The Wrong Marquess

by Vivienne Lorret

  “Does he, indeed?” Nethersole asked tightly, his puffed chest losing a bit of its air as he flicked a glance to Brandon. “Capital.”

  Brandon inclined his head but made no comment. The vast property was one he’d inherited after a wave of typhus fever had claimed the lives of his uncle, cousin and father. After such a great loss, it was not a possession that he would ever boast about, even if to take Nethersole down a notch or two.

  “What a coincidence that you should mention traveling there, when we are doing the same,” Meg continued. “We will be staying at Crossmoor Abbey for a few weeks before venturing north to our main residence.”

  Ellie’s eyes brightened at the mention. “I have heard the name—or read it, rather. My friend, Miss Thorogood, writes of seeing the abbey far up on a hill when she goes on her walks. Her descriptions have been so poetic and picturesque that I’ve often wondered if such a place could be real. Now, when I visit her in a month, I will be able to tell her that I am acquainted with the inhabitants.”

  “You must drop by and see us, too,” Meg said with enthusiasm.

  “Oh, but why stop there?” Nethersole asked in a sardonic drawl. “We should all just travel together in the splendor of Hullworth’s open landau.”

  Ellie slanted him a mortified look as if she’d never heard George speak so childishly. Her face drained of all color when she turned to Meg and Brandon. “I must apologize. I hope you know that it was never my intention to invite myself.”

  “Nonsense, Miss Parrish,” Brandon said smoothly, which was quite a feat since his blood was currently boiling over Nethersole’s tantrum and the subsequent humiliation it caused Ellie. “You’ve done nothing of the sort. I’m sure he was only jesting in good humor.” He flicked a warning glance to the head of the table.

  Nethersole lifted his palms up and shrugged in a gesture of feigned innocence. “Already, you know me so well.”

  That’s what Brandon was afraid of.

  Learning that Miss Parrish was intending to travel in such company—even with her aunts alongside—did not sit well with him. This concern, he told himself, was nothing more than he would have for any friend. And he had agreed to be her friend, after all. Therefore, it was a matter of upholding the dictates of his own conscience when he made his following decision.

  “Nethersole’s suggestion does pose the notion of practicality, however,” Brandon said, easing back into the chair. “It would only make sense if we did travel together. And you shall be my guests at Crossmoor Abbey.”

  A sudden wash of pink flooded Ellie’s cheeks and she shook her head. “That is most generous of you to offer. But . . . but I’m afraid that . . . would be . . .”

  “Splendid!” Myrtle chirruped.

  And Maeve added, “Absolute perfection! We’d be delighted, my lord.”

  “Then it’s settled,” he said, holding Ellie’s round-eyed gaze in an effort to reassure her. “Just a nice, friendly holiday.”

  And all Brandon had to do was remind himself that she was his friend and nothing more.

  Chapter 10

  “A debutante mustn’t exaggerate the significance of random encounters.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  Ellie spent the following few days trying not to think about Lord Hullworth, the kiss, or the upcoming trip to Wiltshire in June. Unfortunately, it proved impossible.

  He was everywhere.

  On Sunday after church service, she’d just reached the carriage when she realized that she’d lost her ledger again. Making a quick excuse to the aunts, she went to retrace her steps. However, she hadn’t taken more than a half dozen—her head bent to survey the pavement—when she encountered a pair of gentleman’s shoes blocking her path. She stopped, and even before he spoke, she knew.

  “Were you looking for this, Miss Parrish?” the all too familiar voice asked as he held her ledger in view.

  She looked from the gloved hand and up the tailored lines of his waistcoat past the crisp folds of his cravat, to the smirk tucked into one corner of his mouth, and finally to a pair of amused gray-green eyes. At once, her pulse leapt. Then her stomach fluttered. And she had the most disconcerting impulse to touch him. It didn’t matter where—his sleeve, his chest, the back of his nape. She just wanted her hands on him.

  She felt terribly guilty about that.

  Believing it best to end this encounter with utmost haste, she curled her hands around the book instead. “Thank you, my lord. I’m much obliged that you rescued it, yet again.”

  She gave a quick curtsy and meant to withdraw. But he held fast, stalling her retreat.

  “I found this on the stairs and thought it looked familiar,” he said conversationally. “Then I began to wonder what research you could possibly be up to in the church of all places.”

  “I was attempting to make note of the gentlemen’s reactions to the reading of the banns. I thought that if I saw either eagerness or nervousness, it might offer some insight into their thought process.”

  “And what did you discover?”

  She glanced down to where his black-gloved thumb rested on the worn brown cover, a thread’s breadth from her ivory kid leather. They were so close she would swear she felt the heat of him. How simple it would be to accidentally brush against him . . . just a small touch . . .

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I spent the whole time searching for my pencil.”

  “Ah. Well, perhaps I could offer a bit of assistance in your studies. Your first lesson, as it were.” He inclined his head with a scholarly air. “A gentleman worth his salt would take special care to, at least, appear steady and collected so as not to alarm his bride-to-be with his eagerness.”

  She grinned. “Are you saying that gentlemen are always eager? I would have thought that some would merely be resigned to the institution of marriage.”

  “If he is resigned—or too immature to understand how fortunate he is—then he isn’t worth setting your cap for.” As he spoke, his expression darkened and appeared accusatory.

  She stiffened at once. “And is that second lesson for the book . . . or for me?”

  “I was under the impression that the book was for you, as well as others like you, who require an understanding on the differences between gentlemen and scoundrels?”

  He didn’t say George’s name outright, but he might as well have done.

  She glared at him. Lord Hullworth’s gaze flashed in return, roving hotly over her cheeks and then her mouth. Her lips tingled in response.

  Strangely, she could still feel the searing pressure of their kiss as if they had just broken apart. As if no time had passed at all and they remained secluded in that cozy glade in the center of the zoo. He seemed to read her thoughts and growled low in his throat. The deep sound made her aware of all the places her undergarments clung to her most sensitive skin, the air crackling with a static charge between them.

  How could she feel this inexplicable pull even when she was irritated with him?

  “I never kept anything from you,” she said quietly.

  His gaze softened with understanding as if he could see the confusion roiling inside her. “I know and I wish I’d believed you. But now . . .” He exhaled slowly, leaving his statement unfinished as he released his hold on the ledger. Then he touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Miss Parrish.”

  Watching him go, Ellie was determined not to wonder what he might have said. She would be better off not knowing, she was sure. And better off not thinking about him at all. Well, at least for the remainder of the day.

  But early that afternoon, a package arrived. Within a wrapping of brown paper, she found a small rectangular box with a sliding lid. Inside was a stack of pencils from the stationers, along with a single card that simply read: Your friend, B

  Friend.

  She stared at the card for a long while, tracing her fingertip over the letters. She wasn’t sure why that word seemed so strange and foreign to her now when it ne
ver had before. It was like reading friend in another language and she was left to decipher the meaning on her own.

  * * *

  On Monday, Ellie was off to a better start. She hardly thought about Lord Hullworth or the kiss at all. It only entered her mind a dozen times. Every hour. Nevertheless, she considered it progress.

  At least, until the collision in the park.

  After suffering an episode of acute embarrassment due to the flirtation between Aunt Myrtle and the nut seller, Ellie decided to slip away quietly and observe the geese in the pond.

  Unbeknownst to her, in that very same moment around the corner, Lord Hullworth was making a daring escape from a rather rapacious gaggle of the featherless variety.

  Neither he nor she were looking where they were going. Then suddenly . . . oof!

  Their bodies slammed together. He was quick to react with a pair of steadying hands as her own gloved palms fell against the firm expanse of his chest. Then came the wide-eyed recognition. His grip on her hips tightened. She pressed closer instead of pushing away. It only lasted an instant. Just long enough for their combined breaths to catch, for their pupils to spill darkly, for heat to wash over her skin, and for his low grunt to draw her attention to his mouth.

  Oh, how she wished she could stop thinking about that kiss. Stop reliving it in her daydreams and nightdreams. Her lips were beginning to ache every time she saw him, as if they suffered an ailment that required a compress comprised of his lips and to be applied in frequent doses.

  They were both so addled that neither one spoke or moved. Not until they heard his sister’s approach. Then they sprang apart just before she found them.

  Meg rolled her eyes and huffed in exasperation, speaking as if the three of them were already in the midst of a conversation. “Seven handkerchiefs, Ellie. Six accidental stumbles. And four—count them, four—turned ankles.”

  Lord Hullworth took a breath and kindly said, “There appears to be an epidemic of improper footwear.”

  “An epidemic of something, to be sure,” Ellie muttered, her mood shifting to storm clouds as she imagined all those women falling against him. Laying their hands on him. Sighing in his embrace. “Honestly. They should be ashamed of themselves.”

  He quirked a quizzical brow. “You are rather vehement in your disapproval of them.”

  “As I would be for any friend,” she responded instantly, albeit tersely, not liking the accusation in his tone.

  Truth be told, she wasn’t certain why she felt a hot surge of peevish irritation just then. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know how to manage the wayward attentions of the female sex on his own. He was a grown man, after all.

  “Ellie’s quite right,” Meg said, coming to her side. “As far as I’m concerned, her statement only proves her devotion to your cause, which is far more than I can say for you. Frankly, I’m appalled by what you permit. An outside observer might think you actually enjoyed the attention. Perhaps even”—she slid an impish glance to Ellie—“call you arrogant.”

  Having a sense that Meg was in the mood to tease her brother, Ellie played along, preferring a playful air over whatever it was she felt toward his gaggle. “Indeed. Some might even think that you were at fault for provoking them, strutting around as you do, stealing the attention from your sister. In the very least you might try to disguise yourself in public.”

  “Excellent point,” Meg agreed with a nod and a purse of her lips. “I think you’d make a fine little old man. At your age, it wouldn’t take much. You could powder your hair.”

  “Wear spectacles and smoke a pipe.”

  “And there’s no need to put stuffing inside your shirt, because you are well on your way to having a paunch.”

  Ellie tsked. “A shame, really.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, affronted and frowning as his hand patted his perfectly taut abdomen.

  “Vanity, thy name is Lord Hullworth,” Ellie said under her breath, concealing the fact that she wanted it to be her hand that had done the patting.

  He squinted at her but a grin lurked at the corner of his mouth. “Now that you’ve sufficiently shredded my amour propre, are you finished having a go at my expense?”

  “Are we?” Ellie asked, turning to her cohort.

  Meg nodded. “As much as it pains me to end this repartee, I fear we must. If I’m not mistaken, the gaggle is headed our way.”

  The three of them peered past the shrubbery that had been doing a fair job of concealing them for this long, only to see a half dozen debutantes and their conspiring mamas marching steadily on the path. Like a hunting party without horses.

  Ellie laid her hand on his sleeve. “You’d better leave while you have the chance.”

  He glanced down, and only then did she realize what she’d done. She withdrew at once, curling her fingertips into her palm. And he gazed at her in a way that caused a quick escalation in her pulse.

  He lingered a second longer, long enough for Meg to turn back with exasperation as she tugged on his arm. Then, just before they made their escape, he touched the brim of his hat. “Until our paths cross again, Miss Parrish.”

  Heaven help her, Ellie was already looking forward to it.

  But, surely, that didn’t hold any significance. Nor did it mean anything when she sent a parcel to his residence later that afternoon.

  * * *

  For your next foray out of doors.

  Your friend,

  E

  In the privacy of his study, Brandon unwrapped the small package with eager curiosity. What might Miss Parrish have sent him? Then, as he lifted the object within and held it up for inspection, he couldn’t help but laugh.

  Draped from his fingertips was a finely stitched scrap of black silk, sporting two almond-shaped slits and a length of ribbon on either side.

  He immediately penned a response.

  Dear E,

  Now I can finally live out my dream of becoming a dashing highwayman.

  Your (masked and soon-to-be infamous) friend,

  B

  He surveyed the card for several minutes. Should he send it? Or did it seem too flirtatious for one friend to send to another?

  Over the years, he’d engaged in other acquaintances with women. But they were typically the wives and close relations of his friends, and solely platonic.

  He never wanted to kiss them so much that his teeth ached. Never wanted to run his hands over every inch of their flesh. Never wanted to swallow down every softly whispered sigh from their lips as if it were ambrosia.

  His friendship with Miss Parrish put him in a completely foreign territory, one that he would have to navigate with extreme caution. After all, she’d set her cap for Nethersole, he reminded himself. That, in and of itself, made his own choice all the clearer.

  Therefore, he would merely keep to their bargain, offering his experience and knowledge to aid in her research. There would be no more kissing.

  Feeling confident in his decision, he sent the missive. Now, if only he could stop thinking about her.

  The problem was, Miss Parrish was everywhere.

  On Tuesday, he saw her at a bookseller on Finsbury Square. He was walking down the stairs with a book in hand when he spotted her standing near the carousel in the center of the main floor, the clerk handing her a paper-wrapped purchase.

  For an instant, Brandon contemplated slipping stealthily into the stacks. He didn’t know how often a man could tempt the Fates before they rebelled against him. But even as the thought entered his mind, he saw her head lift in a graceful arc, her hat tilting in his direction, her gaze drifting across the green carpeted room, searching as if she’d heard the whisper of her name, and then . . . she saw him.

  She smiled at once. So did he. And yet, beneath his cravat, the cording along his neck tightened and his throat went dry.

  As he started to cross the room, he swallowed. However, this particular thirst remained—and would always remain—unquenched.

  “Miss Par
rish,” he said, stopping beside her. “It seems as though we are of like mind, yet again.”

  Her wispy dark brows arched, a glimmer of something playful in her butterscotch eyes. “Lord Hullworth, it is indeed quite the coincidence that I should see you just now.” The statement held an aura of mystery that tempted him to ask what she could mean. But before he could, she moved a scant degree closer to peek at the gold lettering on the leather tome in his grip, her sweet fragrance spinning a tangible web around him. Then those sooty lashes lifted in curiosity. “The Gardener’s Labyrinth?”

  “A book for my aunt Sylvia,” he supplied after clearing his throat. He was especially proud of the fact that he did not allow himself to glance down to her lips. Well, no more than three or four times.

  A small laugh escaped her. “Then it is even more of a coincidence, for I have just purchased a silver-fork novel for Aunt Maeve and a gothic novel for Aunt Myrtle. I am due to pick them up from their Lady’s Society tea. So, I’m afraid, I must bid you a hasty adieu.”

  He inclined his head in farewell, but wished he felt relief. Wished he felt something other than the desire to tug sharply on those bonnet ribbons, tilt back her head and devour her mouth. Right there in the Temple of the Muses. “Until our next chance encounter.”

  She sketched a quick curtsy. But before she took a step, she turned toward the young bespectacled clerk across the sales counter and said, “Mr. Wood, in regard to that other book I inquired about—” She darted a glance to Brandon and then leaned on tiptoe over the counter to whisper the rest in the clerk’s ear. Straightening, she concluded her tȇte-à-tȇte with, “And that should be all. Thank you ever so much.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” the clerk said with a broad grin that Brandon sorely wanted to wipe off his face.

  Instead, his attention followed Miss Parrish to the door, waiting to see if she would turn once more.

  “Beg your pardon, my lord. But the lady bid me to give you this.” The clerk snared Brandon’s attention by lifting a cloth-covered book into view. It bore the title Humphrey Clinker. “And wished me to tell you that it has highwaymen in it.”