The Wrong Marquess EPB Read online

  Dedication

  To Nicole and Stefanie, thank you for making this possible.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Announcement

  By Vivienne Lorret

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  England, 1810

  Huddled beneath the barren branches of a hollow gray elm, Elodie Parrish stared down at the dirt staining her hand. She’d never been allowed to be dirty before. But, this time, her aunts had insisted.

  “Go on, Elodie, dear,” Aunt Maeve had said a short while ago, a single silver tear sliding down her careworn cheek and onto her black woolen shawl. “Take a handful and drop it in. No one will make a fuss, I promise.”

  Aunt Myrtle gave an encouraging nod, her black crepe dress rustling as she’d knelt down, and her eyes had looked like cornflowers floating in a puddle. “It’ll make you feel better to help him along his new journey.”

  Even though she was nearly full-grown at seven years old, Elodie didn’t understand why it was so important to give Papa back to the earth, or why she had to take part in it. She didn’t want him buried underground at all. He couldn’t breathe there. She wanted him back in his bed and propped on a mountain of pillows. Wanted him to pat the coverlet, calling her near to tell her stories in his quiet, raspy voice.

  Their neighbors and a few of the villagers—the ones who’d followed the procession of the black horses with feathered hats that pulled the velvet-draped coffin inside the glass carriage—had all looked at Elodie with expectation. She’d known they were waiting for her to do this one terrible thing before they could all go into the house and eat the funeral feast the cook was preparing. Though how anyone could eat at a time like this, she would never understand.

  But she’d done as she was told. She’d promised Papa that she’d mind her aunts while he was away.

  Now, no matter how many times she wiped and scrubbed her palm against the itchy black dress the maid had buttoned her into, the filth remained. There were muddy tracks buried in the tiny creases and crevices of her flesh. They looked like rivers on one of Papa’s maps. And the grit beneath her fingernails tasted like raw potatoes.

  They’d put a ring on her finger, too. It was engraved on the underside with the words beloved father, gone but not forgotten. On the top it had a picture of clouds and Heaven’s archway with a bubble of glass over the top. The circle, rimmed in gold, reminded her of the sovereigns they’d put over Papa’s sleeping eyes. The aunts had told her it was to pay the ferryman so that he would have a peaceful crossing.

  But if he needed so much help leaving, then why couldn’t he have just stayed instead? And how could he breathe inside that box? After all, sometimes he went a long while without breathing. He’d always start back up again, after a few hunching coughs into his red-spotted handkerchief. How did they know that he wouldn’t do the same this time?

  The thought haunted her as she stared at the mound of glistening black dirt beside her father’s grave.

  A damp April breeze wafted up from the gaping hole, the smell bitter and brackish. It reminded her of the bloated worms that littered the garden path after a heavy rain, and of the black birds that would swoop down to gobble them up.

  She hated that smell.

  She tried to hold her breath. But it was no use. The scent of death was already inside her, deep in her lungs. Somehow, she knew it would always be there.

  “What’s all this carrying on about? You’re acting like someone’s died or something,” a boy said as he stole inside the open gate of her family’s graveyard.

  Seeing that it was the dreadful neighbor, she quickly swiped at her cheeks.

  George was the bane of her existence. He was forever teasing her about wearing dresses and not being able to climb trees without showing everyone her drawers. Forever telling her that she was just a girl.

  “Why aren’t you inside with the others?” she asked, jerking a nod toward the sprawling brick house on the hill.

  “Oh, they’re all talking about old Boney again. And nothing interesting like preparing for battle or sending in the regiment. No,” he said with the same exhausted roll of his eyes that he often gave to her. “They’re only talking about his wedding—a marriage alliance, they call it—to that Austrian lady and the rammer-fications it’ll have for England. And it’s all so boring that I decided to walk home.”

  He bent down, a hank of straight brown hair falling over his brow as he snatched a rock from the ground. Tossing it in the air a few times, he caught it handily with a muffled slap into his fist. But he grew bored with this too and reared back to launch the stone in an arcing path over the wrought iron fence.

  “What’s a rammer-fication?” she asked, wondering if that was the reason he’d come to the graveyard instead of going back to his own house.

  “Everyone knows what a rammer-fication is,” he said with a mocking smirk. “It’s what happens when you do something bad and your tutor makes you write out sentences. It means that marriages are bad, too. And so are the little girls who like to play pretend and hold weddings in the garden and dress up their dolls like brides.”

  She hated the way he snickered at her. Hiking up her chin, she set her hands on her hips and said, “Weddings are romantic, not bad. You don’t know any better because you’re just a boy. Just an orphan boy.”

  The instant his brown gaze flashed to hers, she wished she could take it back. She didn’t know why she always taunted him in return. It only inspired him to say the meanest things. He liked to tell her that her eyes were the yellow of tree sap or dead leaves in mud puddles, and that her hair was the color of fresh horse dung.

  She waited for him to say something horrible.

  “Well, you’re an orphan now, too,” he said, but his words weren’t spiteful. They were quiet and sad in a way that made her eyes sting and her throat tight. “That’s your mum over there, isn’t it?”

  Her gaze followed his gesture to the headstone beside her father’s yawning grave, where the name Elodie Parrish was chiseled into an arch of white marble. It was like having her own gravestone before ever having a chance to live.

  Already, she didn’t like being an orphan. She wanted to cry about it but, with her dreaded neighbor here, she couldn’t.

  Tears clogged her throat, gripping like nettles into her flesh as she swallowed, but she stubbornly held them back. Standing tall, she believed herself to be quite grown-up, indeed . . . until a stuttering breath shook her, making her sniffle wetly.

  She darted a hateful glance to George, daring him to laugh at her. If he d
id, she’d push him into that hole.

  But instead of teasing her, he surprised her by walking over and handing her his handkerchief. “Here. You should probably blow your nose or something.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a polite sniff and turned away. Then she gave the damp, dirt-smudged square of starched linen back to him.

  He crammed it into his pocket then stood beside her for a full minute before talking again. And there was something almost comforting about having him near. But she’d never tell him that.

  “So, why are you still in the graveyard?” he asked. “Are you waiting for something to happen?”

  She slid a wary glance his way, wondering how he could know such a thing. “What would make you say that?”

  “Dunno,” he said, his attention suddenly fixed on the moss underfoot. He scuffed the toe of his shoe against it, flipping it over to expose the wormlike tangle of milky roots beneath. “When my father died, I thought for sure he wasn’t inside the coffin. I mean, what man goes off on a little hunt and never comes back? Besides, they wouldn’t let me see him. And since he was always the kind to pop out from around corners for a scare and a laugh, I waited. Figured you were doing the same.”

  Again, he shrugged. But his shoulders seemed broader now, worldly even, fitting smartly into the seams of his coat. She blinked and stared at the bane of her existence as if seeing him for the first time.

  “I am waiting,” she admitted with whispered trust, “for Papa to cough. He often holds his breath forever but he always comes out of it.”

  To her surprise, George did not laugh at her. In fact, he appeared thoughtful as he stared toward the grave. “What’s his record?”

  “Well, a few days ago, it must have been a whole hour before he took a breath. I was holding mine the whole time, too, so I would know.”

  “Impressive.” He nodded, stepping around her toward the elm tree. Finding a foothold above the hollow, he continued to talk as he climbed like a brown-haired ape in a suit. “I held mine for two hours once. But I’m supposed to be better at things like that. I’m a marquess now, after all. And your father was only a baron.”

  Considering the level of confidence in his declaration, she believed him. The aunts often spoke with similar conviction when telling her that drinking every last drop of warm milk before bed would help her to sleep. It usually worked.

  Except for early this morning when the terrible nightmare came.

  She’d pictured her father waking, all alone and unable to breathe. There wasn’t any air inside the dark silk-lined coffin. And no one could hear him shout or thunder his fists against the underside of the lid.

  She’d jolted awake, screaming and clawing at the bedcurtains. And when the aunts rushed into her chamber in their dressing gowns with ruffled caps askew, she’d begged them to let her kiss her father one last time, just to be sure.

  But it had been too late. The undertaker had already nailed the coffin shut.

  Even now, a shiver stole through her as the ghost of her dream lingered, but she did her best not to show it.

  A faint drizzle fell from the gloomy clouds overhead. Looking up, she shielded her eyes to find George straddling a large gray limb and scooting toward the narrow end.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, perplexed by his need to climb a tree at such a time. Boys were such odd creatures.

  “I’m looking down into the hole to see if the coffin is wobbling, of course. If it is, then I’d say he’s trying to get out. You listen for his cough and I’ll keep watch from here.”

  Elodie felt the slow upward curl of her lips, her misted cheeks lifting. Until this moment, she’d never realized how clever her neighbor was. “Be careful, George.”

  He flashed that teasing grin that she’d hated all her life . . . at least, up until now. “Worried about me, are you?”

  “No.”

  But they were both smiling when she said it, as if they’d formed an alliance. And Elodie, feeling very mature now, wondered what rammer-fications it might have if they did.

  The two of them held their vigil for some time. Hours and hours, at least. Or however long it was taking the grave diggers, who were waiting down the hill by their dray, to finish smoking their cheroots.

  As time passed, the only sounds she heard were the creakings of the branch overhead and the hollow patter of icy rain against the cold earth and wood. But not a single cough.

  Doubt started to creep in. She hugged her arms tightly around her middle, trying to shield herself against it, but it took hold nonetheless.

  Her father wasn’t coming back, was he.

  “Being an orphan isn’t so bad,” George said from above as if her dismal thoughts had floated up to him. “You’ll still have servants to bring your tea.”

  “And I have my aunts.”

  “But they’re old. You can’t count on them being around much longer.”

  She nodded glumly. It was true. Aunt Maeve was forty-six and Aunt Myrtle was forty-two. Practically mummified.

  “And you’re just a girl,” he added as if that was the worst thing a person could be, “so you won’t inherit your house like I did mine. You’ll probably be sent away.”

  She looked vacantly to the brick house on the hill and thought of being taken away from everything and everyone she knew. To be all alone in the world, without anyone at all, would feel just like being trapped inside a coffin and buried underground, she was sure.

  A flood of hot tears filled the lower rims of her eyes, turning the world blurry and bleak. Her breath stuttered. Then the sob she’d been holding back all this time finally broke free.

  “Here now, have a care. I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said, shimmying backward. “You won’t be alo—ohhh!”

  Without warning, the branch suddenly cracked. A terrible crunching followed. Then it snapped.

  Everything happened so fast. One minute George was in the tree and the next he was falling in a tumble of splinters, arms and legs. He hit one branch after another, landing so hard against the ground that she felt the quake through the soles of her shoes.

  Elodie rushed to him and collapsed to her knees. His body was stiff, eyes startled wide. Beneath her hand, his chest shuddered up and down, but he wasn’t breathing. His mouth gaped open on a scream, but no sound came forth.

  It was just like her nightmare.

  Bending over him, she smoothed the hair from his forehead, his skin pale and pasty. She wasn’t sure why she pressed her lips to his brow and cheek and then to his nose and chin, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

  She spoke in frantic whispers. “Please, George, please. Take a breath. I can’t lose you, too. It wouldn’t be fair when I don’t hate you anymore. Talk to me. Say something. Tease me. Anything. Just please—”

  All at once, he dragged in a hard, wheezing gust of air that sounded like chair legs screeching across the floor. Then his arms wrapped around her, clenching fistfuls of her awful dress as he pulled her close.

  Squeezed tightly to him, she could feel his chest shudder. Hear the breath whoosh inside the column of his throat.

  Elodie clung to him in return. A fresh wash of tears fell down her muddied cheeks. And, for reasons beyond her understanding, they both started to laugh.

  Soon the somber cemetery was filled with hearty belly laughs and bright, pealing giggles that bounced off the headstones of her ancestors. But she didn’t think they would mind under the circumstances. It wasn’t often a person escaped the clutches of Death in such a place, she was sure.

  Eventually, she sat up and looked down at him, smiling. “I saved your life.”

  “Thanks,” he said with a crooked grin, reaching up to brush the tears away from her cheeks with the cuff of his sleeve. “You’re stuck with me now, I guess. I’ll always be around to pester you. And if someone threatens to send you away . . . well . . . I’ll just marry you and keep you with me. We’ll have a marriage alliance between houses.”

  “What if I shouldn’t want t
o marry you? You are terribly reckless, after all, climbing trees and such.”

  “Oh, you’ll marry me, Ellie. Just wait and see.” As if to ensure it, George rose up on his elbows and pressed his lips to hers.

  The kiss was brief, wet and startling. She hardly knew what to make of it.

  Before she could figure it out, he bolted through the open gate and ran toward home.

  Dazedly, her fingertips came up to trace the tender skin of her lips. They were still damp. The realization made her heart squish warmly inside her chest. She suddenly knew that, with George, she’d never have to worry about being an orphan and all alone. He was her neighbor, so he’d always be there for her. And as she watched him disappear beyond the hill, she already began to wonder how long she’d have to wait to become his wife.

  Chapter 1

  Spring, 1828

  “Patience is a debutante’s greatest asset . . . even if it should kill her.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  Elodie Parrish was still waiting for George to propose.

  Meanwhile, betrothals were descending on the Baxtons’ garden party like cannon fire.

  The first hit a debutante in an explosion of giggles as her gentleman sank on bended knee by the roses. The second young woman was lost in a sudden onslaught of tearful happiness, her parasol toppling to the base of a bronze sundial as she fervently nodded to her genuflecting beau. A third was struck near the fountain, swooning into the arms of her beloved.

  And Ellie interrupted every one of them.

  She hadn’t meant to, of course. She’d been searching for George, who’d promised to attend the tea with her and her aunts. But he was late, as usual.

  Being a romantic at heart, however, she hadn’t been able to deny the impulse to loiter long enough to hear the passionate declarations from the would-be grooms.

  The first couple caught her sighing beside the arbor.

  The second sent glares as she tsked in disappointment. But, really, he could have tried harder.

  And the third, well, she couldn’t resist clapping and saying, “Bravo! Best of the day! I almost wish I were marrying you.”