The Wrong Marquess

by Vivienne Lorret

  Did I mention that he is also the very one who holds the deed to the property you so admire? Therefore, I am quite eager to learn more about your walks, even if it takes four mail coaches to bring your letter.

  Your friend,

  Elodie Parrish

  Dear Ellie,

  I just received the enclosed letter this evening from our friend. I now believe you were correct to have concerns.

  Jane

  Dear Jane,

  I hardly know how to write this letter.

  Lord F—has returned. And he seems so earnest in his pursuit, proclaiming a genuine regard for me, that I am questioning my reasons for ever trying to avoid him.

  Could it be that I have misjudged him all along? I am both afraid that I have and that I have not.

  After reading your last letter, regarding your own courtship, I am wavering on a dreadful pendulum between believing him and holding firm to my resolve.

  I know that, either way, nothing good will come of my decision. I will surely lose something dear in exchange for whatever I may gain.

  Your friend,

  Prudence Thorogood

  Dearest Prue,

  I am heartsick over the trials you are suffering. And I hope you do not mind that Jane shared your last correspondence. We are all like sisters, after all.

  Please hear this again—that my aunts and I would welcome you to stay with us.

  I know what you have said before, that you would not sully our house with your reputation. But I do not care a whit about that. No matter what event occurred that night at Sutherfield Terrace all these many months ago, it does not alter the bond we share.

  Ever your friend,

  Elodie Parrish

  Even as Ellie looked down at the letter, she doubted Prue would accept her invitation. And it was clear that her friend needed someone to confide in, to help her through this trial.

  Mere ink on paper would not do.

  When the aunts returned from cards, Ellie asked if they would be willing to leave for Wiltshire within a few days, as soon as they could arrange it. As she knew they would, Aunt Maeve and Aunt Myrtle immediately agreed.

  That left only one thing to do—tell Lord Hullworth that his escort was no longer required.

  Ellie felt relieved by the decision. Soon, she would not have to endure any encounters with him that made her question what they were to each other. The restlessness and ardent dreams would no longer plague her. And she would never again have to be held in his arms and kissed witless.

  Never again.

  She frowned at the thought, strangely wishing that never didn’t seem like such a terribly long time.

  Chapter 14

  “A debutante must never trust herself in the moonlight.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  The gardens at Sutherfield Terrace were beyond compare. In daylight they were a splendor of color for the eye to behold. But at night, they held a mysterious allure. There were winding pathways between lush hedgerows, whimsically sculpted topiaries, and fountains that sparkled like diamonds in the moonlight.

  It was easy to imagine someone getting carried away in such a place.

  Ellie turned from the rain-dappled window to face the grand ballroom. She took little notice of the surrounding opulence, the ornate arches over Corinthian columns, the alabaster walls richly decorated with gilded scroll-work pargeting, or the wealth of colorful silk gowns and waistcoats, blurring together over a vast expanse of gleaming carrara marble.

  Instead, her gaze landed directly on Lord Hullworth.

  It was no wonder. He was a sight to behold, handsome and broad-shouldered in tailored dark broadcloth that hugged the perfection of his fine form. And no feminine eye could resist admiring the tousled configuration of his bronze curls or the flawless taut skin of his freshly shaven jaw above the impeccably folded lines of his snow-white cravat.

  As usual, he was surrounded by his gaggle. Beside him, Meg earned her own following of admirers, as well, young women and gentlemen pausing to admire the subtle alterations to her gown.

  But there was another reason why Ellie had spotted him so quickly. Because every time her gaze strayed to him, he was always looking back at her.

  She felt the tug of it deep inside, as if there were some invisible filament connecting them. This sensation puzzled her all the more when she thought about how they hadn’t seen each other in a sennight. Surely, whatever this was should have dissipated by now. And yet, even this evening as they’d spoken no more than four words in greeting—a mere “Miss Parrish,” and “Lord Hullworth”—the mysterious tug was still there.

  It left her with an unfinished feeling. A need for more.

  Of course, the simple explanation for that was because she had yet to speak to him about canceling their joint trip to Wiltshire. Once that was out of the way, this unwelcome sensation would abandon her, surely.

  However, instead of putting one slipper in front of the other and speaking with him now, she made an excuse to her aunts about needing a bit of air, then headed in the opposite direction.

  Slipping through a side door, she made her way to the wraparound terrace. The rain had just ended, leaving the air damp and the stones slippery. She was cautious of every footfall while descending the rounded stairs. After all, one would rather die of old age than of a cranial impact that turned one’s encephalon into jelly.

  Standing in the gauzy golden light spilling out from the ballroom windows, she wasn’t certain where to go next. Although, she was thankful she hadn’t chosen a satin gown tonight, for it would have been spotted and revealed her sojourn. This evening, she wore tiers of ruffled Bengali muslin, a fabric so diaphanous that it rustled in the faintest breeze. But it was also so pale that it appeared almost silver in the light of the crescent moon, so she ventured toward the shadows to avoid discovery.

  Up ahead, the garden was dark, the torches having extinguished into hissing spirals of smoke. It was surely hazardous to one’s health to be out of doors in such moist environs. However, at least she wouldn’t encounter another soul.

  In the very same instant, she heard a sure-footed step on the terrace behind her and, even before he spoke, she knew. She felt it in the way her body instantly became alert. Every downy hair on her skin seemed to lift, sensing the breeze like a butterfly’s antennae.

  “Taking the air, Miss Parrish?” Hullworth asked, his low voice sending a wayward shiver through her—also known as the first symptom. “Or was your withdrawal from the ballroom a calculated effort to lure me to your side? After all, you had to know I would follow.”

  Pushing aside her ailment for the moment, she rolled her eyes and turned to face him. “Such an arrogant presumption. There is every possibility that I am merely taking the air, as you said.”

  “Hmm . . .” he murmured dubiously, stepping down into the garden. “I would wager that you’ve already thought of at least two different ways that a calamitous injury might befall a person from slipping on these wet stones.”

  Seven, actually, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “So, as my friend, you ventured outside to ensure I was safe, from stumbles and rapscallions alike?”

  “As you say,” he offered and proceeded to join her on the graveled path.

  “Well,” she began, “since you are here by chance—”

  “Ah ha. I knew it.”

  “—there has been a new development I need to share with you.” As soon as she finished, the smug arch of his brow fell into a flat line.

  Something dark flickered across his gaze. “Nethersole has proposed.”

  “What? Whyever would you . . . No.” Ellie shook her head, both startled and confused. She couldn’t fathom why that would have been the first thing he imagined or why his statement seemed so clipped and forced, like an accusation. So, again, she said, “No.”

  He stared back at her for a moment, then jerked his head in a quick nod before turning to look over his shoulder. The shifting of h
is soles on the rock nearly covered up the rush of his exhale. But not quite. She still heard the unmistakable sound of relief.

  His reaction did nothing to ease her bewilderment. In fact, quite the opposite. Why should he care either way? After all, George would propose eventually.

  “Then what is your news?” he asked.

  She put her own questions out of her mind as she followed his gaze toward the shadows falling on the terrace from the guests milling near the open windows. It wouldn’t take more than the turn of a head to peer through the glass and see them together. Alone in the garden. Their names would be on society’s lips, the scandal in bold black ink in tomorrow’s paper. “Perhaps it would be best to tell you in the garden.”

  Returning his attention to her, a smile drifted over his lips as he offered his arm. “This mysterious development must be quite important if you would risk whatever fatality might arise from a damp hem.”

  “Tease all you like,” she said curling her hand along the inside of his sleeve, keeping a fistful of skirts in the other. “But one of these days you’ll wish you had someone to warn you of every potential calamity.”

  She expected him to laugh at that. Instead he nodded contemplatively, his focus toward the moon-white stone path ahead. The walkway canted on either side, with a sloping ridge down the center to draw water away. It worked perfectly for keeping rain from saturating her shoes and skirts.

  “First of all, I want to thank you for offering to escort my aunts and me to Wiltshire. You were most generous to do so after being practically forced into a decision you had no time to contemplate.”

  “It did not require overthinking,” he said with the matter-of-fact air of a man who, once decided, held fast to his commitments. The thought did not sit well with her.

  “Even so,” she continued, “you will be glad to know that you are no longer under any obligation. You see, my aunts and I need to leave sooner than the end of the Season.”

  An unexpected tension collected in the corded muscles beneath her hand. “When?”

  “As soon as we can arrange it. No more than two days hence, I should think.”

  Ellie expelled a breath. There. She’d said it. His next response could only be a nod of understanding, followed by his blameless termination of their agreement. It was all for the best. She’d been spending far too much time thinking about him when she should be thinking about George.

  “Very well. I can manage that.”

  “Quite understandable. No one would expect you to—” She stopped abruptly, her heels digging into the gravel. Surely, she hadn’t heard him correctly. “You can . . . manage that?” At his nod of affirmation, she shook her head at once. “No. That isn’t necessary. I wasn’t asking for you to alter your plans. In fact, I insist that you do not.”

  “I don’t mind. And I’m certain Meg wouldn’t either.”

  “But . . .” She stared up at his steady countenance, at a loss for how to proceed. “But you don’t even know the reason we’re leaving early.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It might,” she argued inanely, her hands dropping to her sides, fists clenched in increasing agitation over his inability to see a perfectly acceptable escape for them both.

  “Then tell me your reason,” he said, drawing in a patient breath. As he exhaled, he reached up to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. “So that I can tell you it still doesn’t matter.”

  Drat this man! Why was he making it so difficult for her? He was supposed to be just as eager as she to end their travel plans. To want as much distance between them as possible. Instead, she had a dizzying impulse to close her eyes and lean into his touch—the sure signs of a fainting spell.

  Thankfully, before she collapsed in a heap of muslin, he withdrew.

  Readying her excuse, she cleared her throat and absently skated her fingertips over the tingling sensation he left in his wake. “Here it is, then. There’s a distinct possibility that a blackguard is in pursuit of my friend and I must save her.”

  His brow furrowed instantly. “Then I am most definitely escorting you.”

  “What I mean is,” she hurried to say, while inwardly groaning at her poor choice of words. “I’m not certain he is a blackguard. Neither is she, for that matter. You see, she is the dear friend who has inspired Winnie, Jane and me to write our book. In fact, it was right here in this very garden where her father discovered her with a man. I do not know the whole of it, only that she was sent away the very next morning to live with her aunt and uncle. Now, even if she is wholly blameless—of which I have no doubt because Prue, by nature is shy and reserved—her father’s rash actions cast a tarnished light upon her.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, “your friend’s father objected to the gentleman in question and sought to protect his child by removing her.”

  “Doubtless, that is what you would do for Meg,” she said with a reluctant measure of fondness. Hullworth would choose to shield and protect those he loved rather than allow them to come to harm. It had a terrible effect of making her like him a good deal more than she wanted to. “Unfortunately, her father has always been unduly severe in his judgements upon her. Although, that is not to say that he didn’t have a stronger objection to the gentleman, who must possess an awful reputation as to sully her by acquaintance. Not even Prue has revealed his name in her letters, but refers to him as Lord F.”

  “And you say the blackguard has followed her?”

  “All the way to Wiltshire. And now,” she said on a heavy breath, “you know the reason why my aunts and I are leaving without your escort. After all, you must think of Meg.”

  He gave her a pointed look. “Contrary to your opinion, I have not placed my sister in a glass box, high upon a shelf. Believe me, when she thinks I’m being overprotective, she tells me. I, in turn, remind her of how young women who are used to doing as they please in the country cannot do the same in London. As her brother, my only wish is to keep her from harm and from regret, not to rob her of experiences. And as for your utterly transparent attempt to compel me to rescind my obligation, for shame, Miss Parrish.”

  “I—” she began, wanting to tell him how wrong he was, but her guilt was already flaring in her cheeks and he tsked her playfully. It was no use. Hullworth knew her too well, it seemed.

  Smiling down at her, he lifted his hand and curled his index finger beneath her chin. “You failed on two counts,” he continued with mock sternness. “First, in believing that Meg and I are the fair-weather variety of friends. And second, that I made the decision lightly. You should know that I never make any decision without giving it . . . careful”—he stopped and glanced down to see that his thumb strayed to the verge between her chin and bottom lip and his teasing grin abruptly faded—“consideration.”

  His gaze darkened and Ellie’s breath caught. She knew that hungry look. It caused all sorts of ailments. Right this instant, it filled her with a terrible impulse to wrap her arms around him. And she really shouldn’t do that.

  Oh, but it would feel so good to give in. The pulsing tingles that were sparking to life in her body told her so. Told her that he was solid and warm, and that all his hard places would line up perfectly with her soft ones.

  “I . . . I think we should turn back. The damp air, you know. It’s been known to cause all sorts of illnesses.” As she spoke, his thumb grazed her bottom lip and a shiver rolled over her.

  He crowded closer. “Are you cold, Ellie?”

  The delicious scent of him made her mouth go dry. So she nodded, believing he would suggest that they adjourn to the ballroom. Instead, she felt his hand skirting over the curve of her hip to the small of her back, drawing her against his warmth.

  Resisting only made her head feel giddy and too heavy to support, so she allowed her body to tilt naturally toward him, her hands coming to rest over the granite hardness beneath his satin waistcoat.

  “Better?” he murmured, his breath drifting against her temple as he nuzzled into her fra
grant curls.

  She closed her eyes in an effort to ignore the tumult of harried pulses happening inside her. “I’m not certain. It seems that I have a list of entirely new ailments. Now, I feel flushed all over.” Especially wherever her body was pressed to his.

  He tensed at hearing her admission, his grip tightening as if attempting to keep both of them perfectly still. Then he muttered a low oath.

  “I wish you hadn’t told me that,” he said, his mouth drifting over her brow. “You don’t know how the thought of your skin—glazed pink like iced cakes—tempts me beyond reason, makes me wonder how sweet you would taste . . . all over.” He trailed kisses down to her cheeks, from crest to crest. “This color, right here, haunts my dreams. Are your lips flushed, too? They are. Mmm . . . so warm. Give them to me. I’ll take care of them. Yes, yes, so sweet . . .”

  He took her mouth with impatient, searing sips and a helpless mewl escaped her throat. She arched into his embrace, unable to fight the assault on her senses as he nibbled and tasted her, pleasuring her relentlessly. Her palms glided to his shoulders, fingertips digging into the fine wool for purchase.

  “But I thought we were friends,” she said weakly, her pulse heavy and thick, like her blood had turned to rivers of thick icing. It was having a terrible thudding effect on her heart.

  “We are,” he said with convincing certainty against her lips. “But sometimes friends just need to kiss in order to purge the overwhelming urge for more.”

  More? The mere idea caused her knees to tremble.

  In response, he pulled her closer still, shoring her lower half against the solid girth of his thigh. She jolted at the intrusion, but he soothed her with sure deep kisses, his hand splaying firmly into the curve of her lower back.

  Ellie clung to him. She felt scattered and ready to fly apart, her breaths too quick and shallow to fill her lungs. Why were her symptoms so horrendous when he was near? They transformed from almost unbearable agony to the most exquisite torment she’d ever suffered.