The Wrong Marquess

by Vivienne Lorret

  “Your aunts are welcome to any part of Crossmoor Abbey, as are you,” he said to her. “And I would be more than happy to have your friend and her family here with us, if you think she will come.”

  Ellie sighed and within the slow exhale was reminded of days of disappointments, of not receiving a call or a missive, and being told that Miss Thorogood was out when they’d made other attempts to visit.

  Her reluctance to spend time with Ellie, who’d traveled all this way for that solitary purpose, was a mystery. He wished he had a better understanding of Miss Thorogood’s nature in order to assist Ellie with this struggle. He hated to see her hurt.

  “There is a good chance, I think,” she said. “Sylvia informed us that the Thorleys have no fixed engagement this evening.”

  “And how would my aunt know this?” he asked.

  Meg chimed in to answer. “Well, according to our scullery maid who went to the market this morning, the fishmonger’s wife told her that the vicar’s wife has gone to visit her mother in Bath and, therefore, had to cancel her standing dinner with the Thorleys for the next fortnight. And, of course, the vicar is beside himself with worry.”

  Brandon eyed his sister. She knew very well that he could hardly stand that toadeater. Mr. Gerbold had done nothing for his family in the dark days during or directly following the typhus fever that claimed three members. And yet, he didn’t hesitate to call on Brandon at every opportunity—fawning all over him in unending praise—when he wished to have a copper spire added to the church’s roof.

  Gritting his teeth, he said, “I suppose this is where I offer to extend an invitation to the vicar, as well.”

  “It certainly would give the Thorleys food for thought when considering whether or not to accept our invitation.”

  His gaze veered to Ellie. It was bad enough he had to put up with Nethersole, let alone that crawler Gerbold. But there was only one thing he wouldn’t do for her, and that was encourage her to marry George.

  “Consider it done,” he said. “You shall have your dinner.”

  “What’s this about dinner? Are we having a party?” he heard, the voice coming from just outside the stall.

  The man-child appeared in the open doorway, freshly shaven and pressed as if he’d just awoken and his only obligations were to play with horses and make the girls giggle at his jokes.

  “We’re to have guests this evening,” Brandon supplied. “If the Thorleys accept, that is.”

  “The more the merrier, I say.” Nethersole’s thick brows inched toward his hairline and a mysterious gleam flashed in the depths of his dark eyes.

  Brandon had seen this look before, when they’d been in London planning the trip. Then, he’d assumed that it was merely Nethersole’s childish excitement. Now, he wondered if there was more to it. The man was an incorrigible flirt, after all. Perhaps he was looking forward to having a greater audience to impress with his robust baritone.

  “Thank you, my lord. I should like to send an invitation straightaway,” Ellie said with a smile, and he inclined his head. But he hated the barrier that the formality put between them. He would much rather hear her call him by his given name, especially with George present.

  “Yes, yes, run along now, Ellie,” Nethersole teased with a shooing gesture, following her and Meg out of the stall. “Wouldn’t want the horse to frighten you.”

  “As I’ve said before, I’m not afraid of horses,” she returned with a curtness that pleased Brandon to no end. “That would be silly, like being afraid of a boat out of water.”

  “And you’re only afraid of boats in the water. The rarity,” he chuckled, dripping with sarcasm.

  Though he loathed to leave Ellie in Nethersole’s company, Brandon needed to finish brushing down Samson.

  “But damn it all,” he muttered under his breath, “I wish she was ready to forget about that horse’s arse.”

  Samson protested with a snort.

  “Sorry, old chap. Not you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the far superior animal.”

  Chapter 26

  “A marriage-minded gentleman will not settle for second place.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  At last, Prue came to Crossmoor Abbey.

  Ellie was eager to finally have a moment to speak with her friend, but her aunt and uncle interrupted every attempt. The sour-faced Mr. and Mrs. Thorley expressed disapproval in nearly everything they saw, from throat-clearing criticisms on their niece’s posture to the sniffed disdain regarding the superfluous number of servants employed at the abbey.

  Frustrated, her gaze swept across the drawing room to Brandon. He stared back at her with commiseration, deep in a one-sided conversation with Mr. Gerbold. The mole-like vicar hardly took a breath in between complimenting his lordship’s good taste then listing a number of items that the church needed, such as marble statues and silver collection plates.

  Guilt plucked at her conscience, knowing that this disastrous evening was her own doing. But Brandon, ever-privy to her thoughts, shook his head at her in a manner that suggested he refused to let her take any blame. Then, he summarily persuaded his guests to take a tour of the house, inciting their interest with a mention of the chapel’s history, and generously falling on the sword to give her the perfect opportunity to slip away with Prue.

  Ellie would be sure to thank him later.

  All week, she’d been trying to understand the reason there’d been so little contact between her and Prue since her arrival. Of course, her worrier’s mind mulled over all sorts of dreadful things, from wondering if the Thorleys kept Prue locked in the attic to whether or not Lord F had returned and she felt the need to hide herself from him.

  Tonight, Ellie hoped to find that answer.

  “The gallery is my favorite,” she said as they stepped into the long, paneled room. The comforting fragrances of leather upholstered chairs and furniture polished with beeswax and turpentine reminded her of mornings with Brandon. “It’s so peaceful, don’t you think? And the best part is, no one will bother us for a while. So we may talk in confidence, like we used to before everything changed.”

  “But what about dinner?” Prue gave a nervous glance to the longcase clock in the far corner. “My aunt is quite strict about punctuality.”

  “She doesn’t . . . hurt you, does she?”

  “No, of course not,” she said quickly. Then, shaking her head, she expelled an exhausted breath. “My aunt is just greatly disappointed by tardiness. That is her favorite phrase throughout each day. She is often greatly disappointed in me.”

  To Ellie that didn’t sound much better, but Prue seemed to take it in stride without so much as a blink. It was only for that reason that she was marginally subdued. For the moment.

  “Well, you needn’t fret on that account, for I briefly spoke with Brandon—or rather, Lord Hullworth,” she corrected. “He said he would continue the tour, delaying the kitchen for as long as we needed. There will be no announcement from the butler until you and I have returned to the parlor.”

  Her friend nodded but still didn’t seem at ease. “He must think a great deal of you then. I could not imagine the lord of the manor making such concessions for just any guest.”

  They paused at the portrait of the first Marquess of Hullworth—a handsome, bearded gentleman in a high, livery collar and blackwork embroidery on his frilled cuffs. Feeling Prue’s scrutiny on her profile, Ellie responded with a flippant, “Oh, you’d be surprised. He allows my aunts to interfere in the kitchens without a word. Why, he even allows George his choice of mount at the stables.”

  “Ah, yes. George,” Prue said, her tone drawing tight like the cords of a reticule, her arms crossed. “During the last Season that we were all together—you, Jane, Winnie and I—you seemed ready to give up the chase.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say I was ever chasing him, per se. I was just waiting like he asked me to do. As you know, we’ve always had something of an understanding,
though without making any formal announcement.”

  Ellie felt her brow knit above the bridge of her nose as she heard the words from her own lips. Such an insubstantial promise, with all the concessions on her end.

  If she’d overheard a young woman tell the story that her betrothed had proposed in such an offhanded manner, would it earn a place in her ledger? Likely not.

  Zero sighs. Zero swoons.

  “I’m sorry,” Prue said softly. “I didn’t mean for you to take offense. I suppose, I was just wondering if you were still waiting for him, or if you’d set your cap for Lord Hullworth.”

  Ellie had asked herself that same question often this past week. She wasn’t completely sure how Brandon felt about her or how she fit into his life. But he’d become such an integral part of her life, and so quickly that she couldn’t imagine spending a day without him. He was her shoulder to lean upon to conquer her fears, offering reassurance. He’d gone out of his way countless times for her benefit. And he was always ready, able and willing to help her through any task, never once making her feel like a burden or an inconvenience.

  As she thought about this, in the back of her mind, she heard the memory of him giving advice for the primer.

  A marriage-minded gentleman should always provide support and encouragement to the woman who holds his affections . . .

  A marriage-minded gentleman will surmount any obstacle in his path in order to win the woman he wants. To make her his, and his alone . . .

  Her breath caught. Though he hadn’t unequivocally declared himself, the lessons seemed to be his way of telling her he wanted to marry her.

  We’re right for each other, Ellie. I think you know it, too.

  She felt her head spin in a giddy whirl. And yet, her feelings for Brandon were complicated and interwoven with the ones she had for George.

  With him, she felt comforted by a sense of familiarity and a fondness that had grown her whole life. And even though she loved George, he wasn’t ready for marriage. He had oats to sow.

  Brandon, on the other hand, made her feel as if there was no other woman he’d rather be with. No other flirtations. No oats. Just her. She rather liked that about him.

  But could she see a life with him? A future with children? Growing old together?

  At the thought of what came after growing old, a cold coffin-like chill swept over her and she wrapped her arms around herself to ward it off.

  “The answer is, I have no idea,” she said, a bit too brightly, and reached out to squeeze Prue’s gloved hand. “And now that you know my dilemma, can you tell me about Lord F and what happened at Sutherfield Terrace?”

  Prue slowly withdrew, clasping her hands in front of herself. “I’d prefer not to speak of it.”

  Then she walked on toward the next portrait—the lovely first marchioness, wearing a dramatic red gown with a low-cut, square bodice that laced in the front, and open sleeves embroidered in fine gold thread—and gazed vacantly at it for a long moment without speaking again. Ellie was left floundering for what to say to that, and so was rather surprised when her friend continued.

  “But, I suppose, you have every right to know,” she said with a solemn nod as if resolved to the inescapability of the subject. “It is difficult to explain and nothing I ever imagined happening. My father was deep in conversation about politics, which left me standing off to the side pretending to wait for my next dance partner. Though, in reality, there was no name on my card. So, I’d stepped out for a breath of air. Then, somehow I’d gotten turned around in the garden and suddenly he was there.”

  “Lord F?” Ellie asked, hoping her friend would finally offer his name. But it became clear in the next moment that she had no intention of revealing his identity.

  Again, Prue nodded. “Teasingly, this gentleman promised to be my garden champion and see me to safety. At the time, I saw nothing wrong with accepting his escort since I was already somewhat acquainted with him.”

  Ellie’s brows lifted in surprise. This was news, indeed. In all the letters they’d exchanged, her friend had never indicated a prior association with the mysterious Lord F. Unfortunately, before she could utter a casual inquiry, Prue continued without pause, her attention directed toward the floor as she walked the length of the gallery.

  “As he led me through the lanes between hedgerows, he flirted shamelessly,” she said. “I begged him not to, of course. But then he surprised me by confessing that he’d always admired me. Given the nature of our acquaintance, however, he’d never had the opportunity to divulge it. And in that moment, he’d seemed so vulnerable and bashful that I believed him. Even so, I wanted to hurry back. I could not indulge in a flirtation with this man. He accepted my answer but”—she paused on a breath—“at the same time, told me how much he would regret it if he let another instant pass without telling me how pretty I looked in the moonlight. Then he’d said that if he were to wish upon a star, his wish would be to kiss me.”

  “How romantic!” Ellie sighed, swept away in the story and blushing as she recalled her own time with Brandon in that same garden.

  Prue smoothed her hands down her skirt, her voice pained when she said, “So I let him kiss me.”

  “Dearest, do not fret. It was just a kiss. I daresay there are few who would have been able to resist such a pretty declaration. I know I could not have done.”

  A wan smile briefly touched Prue’s lips as she gazed distractedly toward the far corner of the room. “Thank you, Ellie. I’m glad you understand. But if I could have one wish, it would be that clocks would turn in reverse and we could go back and change the things we have done.”

  There was such a sense of hopelessness in her friend that it broke Ellie’s heart. “I wish you had not been discovered by your father either, but there is hope yet. After all, if Jane was able to return from ruination, then you shall be able to as well.”

  “It is not that simple,” she said flatly.

  That much was true, Ellie admitted. Jane recovered because she married, and also because her husband’s grandfather held a prominent place in society. Still, she didn’t want to leave Prue with a sense that there was no hope for her future.

  “In your letters,” she said carefully, “you mentioned that Lord F has visited you while you’ve been living with your aunt and uncle. Is he still pursuing you?”

  Prue hesitated, then nodded.

  “Has he”—Ellie swallowed—“made an offer for you?”

  Again, she nodded. “On several occasions. However, his promises are not as plainly spoken as I would prefer. He likes to talk of parties and amusements, of taking a house and holidays, but not of the future.”

  This man sounded a lot like George, Ellie thought grimly. But she didn’t want to say it aloud and diminish her friend’s hopes more than they already were.

  So, instead, she offered, “I’m sure he’ll come around and your doubts will be laid to rest once and for all.”

  “Perhaps,” Prue said, but didn’t appear convinced in the least.

  Hearing a soft, melodious chime from the corner, Ellie glanced to the clock. Oh, dear. It was time they found their way to the parlor.

  Sidling up to Prue, she linked their arms together and led the way back down the long gallery. “Nevertheless, it’s a lovely feeling, being desired by a handsome gentleman. It causes an awakening of sorts, the rousing of an inner self that one may not have even realized existed before.”

  Prue looked at her with the twinkle of understanding in her eyes. And all at once, it was as if they were back to that last day of finishing school, sharing secrets and discussing their dreams while lying on the grass and staring up at the clouds. “Is that how Lord Hullworth makes you feel?”

  Now it was Ellie’s turn to hesitate. Then she nodded.

  * * *

  After dinner that evening, Brandon’s guests gathered for cards while he and Aunt Sylvia played backgammon at a small table near the window.

  “I do hope Miss Parrish decides to stay
on for a while,” Sylvia said with a rattle of dice in her cup. “For then I’m sure to beat you handily each time we play.”

  He turned back to his aunt and glanced down to the inlaid board with chagrin. He’d been watching Ellie more than he was paying attention to his own game. “Best out of three?”

  She shook her head. “As much as it pains me to admit, I’m old, my dear nephew. Dinner parties and late evening’s entertainments are for the young.” She rose and patted his cheek with her soft vellum-skinned hand. “But I meant what I said. I hope she decides to stay. It would be nice for Crossmoor Abbey to become a home again.”

  His gaze trailed after his aunt as she bid adieu to the others, holding her shawl tighter over her gently sloped shoulders. He wished he could have given her a guarantee that, yes, Miss Parrish would stay. But he wasn’t sure.

  At times, especially when they were alone, he was filled with the famous Stredwick certainty. The problem, however, was George.

  Brandon had thought the man-child would shoot himself in the foot by now. But his behavior of late, especially this evening, had been altogether gentlemanly. Courtly, even. Nethersole was a bloody chameleon when he chose to be, subduing his boisterous nature to present himself in a respectable fashion. He did not overimbibe and hadn’t even told a single bawdy joke.

  And worse, he wasn’t treating Ellie as a mere afterthought as he usually did. He was attentive instead, not just to her but to Miss Thorogood as well.

  The transformation delighted Maeve and Myrtle, who tittered on and on about how proud they were of the lad they’d always considered a part of their family. The statement wouldn’t have bothered Brandon so much if Myrtle hadn’t chosen to lay her hands over Nethersole’s and Ellie’s as she spoke, smiling to both of them as if their union was a foregone conclusion.

  Witnessing the spectacle, Brandon winced inwardly. He hated uncertainty. Hated the way the past hovered like a specter that, instead of jangling chains, laughed and told him that he was only a second-choice substitute.