you. Please do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

  A bit cliché and not quite as romantic as one would hope—zero sighs, zero swoons.

  The third, by the fountain:

  “You encompass every ray of sunlight and moonbeam. You are in every drop of rain that falls from the heavens. You are in my every breath and beat of my heart. And if I allow another moment to pass without securing your hand, then there is nothing left in this world for me.”

  Best of the day!—three sighs, one swoon.

  Brandon had read the words so many times, they were now burned into his cornea and crammed inside his gray matter like wadding down a musket barrel.

  If he’d wanted proof of her duplicitous nature, it was written on the pages—pages that were, even now—tucked inside his pocket. He felt the slap of them against the left side of his chest with every hard, agitated stride down the wet pavement near Regent’s Park.

  It was no more than an hour after dawn. The rising sun was trapped somewhere behind an impenetrable fleece of soot-gray clouds pressing down on the city. The air was heavy, charred and ripe, which seemed the perfect counterpart for the devil of a mood he’d been in all week.

  Countless times, he’d wanted to show Meg the contents of the ledger. To prove that her supposed friend was obviously just another husband hunter. But he hadn’t.

  It was possible that Miss Parrish felt genuine fondness for his sister. In fact, if the ledger was any indication, she was quite capable of holding affection for a g
reat number of people at once. Quite capable, indeed, he thought bitterly.

  Three! Those poor sods. They likely had no idea that she’d moved on to another target, and had set her trap for London’s most elusive bachelor instead.

  Clearly, this meant she was just like all the others—a woman well practiced in artifice, who delighted in ensnaring men for sport, fully intending to rebuff their offers until the preferred one came along.

  He couldn’t help but wonder which one of these declarations had come from the mysterious George.

  Beside the arbor?

  Behind the hedgerow?

  Or by the fountain?

  Or . . . was George just a ploy she used to make a man believe she had no ulterior motive when she claimed to want nothing more than his friendship?

  Brandon’s hands curled into fists. He hated that her seemingly guileless request had intrigued him. Why had he allowed himself to be taken in by her, like a fly snared in a pretty spider’s web? What a fool!

  “Is that you, Lord Hullworth?”

  He jolted, recognizing the soft voice. The hard soles of his boots skidded to a halt the instant his gaze alighted on the very tenant of his thoughts.

  “Miss Parrish,” he said to the face framed by the open window of a parked carriage. “Whatever are you doing out and about at such an hour?”

  A pair of dark brows arched at the accusatory edge in his voice. “I was unaware, my lord, that you held dominion over the dawn, as well as the geese I was observing by the pond just now.”

  “I meant to say,” he amended, “that I thought you would be resting as Lockwood suggested.”

  Beneath the curved brim of a straw bonnet tied with a red ribbon, she studied him shrewdly as if contemplating whether his brusqueness was a front for genuine concern—which it wasn’t, of course—or if he was displeased to see her.

  She must have decided on the former, for she inclined her head in quick forgiveness. “I am much recovered now and required some fresh air after an idle week. And to aid my first foray, a . . . friend of mine lent me the use of a rather sturdy parasol.”

  She lifted the handle of said object into view as if the carved cockatoo head remained a constant fixture in her grasp.

  The thought warmed him . . . Until he felt the press of the booklet in his pocket.

  Before he was drawn in too much by her well-rehearsed charms, he removed the small leather tome and lifted it toward her. “I forgot to return this to you when last we met. Apparently, my sister had carried it when you were injured.”

  “My ledger!” Miss Parrish clutched it in her hand, then against her shapely bosom. “Thank the saints. I’ve been searching for this all week. I thought I’d lost it.”

  Her unreserved show of gladness did nothing to alter his mood. In fact, it darkened ever more, resonating in a low thunderous growl.

  “No, I’m sure you would not want to lose an accounting of your many conquests.”

  “My con—” She broke off. Her mouth pinched shut and her lashes scrunched together in perplexity. Then, suddenly, her expression opened, her lips parting on a startled bubble of laughter. “You thought that this was . . . that I kept . . . a tally of some sort? Oh, that is too diverting.”

  “Is it?” Unmoved by the gilded glint in her gaze, he felt his jaw harden to steel.

  After a moment, she sobered and expelled an exhausted sigh. “I find your mercurial nature quite puzzling.”

  “I’m sure you do,” he said. She was likely used to men grinning sappily as she went about spinning her silken cocoon around them.

  “Yes, indeed,” she assured tersely. “You are capable of such gallantry and generosity as to leave me speechless. And yet, for more than half of our acquaintance, you’ve been unreasonably cross with me. If that were not confusing enough, this morning you seem to be under the impression that I am capable of turning so many heads that I have the skills of a plate-spinning circus performer. I suppose I’m expected to thank you for the flattery. But I will not. I will say only that this”—she gestured with the ledger—“is my research for a book my friends and I are writing.”

  He crossed his arms, unwilling to be taken in yet again. “A book.”

  “The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat to be precise,” she said with a succinct, perturbed nod. “These are my observations of gentlemen who have matrimonial inclinations. Nothing you would be interested in, I’m sure.” She huffed. “And shame on you for reading it.”

  Something niggled at the back of his mind.

  He had a vague recollection of Meg going on and on at dinner one evening about Miss Parrish’s numerous accomplishments, among which were kindness, generosity, seamstress extraordinaire, and . . . authoress of a guide for debutantes and their overprotective brothers. At the time, however, he’d just finished perusing the pages of the ledger and, piqued as he was, had refused to hear any praise regarding the inhabitant of Upper Wimpole Street.

  But now he wondered . . . Could it be that the contents of that pocket ledger were merely a study of some sort?

  If that were true, then she hadn’t been toying with those men—or with him—after all. Perhaps there was no web.

  Unfolding his arms, he stepped closer to the carriage. “I’ve been rather boorish again, haven’t I?”

  “Quite so.”

  The flesh between her wispy brows knitted with continued irritation. Her scolding tone was likely meant to put him in his place. However, unbeknownst to her, it had the opposite intended effect.

  At once, his cerebral dark cloud dissipated. From the brassy glare in her eyes, he felt the first rays of amber sunlight warming him like a dram of cognac on a rainy evening.

  A debutante who intended to ensnare him would not have passed up this opportunity to pout coquettishly or bat her eyes in order to suggest that a pretty display of temper was the worst he could expect from any discord. But Miss Parrish did nothing of the sort. She expressed her every thought and emotion candidly. Hiding nothing.

  He found that inordinately appealing.

  “I imagine that my behavior this morning would earn”—he darted a glance down to the ledger—“zero sighs and zero swoons.”

  “Indeed,” she said, but the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly, telling him that he was on the road to forgiveness.

  He likely didn’t deserve it after harboring such animosity toward her. He’d been furious over her deception in a way that rivaled any he’d felt for other women in the past. And he wasn’t even certain why it was different with her in particular.

  All he knew was that being in London and enduring the tedium of the Season this past week while dwelling on her ledger had been utterly exhausting. In this moment, however, a charge of reinvigoration filled him. It rushed through his veins with new life.

  “It seems that I have need to make amends once more. Name your recompense. The use of my box at the theatre? Trip to Paris?” he asked, only half teasing.

  “You owe me naught, my lord. I suppose everyone is entitled to a few moments of capriciousness, though some more than others.”

  As she spoke, an impish glint in her gilded eyes compelled him to step closer still. Close enough to catch the sweet clover fragrance that surrounded her. He inhaled deeply as his hand curled over the window casing.

  Looking down, he noticed that his gloved fingertips rested on her side of the door with her red bonnet ribbon dangling just a scant inch or two away. He was struck by an uncanny urge to tug on it. To unknot her. To draw her to the opening between them and press his lips to hers.

  “Then spend the day with me,” he said, his voice low and intimate as his index finger extended to brush the angled edge of that ribbon.

  Her gaze wandered dazedly over his face, her lashes drifting lower, her voice breathy. “With . . . with you?”

  “We’ll have a picnic. Nothing too taxing, of course. I know of a perfect glade just out of town. And while we’re there, I’ll even help you with your book.”

&n
bsp; She blinked in slumberous confusion like a dreamer waking. “My book?”

  “You desire to know more about the ways of men and I,” he said with a grin, “just happen to be a man.”

  Twin spots of color crested her cheeks, tempting his sweet tooth. “I’m not sure it’s wise for us to be . . . quite so alone . . . together.”

  He hadn’t meant the invitation to sound as if he planned a scandalous interlude. Or had he?

  Regardless, an image of just the two of them flashed in his mind. Of her lying back, ebony curls spread over a blanket on the grass, her rosy lips swollen from his kiss, and her gaze filled with the desire she simply couldn’t hide. A pleased hum of approval growled in his throat.

  Without conscious thought, he took hold of her ribbon. But when their fingers briefly tangled, as she pulled the red silk from his grasp and withdrew into the carriage, he realized that he was being a bit forward.

  Strange. That wasn’t like him at all.

  In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized he hadn’t been quite himself since they’d met. He’d been ungentlemanly, surly at times, and now he felt strangely . . . primitive.

  With a shake of his head, he called to mind the lifetime of manners and politesse reared into him. “Forgive me for not mentioning my sister in those plans. I know that Meg would love to spend more time with you and your aunts. The three of you are all she can talk about.”

  Miss Parrish expelled a breath of relief, lowering the shield she held over those ribbon ends. “I should have realized you were including all of us. It’s silly but, for just a moment, I thought that you were actually”—she swallowed—“oh, never mind.”

  “Then it’s settled. Shall I call on you in one hour or in two?”