The Wrong Marquess EPB

by Vivienne Lorret

  She fanned herself surreptitiously with a wave of her hand, and belatedly realized that it should have been George’s face that her mind conjured. George that tossed aside her tambour and pulled her into his embrace. And when she purposely put him in those imagined scenarios, her blood cooled to its appropriate temperature and she breathed much easier.

  “I wish George was ready to marry. It would help to settle my mind, I think. And yet, I fear I’ll be as old as the aunts by the time he proposes. If I even live that long.”

  “Why not consider Lord Hullworth as a viable candidate?”

  “I couldn’t do that!” she declared on a misstep, stumbling forward a bit before she regained her bearings.

  “Are you afraid of being attracted to him? Perhaps afraid that someone other than George could claim your heart?”

  “That simply isn’t possible. I’ve always loved George, and I always will.”

  Jane gave her a dubious look. “Regardless of the outcome, I hope you’ve written all this down. It will be perfect for our book. On one hand you have a courtship between two people who have professed no desire to marry each other and yet find themselves inexplicably drawn together—”

  “It meant nothing,” she insisted again.

  “—and on the other hand, you have jealousy serving as the impetus to prod an unyielding party into action.”

  “Jealousy?” She scoffed. “I could not care less about Lord Hullworth’s liaisons.”

  “I find it quite noteworthy that you concluded I was referring to you in regard to Lord Hullworth,” Jane said with a grin and continued before Ellie could offer an excuse about anyone making a similar assumption. “I’m certain your trip to Wiltshire will provide all the answers you need.”

  “For the book, you mean,” Ellie clarified sternly.

  “Of course.” Jane blinked with owl-eyed innocence that wouldn’t even convince a vicar that she was in earnest.

  But the very thought of traveling with Lord Hullworth, of sleeping beneath the same roof, brought back that sense of heart-racing panic. It was surely not an ailment she could survive all the way to Wiltshire. It would be better if things went back to the way they were, a simple trip with her aunts and George. That was all she needed.

  “Lord Savage said something interesting at dinner,” she said, glancing sideways at Jane as they continued to walk. “He thinks that Lord Hullworth might want . . . to pursue me. At least if I were available to pursue. Which I’m not, of course.”

  “Hmm. So that’s what you were talking about at dinner. I was afraid that I’d have to send Raven after the scoundrel to warn him away from trying to seduce my friend.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Jane shrugged. “It isn’t the first time I’ve thought that he might have been the one in the garden at Sutherfield Terrace with Prue.”

  “But that was Lord F not Lord S?”

  “It could be that Prue is trying to protect the man from being discovered by using a different letter.”

  Ellie shook her head. “Scoundrel though he may be, Lord Savage confessed that he was only trying to goad his friend into ill humor. In fact, he appears to have no interest in what he mockingly referred to as innocents.”

  Jane made a note of that in her ledger and then lifted her questioning gaze. “What if Lord Hullworth does want to pursue you?”

  “He doesn’t,” she said quickly, practically shooting the words from her mouth. A small laugh erupted from Jane’s throat as she eyed her dubiously. Ellie’s shoulders sagged. “Well, if that were true—though it’s entirely doubtful—I would have to make an excuse to travel without him. In fact, I might do that regardless. It’s just that I feel a sense of imminent doom whenever I think about the trip.”

  “You’ve always felt that way about everything.”

  “This is different.” After all, it couldn’t be conducive to longevity if her pulse always leapt at the sight of him. It filled her with the strange urge to run—though in which direction she was never sure. Away from him? Or toward him? Neither choice seemed appropriate. She was his friend, after all. One did not run from friends or rush into their arms.

  Jane reached out and set her hands on Ellie’s shoulders. “Perhaps, it is time to face your fears head-on.”

  Ellie didn’t think there was ever a good time for that.

  “Speak of the devil,” Jane said with a grin.

  Then, she spun Ellie around to find none other than Lord Hullworth at the end of the paneled corridor!

  In the sconcelight, his lean form strode toward her with purpose, his black tailcoat parting to reveal the outline of firm thigh muscles encased in supple gray woolen trousers. The sight left her abruptly breathless and flushed as if she were seeing him in a silk banyan and nothing more, just like in one of the scandalous daydreams she’d been having all week. She blamed Aunt Myrtle’s latest novel for the inspiration.

  Unable to look away, Ellie’s gaze wandered upward in slow, unladylike appreciation beyond the intriguing, heavy form beneath the fall front, up the flat expanse of his satin paisley waistcoat—of the same smoky silver and mossy green hues that matched the shifting colors of his irises—and up along the folds of his white cravat to the chiseled features that looked especially dashing this evening.

  She swallowed and briefly wondered if the servant at the end of the hall would think her mad if she just lifted her skirts and began to run as fast as she could.

  Likely so.

  “Miss Parrish,” he said with a formal bow.

  “Lord Hullworth,” she answered inanely, somewhat breathless. Flustered, Ellie barely remembered her manners. “Have you met Lady Northcott? You may recall that Doctor Lockwood’s residence is neighbor to the home of Jane’s parents.”

  “Ah, yes. A pleasure,” he said with a bow to Jane. “Would you also happen to be one of the friends with whom Miss Parrish is writing a book on the subject of matrimonial habits?”

  Jane nodded. “Very astute observation, my lord. And what a coincidence that you stepped into the hall just now. We were just discussing—”

  “Our book,” Ellie interrupted, feeling as if a swarm of bees suddenly descended into her stomach with the intention of turning it into a honeycomb. “But not the . . . matrimonial parts . . . of course.”

  “Of course,” he parroted, amusement lingering in his eyes. Then he sobered. “I came to bid you a good night.”

  Her surprise subdued the buzzing hive. “So soon?”

  “I fear, I must,” he said. “As you doubtless noticed, I was added to Lady Millington’s party at the last minute. I had intended for my sister to join me—as her ladyship made it known that she had two available places for dinner—but Meg begged off, claiming a headache.”

  And thus, leaving the perfect opportunity for Miss Carmichael, Ellie thought peevishly.

  “I hope Meg is feeling better soon,” she said and would be sure to send her well wishes and a cheerful sampler.

  “I have a slew of experimental remedies for headaches,” Jane interjected. “And, I’m proud to say, that not a single one has ever exploded. I’d be happy to send them over.”

  Lord Hullworth’s brow furrowed over the bridge of his nose in uncertainty. “Thank you, my lady. However, I’m of a mind that she will be hale once more after a night’s rest. Much like Lord Bassingstoke, I imagine,” he added turning his attention again to Ellie. “I just saw him to his carriage and he will be of no further nuisance to you.”

  A shock of bewilderment temporarily robbed her of speech and she blinked at him.

  It was one thing to glower across the table. But to act on her behalf? That was rather presumptuous. After all, there’d been no need. She’d handled the situation effectively with the aid of a few fork tines.

  She felt her spine stiffen.

  Beside her, Jane murmured a hmm of intrigue while biting her bottom lip. Then abruptly, Jane said, “I beg you would excuse me for a moment. I was just on my way to fix a button on my glove.
Dratted things always come loose when you least expect it.”

  Jane, clearly sensing her friend’s need to set matters straight, cast her a sly wink and sauntered down the corridor.

  Left alone with him, Ellie drew in a measured breath. “You needn’t have interfered with Lord Bassingstoke. I am not wholly incapable of dissuading unwanted advances, nor was I living beneath a rock before you took notice of me.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked in amusement, setting a spark to her ire. “I’ve no doubt of your abilities, or the likelihood that you have tempted your fair share of gentlemen. But what kind of man would I be if I merely stood by and watched, when I could easily settle the matter between Lord Bassingstoke and Lord Savage?”

  “Lord Savage?” she gasped, embarrassed and furious now.

  He lifted his shoulders in an inconsequential shrug. “Merely a discreet word between old schoolmates. Savage actually assisted me in seeing Bassingstoke to his carriage.”

  “You had no right, you overbearing, pompous, stuffed—”

  “Though, in the future, if you are interested in conversing with a research candidate for your book, you might consider one with actual marital intent. That is your aim, is it not? It is sad, however, that Nethersole has never provided inspiration on that particular topic. A marriage-minded gentleman should always provide support and encouragement to the woman who holds his affections.”

  She was seething now, shooting flinty bronze daggers with her eyes. “I cannot fathom how the matter has anything to do with you. Good night, my lord.”

  She turned on her heel, only to feel a warm hand on her arm, staying her. A glance confirmed that he wasn’t wearing a glove. He was touching her, skin on skin. And all at once every sensation and every emotion seemed to amplify inside her as if she were trapped inside a bell tolling the midnight hour.

  She could hear everything. The sound of a single footstep. The quiet rasp of superfine wool against linen as he shifted closer. And she could feel everything. Her nails biting into her palms. Her heart hammering. The strained tightness of her corset. The heat of his body at her back even though she wasn’t pressed against him. The soft brush of her lashes as they fell against her cheeks as she closed her eyes to absorb it all.

  “We are friends, are we not?” he asked quietly, as if he was just as uncertain as she. “And you would do the same for me, I should think.”

  “Do you mean, would I escort Miss Carmichael to her carriage because she laid her hand on your sleeve?”

  “I wish someone would,” he said dryly, and the vision it created in her mind, of her doing just that, was so ludicrous that a rueful laugh escaped her.

  She turned to face him. In doing so, his hand naturally fell from her arm, leaving the flesh tingling and wanting. And he stared down at his own fingertips as if he didn’t recognize them. But when his gaze lifted to hers, his eyes were darker, more green than gray. The same ravenous color they’d been at Gunter’s as he’d eaten her last bites of burnt filbert ice cream.

  Her stomach gave a funny little hop and a sudden rise of gooseflesh prickled along her arms. It made her want to step forward, to press against him in order to quell the sensation.

  She chafed her hands over her arms instead. “I don’t understand our friendship.”

  He stared back at her quizzically as if she’d spoken a language he’d never heard before. Tension emanated from his rigid form. His nostrils flared. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides like a man straining to keep them there.

  Then, after a moment, he finally said, “I’ll give Meg your best. Good night, Miss Parrish.”

  With a stiff bow, he turned on his heel and left her standing alone in the corridor, listening to the hard echo of his retreating footfalls.

  Behind her, she heard the quick patter of steps and soon felt Jane slide her arm through hers, elation fairly vibrating from her frame. “There’s no question about it, Ellie. I think Lord Savage had it right all along.”

  Chapter 13

  “Do not trust your heart, for there are times when said organ is being ridiculous.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  By the middle of the following week, Brandon was convinced he was going mad.

  His sleep was fitful. His appetite altered from none at all to a ravening bottomless pit. His clothes were too warm. His cravat was too tight, even though his valet had assured him several times that he hadn’t altered his method of tying the preferred mathematical knot. His windows offered no view that pleased him. And he couldn’t stop hearing Miss Parrish’s soft plea, “I don’t understand our friendship.”

  He didn’t either.

  At Lady Millington’s dinner, Lord Savage had laughingly accused him of behaving like a man who’d staked his claim. Or even like . . . a jealous husband. Brandon had assured him that was not the case at all. He was merely looking out for Miss Parrish’s reputation as he would for any friend of his sister’s. Then Savage had clapped him on the shoulder and bid him good luck against the demons he would soon be wrestling.

  Soon be? No, Brandon was already in the midst of the tussle.

  He wanted her so badly that he dreamt of her all through the night, every night. The visions tempted him to linger abed and take this consuming desire in hand. To be rid of it, once and for all. He’d even been tempted to pay a call on one of the dozens of women who’d offered to be his mistress. But he knew it was no use. He knew that there was only one woman who could satisfy this maddening hunger.

  He couldn’t explain it. No matter how many times he reminded himself that she and Nethersole had something of an understanding. No matter how many times he vowed to never entertain the idea of courting a woman whose affections lay elsewhere. No matter how determined he was to be her friend and only her friend, some other, strangely primitive, part took over when she was near.

  He needed to put an end to it. And if that meant complete absence from her presence until the demon wrestling was over, then so be it.

  “I will conquer this before we travel to Wiltshire,” he said into the empty study, absently wondering if he should lock the door and toss the key out the window, just to be safe.

  * * *

  Ellie decided to stay home that week and sent her regrets for the dinners and parties on her schedule. When the aunts fretfully inquired after her health, she merely said that she desired some evenings to herself.

  It was true enough. She’d been tired of late, and wanted to turn in at an earlier hour than societal events allowed.

  “And besides,” she’d added to ease the worry-knitted brows that lingered, “with George out of town, there’s hardly a point in dressing in all my finery for a ball that he isn’t going to attend. After all, the purpose of this final Season is to snare him, is it not?”

  It was a plausible excuse, and the aunts accepted it without any further questions. But deep down, Ellie knew that she was only trying to avoid Lord Hullworth.

  He was the reason that her sleep had been interrupted, appearing in a constant series of dreams that left her heart racing and her skin damp. And she was desperate to finally rid herself of the churning, tingling, palpitating restlessness she suffered when he was near.

  So, she was grateful that he never came to call with his sister. Meg had been over nearly every day, declaring that her brother was too busy with estate matters, even to take a drive. Assured that there was no chance of running into Lord Hullworth, Ellie readily agreed to shopping excursions, tours of the museums and walks through the park.

  Her days were filled with activity, but her evenings were subdued. While the aunts enjoyed the parties, Ellie occupied much of her time with embroidery and letter writing.

  Dear Jane,

  Have you any recent news from our dear Prue? It has been more than a fortnight since I’ve received a letter and I am worried. You and I spent so much time chatting about a certain marquess that I neglected to ask if you also thought her letters seemed more melanc
holy of late.

  Your friend (the worrier on Upper Wimpole Street),

  Ellie

  Dear Worrier,

  You needn’t. I have had a number of letters in the past fortnight and I detect no great sadness from our friend. In fact, her letters seem somewhat hopeful, at least to my eyes. She is asking about marriage. Queries along the line of: when I was certain that Raven cared for me and how he proposed.

  I see this as promising. Perhaps she has met someone who has taken her mind off Lord F?

  Signed,

  Jane, the apparent optimist

  Ellie decided to be optimistic as well and allowed herself to imagine Prue being wooed by some handsome gentleman. She hoped that was the case.

  Then, near mid-week, she finally received a letter from Prue.

  Dear Ellie,

  Forgive me, again, for being so negligent in my correspondence. With the days growing longer of late, I have extended my walks. I wish I had the words to describe the beauty of the grounds of Crossmoor Abbey. If I did, however, this letter would be far too large to fit on the mail coach.

  But please know that you and our friendship are ever in my thoughts, and your letters are most welcome. In that regard, I have noticed that a certain gentleman has not earned mention in your correspondence of late and, with that said, I offer my sincerest hope that you are in good spirits.

  Affectionately,

  Prudence Thorogood

  Dearest Prue,

  In regard to the matter of a certain gentleman, the reason he has not earned mention in my last few letters is because there is nothing to report. G—is no closer to proposing to me than a squirrel to a peahen. I am nearly resigned to it.

  Thankfully, I have made a new friend and I know you would like her, too. My aunts have all but adopted her, and would have done if she did not already have a brother to look after her (a certain not-so-elusive marquess that I may have mentioned a time or two). Where she is all effervescence and light, he is mercurial and bewildering. I never know which disposition to expect whenever we should meet. So you can imagine that my head has been awhirl.