The Wrong Marquess

by Vivienne Lorret

  Ellie wanted to know what reason Brandon had for asking such a question. However, George wouldn’t be able to answer that for her. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder. Not only that, but whyever would Brandon go to the stables instead of joining the rest of them in the parlor?

  Part of her was relieved, of course. And yet, it was with great dismay when she realized, most of her wanted to see him just once more. She wanted to see his face before she laid her head down to sleep. Perhaps if she did, she would dream of him, instead of her dreadful recurring nightmare.

  The intensity of this unexpected desire frightened her. She felt as if she were teetering on the edge of an abyss. One slip and she could fall endlessly into a dark, consuming void.

  The only problem was, Ellie feared that it would only take the smallest push to send her plummeting.

  Oh, George, she thought, won’t you finally propose and bring an end to all this uncertainty?

  Chapter 21

  “A debutante mustn’t teeter too long on the edge of an abyss.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  The nightmare came again.

  Ellie awoke gasping for breath. Clawing at the coverlet, she shoved and kicked it away from her limbs, wanting to be free of the nightmare.

  Sitting up, she drew in shuddering lungfuls of air and blinked at her unfamiliar surroundings. Threatening shadows seemed to grow and expand from the marble fireplace, hulking wardrobe and dressing screen in the corner. She scooted back against the bolster pillow, clutching the same linens she had just pushed aside.

  At the sound of a low growl, her gaze shot to the slitted window where a dim, gray light bled into the chamber. Another distant rumble was accompanied by the patter of rain on the balcony. Gripping the counterpane, she felt the silken threads of the embroidery and, suddenly, she knew where she was.

  Crossmoor Abbey. Her shoulders slumped with relief but it was short-lived.

  She had hoped her nightmares would abate while she was here, beneath Brandon’s roof. Why she dared such a dream, she did not know. But she felt the instant that it abandoned her on a weary sigh.

  Burying her face in her hands, she mumbled, “I despise mornings.”

  * * *

  Brandon loved early mornings, especially in the country.

  As was his habit, he awoke just before dawn and heard the last grumblings of a passing storm. After a splash of water on his face, he donned his shirtsleeves and a pair of trousers, then padded barefooted out of his rooms to watch the dawn break over the horizon from the best vantage point.

  When he was younger and visiting Crossmoor Abbey with his father, the two of them would often sit together on the Eastern terrace and watch the sunrise in appreciative silence. Back then, he took those quiet, commonplace mornings for granted.

  He never imagined the day when there would be no more sunrises for one of them. But after his father’s death, along with those of his uncle and cousin, he thought about it a good deal. He understood how fleeting life was, and the importance of choosing the people in his own with care.

  Mulling over that thought, he traversed the dark corridors with a lamp in hand, the flickering shadows on the wainscoted walls his only companion.

  Truth be told, he’d thought about taking a wife a couple of years ago and letting a matchmaker decide. And yet, something inside him told him to wait. So he spent his time ensuring a solid foundation for Meg, teaching her all the lessons that their parents had taught him.

  He didn’t regret his choice. There had been no one to tempt him to follow another path. No one who had filled him with that sense of utter certainty.

  No one until now.

  Even so, it was strange to think that he would find someone who—like Phoebe—wasn’t stricken with the desire to choose him over someone else. And only a fool would ever imagine pursuing such a woman, knowing full well that she could walk out of his life at any moment.

  But with Ellie, he couldn’t help himself. He wanted her despite the risk.

  All he had to do was show her how good they could be together. The only problem was, Ellie was afraid of . . . well, just about everything under the sun. Including her feelings for him.

  It might very well take a miracle to win her over.

  A rueful laugh escaped him and guttered his lamp as he entered the long gallery. In the darkness, he heard a soft, startled gasp.

  Hullo, he thought curiously, quite familiar with that breathy sound and from whose lips it came.

  Eyes adjusting to a faint light at the far end of the room, he saw a lone figure holding a chamberstick, the silhouette of her dress, head and shoulders outlined by the gray curtain of approaching dawn behind her. “Ellie?”

  “Brandon! Oh, I’m so glad it’s just you,” she said in a quiet rush and he chuckled wryly. “I mean, not just you . . . but I was afraid you were one of the servants who would, undoubtedly, think I’m barmy for roaming the halls at this hour.”

  “And you’re not worried that I would think the same?”

  He could hear the smile in her voice even before she spoke. “Well no,” she said, “because you are roaming the halls as well. That could only mean we’ve both gone mad.”

  “Ah. Better the pair of us off to Bedlam than only one.”

  “Precisely.”

  If he needed proof that he was already in over his head, it came to him the instant he caught himself grinning at the thought of being locked in an asylum with her.

  The notion seemed to brighten his path on the runner in the long gallery. He passed the gilt-framed portraits of his ancestors and scattered groupings of upholstered furniture that welcomed the living to gather in communal fondness with the dead.

  He recalled when his father had once stood in this very room and said, For what is life without the reminder of those who have gone from us to teach us how to live each day as if it were our last?

  “Of course, it could also mean that we both enjoy watching the sunrise,” he said, drawing near enough to see the flame reflected in her eyes.

  But then she looked down, her lashes creating dark, wing-like shadows over her lids. “I actually don’t enjoy the sunrise. I would much rather sleep through it.”

  He took her brass chamberstick and set it beside his on the demilune table, then lifted his hand to cup the soft curve of her cheek. Only now did he see the purplish bruises beneath her eyes.

  Tenderly, he traced the vulnerable skin with the pads of his thumbs. “Can you not rest in the country? I’ve heard that some people prefer the noise of town traffic to lull them into slumber.”

  “It isn’t that . . .” she said but hesitated, worrying the corner of her mouth. “Oh, bother. I don’t suppose there’s a point in keeping this from you, especially since we’re bound to bump into each other again in these early hours.” She drew in a breath and when she continued, the lyrical quality of her voice turned threadlike and haunted. “The truth is, I’m plagued by horrible nightmares, nearly every night. Of course, no one else knows, not even my aunts, and I shouldn’t want to worry them.” Her gaze held his in a beseeching request as she rested her hand over his.

  He nodded in swift agreement to keep their secret, but his brow furrowed with concern. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Since I was young, when my father died. It began with the terrible certainty that he wasn’t dead when they put him in the ground. In those dreams, I was always left to watch helplessly while he struggled to claw his way out of the coffin as the dirt rained down on him. Then, a few years ago, the person inside the coffin changed.” She took a shuddering breath. “And I became the one being buried alive.”

  Brandon crowded closer, feeling the bone-deep tremor that rolled through her. He wished he could somehow protect her from these dreams.

  “There are some days when I’m fortunate enough to awaken before the nightmare really takes hold.” She shook her head. “It’s silliness, I know, for a grown woman to admit such a thing.
But there it is, nonetheless.”

  He tilted her face up to gaze into her eyes with utter earnestness. “It isn’t silly at all. I can see by your pallor that they affect you greatly. And an Elodie Parrish with pale cheeks is not something I take lightly.” Even though he was serious, it brought a soft smile to her lips. “You’re not alone. After my father died, I had nightmares, too. Dreadful things that felt disturbingly real to me.”

  “What were yours about?”

  “Mostly that something would happen to me and that Meg would be left on her own to fend for herself, without any protection from a world that I knew to be hard and cruel at times.”

  “It seems like a perfectly rational fear to me,” she said. “How did you stop having those dreams?”

  He felt the tender warmth of her hand as she laid it over his heart without any shyness, and he wondered if she was even aware of her actions. Likely not, he reasoned, or else she would be blushing.

  “I sat her down and talked to her,” he said. “I explained that, while I had no intention of disappearing through the veil quite yet, I was still going to see that she was well provided for. Then I drew up a set of contracts with my solicitor to ensure it. Once it was all settled, the nightmares never returned.”

  “It sounds as though I need to have a conversation with myself. Only, I don’t know what I’d say.”

  “You will when the time is right,” he said and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

  She smelled so good and felt so warm that all he wanted to do was carry her to bed and give her something far more pleasant to think about.

  Instead, he took a step back. If he wasn’t careful, he’d forget himself again.

  Ellie blinked up at him sleepily as if she, too, had been thinking about bed. Then her gaze drifted aimlessly down to his lips, the open neck of his shirtsleeves, and to the hand still lingering on his chest.

  She snatched it back. Her cheeks flushed a bright magenta that rivaled the striations of color now on the horizon. “I . . . um . . .”

  Before she could balk, he took that hand in his and stepped through the open door to the loggia. “Come. Let’s watch this sunrise together, hmm? In the very least, it will help you forget about the nightmare.”

  He felt the reflexive grip of her delicate fingers curling into his palm, and so it surprised him that she didn’t budge from her spot.

  “I’d rather watch from here”—she swallowed audibly—“if it’s all the same to you.”

  Her wide-eyed glance darted past him to the roofed stone terrace room and the seven open archways. She didn’t appear to admire any of the faint stars still winking in a pale lavender sky. Or particularly care for the patches of mist moving silently over the gardens and the rolling hills, all the way to the riverbed. Instead, she looked as though she were seeing a mausoleum.

  He felt another tremor roll through her. Stroking his thumb in soothing sweeps over the petal-soft ridges of her knuckles, he warmed her chilled fingertips in the cup of his palm. “You are quite safe, and I would not say that lightly. Is it the height that bothers you? If so, we can sit together on the bench by the wall.”

  She peered around the corner as if in consideration, but then shook her head. “It’s true that I’m not overly fond of high places. However, you could say that I have . . . a somewhat unnatural fear of stone arches. Have you ever noticed that the void beneath it resembles a gravestone, as if the marker had been chiseled away and the remaining stones are waiting to collapse and bury a person?”

  “I cannot say that I have,” he said, but looked at the arches from the perspective of someone who had nightmares of being buried alive. He’d never noticed it before, but the void beneath did somewhat resemble a gravestone.

  She slipped her hand free and wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off the chill. “Of course, I’m perfectly capable of managing this phobia. Whenever I must step beneath an arch or travel over a bridge, I simply close my eyes and hold my breath until it’s over.”

  Brandon wanted her hand back in his. He wanted this to be the first of many times that they sat together to watch the sun breaking over the horizon. And he hated the thought of her going through her life simply managing her fears instead of overcoming them.

  Returning to her side, he absently brushed his fingertips across the soft blue muslin of her skirt. It was impossible not to be near her. And impossible to be near her and not to touch her. “Did you know that an arch can support more weight over a broader expanse than a standard, horizontal lintel? Without them, most bridges would require too many braces to allow ships to pass underneath.”

  “You’re trying valiantly to make me feel better about arches and bridges, but it isn’t going to work.”

  He watched her chin hike and felt his own stubbornness rise with determination. Challenge accepted, Miss Parrish.

  “My father once told me that there is a reason arches resemble a pair of shoulders, for they carry more weight than one can bear by halves.” As he spoke, he put his arm behind her, settling his hand into the small of her back to share his warmth. Then he smiled inwardly when she listed toward him ever so slightly as if she needed to be closer to him, too. “And like a pair of shoulders, they require a connecting component to hold them together, to keep them strong. That’s where the keystone comes in.”

  He pointed to the angular ashlar stone at the crest of the arch, large and pale with decorative fan-shaped grooves chiseled into the surface.

  She followed the gesture with her gaze, but swallowed again. “What’s to keep it from suddenly giving way?”

  “It’s cut to fit perfectly, wider at the top so it won’t slip free. Additionally, it has equal pressure from both sides. It bears a good deal, that keystone.”

  “Indeed, it does. And there are seven of them here,” she said warily.

  “Along with seven below it, where the lower loggia leads out to the garden.” He kept his tone matter-of-fact and the hand at her back moving in slow, reassuring sweeps.

  In an unobtrusive gesture, Brandon traced the fingers of her left hand, still curled over her arm, and slyly moved them into his grasp. As he spoke, he shifted her toward him by degrees, his fingertips skating along the ladder of her spine. It was highly improper to hold her this closely. He was the lord of the manor, after all. She was his guest and under his protection. But it was that very thought of wanting to protect her, to shelter her, that kept him on his course. That very thought that compelled him to furtively guide her one step out onto the terrace.

  “According to legend,” he said, holding her gaze, “the Italian architect of this house designed these arches for lessons, of a sort. The lower seven are said to represent man upholding the holy sacraments of his church.”

  “And the upper arches?”

  “The seven deadly sins bearing down upon him.”

  A startled laugh escaped her. “Goodness! Yet another reason to avoid standing beneath arches.”

  “Hmm . . .” he murmured thoughtfully, wondering if she realized that they’d taken two, three, steps. “But you know—at least, I hope you know—that I would not put you in harm’s way.”

  She nodded, her gaze never straying from his. “That is the only reason I’ve allowed you this masquerade of luring me out onto the terrace.”

  He stopped in surprise. His brow furrowed even as a bemused smile curled the corners of his mouth. “I thought I was doing a fair job of distracting you.”

  “I tried to be distracted,” she admitted shyly. “I don’t like being afraid, Brandon. If I could do anything to be rid of the pins and needles of dread down my spine, I would. It is only because of the steady certainty in your bearing and in your tone that I made it this far. I know that, if you suspected even the smallest defect in the structural integrity of this terrace, you would never permit your sister, your aunt, or any of your guests to step foot on it. However”—she paused on a gulp of air, her hand gripping his—“to be perfectly honest, I have far more faith in you than in
this pile of stone that’s been here for nearly two hundred years.”

  Considering the fact that she was still afraid, her declaration shouldn’t please him so much. But it did, nonetheless.

  “Well then, allow me to take you back to safer ground.” He felt the stiffness leave her spine the instant they stepped back across the threshold.

  She looked through the doorway and a soft smile brushed her lips. “Do you want to know something? It wasn’t as awful as I thought it would be. And look. There’s the dawn right now. It is quite lovely from up here.” The light of it glowed in her eyes as she looked at him again. “Thank you for making this morning brighter.”

  “My pleasure.”

  As their gazes brushed and held, the connection they shared seemed stronger now, a tangible thing dangling between them. He could almost reach out and pluck it from the air.

  “Well, I’d better be off before the servants . . .” Her voice trailed off as she glanced down to the hand that she’d laid against his chest again. Her eyes widened, and when her fingers flexed over the hard muscle beneath, she emitted a quiet sound of distress as if she couldn’t stop her own response. “Oh, forgive me. I . . . didn’t . . . you’re in your shirtsleeves . . .” Deep pink color flooded her cheeks, expanding across the bridge of her nose as her fingers drifted higher, sifting through the thatch of hair rising from the open neck. “And you have all these crisp, little, perfect bronze curls . . . and um . . .” She swallowed. “I should . . . go. Now.”

  “Likely for the best,” he rasped, her touch setting off quicksilver flares of sensation through his body even as she slipped out of his embrace.

  He wanted to haul her back, to let her continue her exploration. But if he did, he knew he would kiss her. And if she kissed him back the way she did yesterday, well, his plan to woo her slowly would likely go up in flames.