The Wrong Marquess EPB Page 24

  Chapter 22

  “One must cross a bridge when one comes to it, or simply take the long way around.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  Ellie hadn’t intended to reveal so much this morning. She hated her fears. They made her feel inadequate, as if she lacked a vital component that other, more worldly and desirable, women possessed. In fact, she often thought that if she wasn’t such a ninny about heights and arches—as well as scores of other things—then George would have married her long ago.

  Of course, she couldn’t be certain. However, she knew without a doubt that if she were to have told him about her nightmares, he would have teased her mercilessly.

  But not Brandon. He hadn’t made her feel the least bit odd or deficient in any way. He’d even shared his own fear, which told her that he understood and, more importantly, that she wasn’t alone.

  Usually, the nightmares left her with a sense of lingering exhaustion, but now a wondrous vibrancy hummed inside her. It felt liberating.

  Stepping out onto the courtyard a few hours later, she breathed in deeply, tasting the sweet traces of morning dew on the air. Her heartbeat was as light and aimless as her steps upon the gravel drive, her spirit as weightless as the cottony clouds overhead.

  It was a beautiful day, perfect for the open carriage that would drive them to Mr. and Mrs. Thorley’s to visit Prue.

  She caught sight of Brandon speaking to one of the grooms. Instantly, she recalled their early morning embrace and the fascinating texture of the bronze furring on his chest beneath her wayward fingertips. Her heartbeat quickened. But, this time, she did not disparage herself over her reaction to him. She was too content at the moment to let skittishness encumber her.

  So when he smiled in greeting and he touched the brim of his hat, she did the same. Feeling rather playful, she added a jaunty salute.

  She walked on ahead to where Meg was waiting for the step to be placed in front of the carriage.

  “Have I mentioned,” Ellie asked her friend, “that you look positively divine in that blue frock? I’m sure the sky is jealous and wishing it were just a shade brighter.”

  The younger woman raised her black-winged brows in teasing speculation. “Well, someone is certainly cheerful this morning.”

  “I am, indeed,” Ellie admitted. “I don’t know how to explain it. I just feel so”—she shrugged—“alive, I suppose. Must be the Wiltshire air.”

  “What about the air?” Brandon asked from behind her, sending a pleasurable shiver down her body that seemed to collect in her midriff, tilting and weighted.

  “According to Ellie,” Meg said as she settled her skirts on the carriage bench, “it makes a person feel alive.”

  “Is that so?” Brandon took Ellie’s hand to assist her. But when she mounted the step and they were of a same height, he leaned covertly closer and drew in a breath that flared his nostrils. “I believe you’re right, Miss Parrish. The air is intoxicating.”

  The words were said matter-of-factly, but the smoldering heat in the gaze beneath the brim of his hat turned her cheeks seven shades of red and made her knees wobble as she climbed into the carriage.

  The arrogant man had the nerve to grin as he occupied the opposite bench. Clearly, he knew precisely how he affected her. Then again, it didn’t take much. In fact, all she had to do was look at him and her heart palpitated queerly.

  She was quickly learning not to be too alarmed by these sensations. And yet, they were still somewhat disconcerting.

  She tried to pay attention to the scenery as the carriage trundled down the lane, but her gaze kept straying back to him. This morning, he was dressed in a pair of buff breeches that molded over the solid muscles of his thighs like a second skin, and he sat with his legs splayed in the relaxed confidence of a well-formed gentleman. His camel waistcoat was a shade darker and invited the eye to appreciate the drum-tight abdomen beneath. With his cravat so neatly tied and his green morning coat so smartly tailored, it was nearly impossible to imagine him in less civilized attire. And yet, after their dawn together, she could quite easily.

  “Is Lord Nethersole not joining us?” Meg asked, jolting Ellie out of her musings.

  She blinked with a start, only now realizing that George wasn’t with them. And when her gaze met Brandon’s, that knowing smile of his returned.

  “Nethersole opted to ride instead,” he said. “When we left, he was at the stables, taking me up on my offer to select a mount for his morning ride.”

  “Well, I hope he isn’t taking my mount. Ophelia isn’t overly fond of long rides.”

  “Fear not, your palfrey is quite safe. The stablemaster informed me that Nethersole had requested one of the Arabians.”

  “Just as long as it isn’t Hamlet. Ophelia quite depends upon him and he is protective of her, always by her side.” She looked at Ellie with a wry expression. “If you cannot tell, I was reading Shakespeare when Brandon said I could name them.”

  “At least those names are cleverer than the one I’d chosen for my pet canary,” she said. “Can you guess what color Goldie was?”

  “Yellow, perhaps?”

  “Why, no. He was as mossy green as your brother’s eyes,” she declared, all innocence. Then she spoiled her teasing fib by laughing. “Indeed, he was yellow from beak to tailfeather and I, obviously, lacked any imagination whatsoever.”

  Meg’s gaze turned thoughtful and a touch sly as it shifted from Ellie to Brandon and back again. “That’s peculiar. Most people are under the misconception that he has gray eyes.”

  “From a distance, perhaps, but—” Ellie stopped when she realized what she’d admitted. Heat rushed to the surface of her skin and she felt as if every intimate encounter were written on her face. “I believe . . . I caught sight of their true color . . . as he handed me into the carriage.”

  She didn’t want to look at Brandon just then. But she couldn’t help it. What made it worse was the way he was looking back at her, his irises all warm and velvety.

  “That explains it then,” he said quietly, holding her gaze.

  “Yes, that must be it,” Meg said, her tone tinged with sarcasm. “Oh, and don’t look now, Ellie, but we’re already on the bridge and you’re not holding your breath.”

  Even though she and Meg were facing the rear of the coach, Ellie had known precisely when the horses’ hooves and wheels had met with the cobblestone. But in the same instant, she had been looking at Brandon and felt his strength envelop her, just as it had early that morning on the loggia. And it was that same sense of certainty she felt now. She knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t let the bridge collapse.

  Yet, even if some terrible accident from her imagination befell them—a sudden gale force wind, rabid horses, a rare but not impossible Wiltshire earthquake, or any number of catastrophes that sent them careening over the side—she also knew that Brandon would find a way to keep the river from swallowing her whole.

  At one time, she might have ascribed the confident quality in his nature to utter arrogance. But the more she came to know him, the more she believed that he was indisputably adept at everything he did. Therefore, if he had faith in the aging rocks beneath them, then so did she.

  At least . . . as long as she didn’t look away from him.

  “My father called this the marriage bridge,” Meg said, conversationally. “Because of the two arches and how they support one another. According to tradition, the titled lord takes his intended bride to the river. Their boat floats easily downstream through one arch. Then, through the second arch, they’re supposed to paddle together.”

  “I quite like that.” Ellie smiled. “It would make a splendid analogy for a book. In fact—”

  “Tally ho!” The call rang out from the lane behind them, accompanied by the thundering of hooves.

  She startled, head jerking sharply to see George charging forth on a spirited black mount.

  Disconnected from Brandon’s gaze, her vision
rippled like the waves tumbling over the rocks beneath them. She wanted to close her eyes but she couldn’t. All she could do was watch the horse approach at breakneck speed.

  She knew in an instant that George wasn’t going to slow down. He had that look of determination in his lowered brow and an all too familiar mischievous gleam in his dark eyes. He clearly wasn’t planning to follow behind the carriage. And the bridge wasn’t wide enough for the two to ride side by side.

  Panic sluiced icily through her body, her breaths shallow and quick. Meg stifled a terrified gasp. Brandon cursed and shouted to his driver. And Ellie squeezed her eyes shut.

  The carriage stopped with a lurch on the bridge and she blindly gripped the edge of the bench. She felt the restless shifting of the horses. She heard the taut strain of the ribbons, the discordant jangle of rigging, the crunch of stones giving way beneath the ruthless plodding of the racing Arabian. And the sound of the rushing of the water beneath her.

  The air smelled of wetness and worms. She could taste it at the back of her throat where a scream was lodged like hard-packed earth. It was suffocating.

  There was movement beneath her and she was certain that they were all falling and falling and soon they would crash into the water and the bridge would break off into great chunks to bury them all . . .

  “Ellie. Ellie, dear. Fear not. We are all fine,” she heard Meg say through the terror roaring in her ears, and felt a small hand rubbing circles between her tight shoulder blades. “We are over the bridge now. See?”

  But she didn’t see. She couldn’t open her eyes. She was still trapped in the darkness, her limbs frozen and locked in place.

  “She isn’t breathing properly,” a gruff voice said. It was similar to Brandon’s, but the sound was far too deep, too threatening, to be his. She felt a tug at her throat, then the weight of her hat lifting from her head. “Miss Parrish—Ellie—take a breath. Meg, unfasten those buttons. No, here, let me.”

  She felt swift, deft movements down the center of her fawn spencer, and she shivered when the warm air brushed her neck.

  “Her lips are turning blue around the edges. Do something, Brandon.”

  The heat of a hand touched her cheeks, her lips, her throat, then settled on the upper portion of her chest, just above her bodice, and rubbed in rough circles. “Take a breath. Now, Ellie. No, a deeper breath. Come on. If you don’t start to breathe properly, then I’m going to have to murder Nethersole. I’ll likely murder him anyway. That’s it, sweetheart. Nothing like a threat to the man-child to bring you around. Yes, take another. Slowly, now.”

  It hurt to drag in a breath. Her throat stung with the effort. But then the scent of Brandon’s shaving soap and the warmth of his skin filled her nostrils, comforting her, easing the air into her lungs sip by sip.

  Her lashes blinked open. Vision still gray around the edges, it took her a moment to focus on his face, to see the taut lines etched into the furrows of his brow and the hardness of his jaw. The penetrating heat in his gaze caused her pulse to accelerate in some unnamed emotion that teetered between elation and alarm.

  She’d never seen him look so fierce before. And it seemed impossible that such a ferocious gaze could be paired with the tender brush of his fingertips over her cheek as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

  Gradually, she became attuned to everything around him—the stillness of the carriage beneath the shaded canopy of trees, the whicker of restless horses, the feel of Meg’s small hand clutching her own.

  All at once, embarrassment flooded her as she recalled every grueling moment. Mortified by her reaction, she closed her eyes. “Oh, bother. I cannot tell you how sorry I am for being such an utter ninny.”

  “No. I am the ninny,” Meg declared. “How thoughtless of me to tease you about bridges. I had no idea they affected you so. If it wasn’t for Brandon, I don’t know what we would have done.”

  Ellie didn’t know, either. Only now did she recall the gruff endearment he’d spoken—sweetheart—and her heart quickened painfully beneath her breast. And she had a terrible impulse to fling her arms around him, bury her face in his neck and never let him go.

  What was happening to her?

  As she glanced to Meg, a wash of guilt was added to this churning mix of emotions. Her friend would surely feel betrayed if she ever found out that Ellie was helplessly drawn to her brother, like so many others were.

  So she looked again to Brandon, almost pleadingly, for him to stop this tumult just as he had done a moment ago. But he only gazed back at her with that new intensity that didn’t resolve anything inside her. It only made it worse.

  Lifting her free hand to cover his, she drew it away and kept her words simple, if not impersonal. “Thank you, my lord.”

  The alteration in him was subtle. A slow blink, a shift in his posture, then gradually the warmth receded from his gaze, and the air turned cooler.

  “Think nothing of it,” he said with a curt nod as he eased back onto the opposite bench before handing her hat to her. “And, pray, forgive my forwardness a moment ago, Miss Parrish. If you want to turn back, then I’m sure your friend will understand.”

  As any gentleman would do, he averted his face to look outside the carriage, thus allowing her a moment to compose herself and rearrange her clothing.

  Ellie’s stomach twisted in knots at his withdrawal. A chill crept over her skin that made her fingers clumsy, fumbling with the buttons of her spencer. She missed his warmth, his touch. She longed to reach out for him and to hear that whispered endearment again. Something deep down told her that turning her back on this feeling would be the worst thing she could ever do.

  In that strange, bewildering instant, she understood that part of her had changed—the part that was certain she only wanted George. All at once, she knew she’d come too far to erect such a paltry barrier between Brandon and herself now. Much, much too far.

  And it was terrifying.

  “I should like to continue onward,” she said quietly, her voice strained and unsure. He glanced at her, his gaze alert and searching as if, like always, he could read her thoughts. She lifted her shoulders in a feeble shrug. “Even so, I’m not certain that I know how to cross this bridge when we next approach it.”

  The furrows on his brow cleared and he exhaled a slow breath. His lips parted as if he intended to say something, but Meg spoke first and took her hand again.

  “Fear not, Ellie. We’ll help you. Won’t we, Brandon?”

  She saw him glance down to her and his sister’s joined hands and his expression turned thoughtful, considering.

  Looking at Meg, he offered a nod. “Of course, we will.”

  Chapter 23

  “Surviving a harrowing event may open a debutante’s eyes to new possibilities. But these are temptations she ought to resist . . . if she can.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  The Thorleys’ two-story brick house was situated inside a perfect square of manicured lawn and bordered by the same white stone that framed the slender, symmetrical rows of windows. Everything seemed to have its place. A pair of mature elm trees stood on either side at equal distances, and they were flanked by juniper topiaries, shaped and pruned to identical precision.

  To Ellie, it all seemed rather too perfect, like a dollhouse in the attic, kept far from the nursery where a child might wish to play with it.

  From Prue’s letters, she knew that the Thorleys were an exacting pair, demanding perfection in all things. But somehow, seeing the house for herself gave Ellie an unsettled feeling. If the owners were so determined to present the facade of perfection on the outside, what manner of perfection was demanded of those living within it?

  By the time they approached the gateposts, George was already at the mouth of the narrow drive, his glossy black mount turning in a high-stepping pace. The carriage was forced to stop since he didn’t direct his horse to the side.

  “There you are. I’ve been waiting an ag
e, don’t you know,” George scolded. “And this Arabian doesn’t like to stand still.”

  A muscle ticked in Brandon’s jaw. “We decided on a more scenic tour.”

  It was kind of him to say nothing of her episode. The ordeal had been embarrassing enough on its own, but she certainly wasn’t in the mood to endure George’s usual teasing when it came to her fears.

  “You might have told me beforehand,” George said, affronted.

  Brandon took a patient breath. “You needn’t have lingered out of doors on our account. After all, you seem to know the way here well enough.”

  The more Ellie listened to the exchange, the more she began to feel rather cross with George for the way he’d recklessly charged past them on the bridge. And, for that matter, for the way he’d gone off without them, never turning back.

  “Yes, that is peculiar,” Ellie said, directing her comment to George. “How did you know where Mr. and Mrs. Thorley live?”

  The horse shifted beneath him and he glanced down to tug the reins, correcting his mount. “I told you my steward has been looking at properties. Because of that, I’m familiar with all the houses.”

  “But I don’t recall ever mentioning them by name.”

  “Well, you must have done. There’s no other way,” he said resolutely, then took off down the drive, leading the way. Again.

  Staring after him as the carriage spurred into motion, she supposed she must have told him. Or, perhaps, he’d glimpsed the address on one of the letters she’d sent to Prue. It didn’t matter, really. In the end, all that she cared about was seeing her friend at last.

  The minute the carriage stopped at the edge of the manicured lawn, the oaken door opened and Prue appeared. At least, Ellie thought it was her friend. In truth, however, so wan and frail that she briefly hoped she was mistaken.

  The woman in the doorway wore sprigged muslin that had seen too many washings. She was thinner, too, her flesh taut over high cheekbones and the slender column of her throat. The strain of separation and ostracism was clearly etched upon her knitted brow and within the haunted blue of her eyes.