The Wrong Marquess Read online

  “She is torn and confused by her burgeoning feelings toward someone new, and by an overwhelming passion that she’s never had before.”

  “He finds great promise in the words torn and confused.”

  “She doesn’t,” Ellie said with a disconcerted glare. “And your smug grin is showing.”

  “Would it help if I told her that he has honorable intentions?”

  “No. It only adds to the confusion. Which is precisely the reason I think we shouldn’t let what happened—in the grove, at the inn, at Sutherfield Terrace, and the Zoological Society Gardens—happen again.”

  “It’s shameful that our alter-selves cannot be trusted in gardens. And now, here we are at Crossmoor Abbey, surrounded by them on every side.”

  “This isn’t amusing in the least.”

  Brandon wasn’t laughing. He was simply elated. “What would put your mind at ease?”

  “Well, to begin with, no more calling me sweetheart and no more mentions of inevitability.”

  He nodded, but in the back of his mind he was already planning an I told you so on their tenth anniversary.

  “After all, we must think about Meg,” she said sternly. “I am supposed to be her friend. All the time that she’s been in London, she’s never had one who wasn’t conspiring to gain your attention. I cannot betray her trust. But I’m still . . .”

  “Torn and confused?”

  “Mmmhmm,” she murmured with a nod and continued picking at the angled end of her sash. “In London, it was easier to convince myself that my attraction to you was nothing more than a consequence of our growing friendship. But that is no longer the case. Something has altered inside me, leaving me with the perplexing dichotomous impulses to either run as far away from you as possible or simply . . . to fall into your arms.”

  He didn’t trust himself to say anything for fear of sending her in the wrong direction. And so, when she fell silent and turned her face to the sunrise, he did the same.

  Chapter 25

  “A debutante must face her fears with each new dawn.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  Ellie met Brandon for sunrise every morning after that. They stood in the doorway, leaning on opposite sides to face each other without touching. He didn’t attempt to pull her into his arms or distract her while taking her, step by step, out onto the terrace.

  Instead, they simply talked. They shared quiet stories and observations, getting better acquainted each day and finding more and more reasons to enjoy the other’s company.

  In fact, she’d begun to prefer his company to all others.

  She found herself looking for him on the estate throughout the day. Sometimes it was simply to wave at him from across the courtyard while he was standing at the stables and speaking with a groomsman or farrier. During the few occasions when he wasn’t meeting with various gentlemen and landholders who sought his counsel, she would tiptoe past his study door to find him in quiet contemplation. She’d catch a glimpse of him at his desk, scratching ink into his ledgers or absently reaching for the cup of tea resting on the edge of the blotter. And in those moments, her breath would always catch at the sight of his long-fingered hand closing around the delicate cup and the way he settled the porcelain rim against the firm flesh of his bottom lip.

  He had such a sensual mouth. A strong, angular jaw. And when he swallowed, the cording of his neck contracted in the most appealing way that made her want to press her lips there, to feel the movement.

  It was quite different from the way George drank. He had a tendency to clack his teeth together when he swallowed, as if he were chewing every beverage. The habit always made Ellie cringe, but she had accepted it as part of the man she loved. One must make concessions, after all.

  She knew that she wasn’t perfect, either, especially given all her phobias. And yet, Brandon never teased her or seemed exasperated about those flaws the way George did. Then again, Brandon was a different man altogether.

  She could never imagine him over imbibing or telling bawdy jokes in mixed company at dinner. But neither could she picture him singing for a roomful of guests to encourage others to exhibit their talents.

  George was bright and enthusiastic like a blazing hearth fire. Whereas, Brandon was the single candle in a dark room. He did not seek attention by showy measures. And yet, the eye could not help but be drawn to him.

  By her fifth morning at Crossmoor Abbey, Ellie had come to a realization as she stood in the doorway with Brandon, waiting for the sun to rise. Or rather, it was several realizations at once.

  The first was that she missed being in his embrace. No matter how much it complicated the already confused jumble of emotions inside her, she couldn’t stand being near him without touching him. And, for that matter, she couldn’t stand not being near him . . . which led to the second realization.

  She was falling in love with him.

  This wasn’t a great surprise because she’d suspected that her feelings were stronger than mere friendship since they were in London. However, she was now able to admit it to herself.

  She was falling in love with him and it wasn’t as terrifying as she thought it would be. In fact, it was quite nice. She even liked the way her heart fluttered and stomach clenched. The way he could make her head spin and lungs contract with a single heated look.

  All the ailments that she had feared were now the very things that filled her with a sense of anticipation and wonder at what new stirrings she might discover . . . which led her to the third realization.

  She wanted to conquer all her fears. But this was still terrifying.

  “You’re quiet this morning,” Brandon said, sliding his foot forward in the doorway to touch the toe of his boot to the toe of her slipper.

  She had no idea why the gesture made her smile, but it did. “As are you. The coiled vibration emanating from your person tells me that you are thinking and wondering, just as I am.”

  She straightened from the door frame, her skirts crowding his trouser-clad legs in a soft shush of pink. Then she reached out to slip her bare hand in his. Such a simple gesture and yet . . .

  She heard his breath catch. Felt his fingers close reflexively. The sensation jolted through her, the press of skin to skin causing tingling currents that sent her pulse skipping as her fingertips slid into his palm, warm and roughened from his outdoor pursuits.

  Days of longing to be in his arms compelled her to move even closer. So she lifted his hand, turning their arms to intertwine like a loving cup and pressed her lips to the taut ridges of his knuckles. Then she heard him swallow. Her eyes drifted closed as she breathed in the scent of his skin, the lingering traces of shaving soap and smoke from when he’d extinguished his chamberstick with a pinch.

  “I like this thoughtful contemplation of ours,” he said huskily, his lips grazing her temple, his fingertips tucking a loose curl behind her ear. Then he took her other hand and brought it to his mouth.

  This only made her want more. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and pull his lips down to hers. To feel him pressed against her body, his arms holding her tight, his hands gripping her hips until they were flush and yearning and being consumed by the flames that always ignited when they kissed.

  But there was something she wanted even more than that.

  Without explaining her actions and before she lost her nerve, she looked up at him and said in as calm and steady a voice as she could summon, “Take me out to the terrace.”

  “To the . . .” He stopped, his brow suddenly furrowing in perplexity. “What do you mean? All the way out?”

  “Not to the edge, of course. Good heavens! I haven’t completely succumbed to madness.” She glanced to the seven arched openings and swallowed. “I just want to sit on the bench with you and watch the sunrise and”—she drew in a breath and released it slowly—“overcome my fears one by one. With your help. If you are willing, that is.”

  He pressed another kiss to th
e back of her hand, his irises soft and warm like a velvet coverlet. “Always.”

  She liked that word. There was such promise in those six letters. But she didn’t want to think about that now. Instead, she offered a somewhat shaky nod.

  “This will provide inspiration for the book. I’ll write a chapter about conquering fears and call it Lion Taming,” she said in a nervous ramble.

  Holding her gaze, he moved backward onto the terrace stones. “Excellent notion. I’m sure there are many gentlemen who require a chair and a whip to be dealt with properly. Not me, of course. Well, not unless I’m caught alone with a ravishing woman in a garden.”

  Ellie tried to smile at his quip, but the rasp of the threshold against the sole of her slipper sent a chill of dread up her spine.

  She’d done this before, she told herself. Therefore, she could do it again. Of course, it had been much easier when his arms had been around her . . .

  “It might help if you took a breath,” he suggested smoothly.

  “Oh, right.” She licked her dry lips before she dragged in a lungful of air. “I nearly forgot.”

  The dark, hazy shadows enveloping her vision gradually cleared. From the corner of her eye, she could see the apricot glow of dawn approaching the horizon, the plum-colored sky. It was almost time.

  “Are we there yet?” Her hands were locked in a death grip with his, her palms perspiring. Her lungs were burning, her corset tight. Was self-combustion something she should worry about?

  He smiled reassuringly. “Almost. You made it the first step. Now take another. Good. You’re doing splendidly. Remember to breathe.”

  She complied woodenly, her knees locked so they wouldn’t give way even if the stones did, in one fatal avalanche. A mewl of distress escaped her at the thought.

  “One more,” he encouraged, and then she felt the edge of the stone bench brush the side of her leg. Drawing her a half step closer, he bent his head to press his forehead to hers. “That’s it. I knew you could do it.”

  She smiled and closed her eyes, elated as she nuzzled his nose with her own. “I really did it. And I’m simply . . . exhausted all of a sudden,” she said, panting. “You’d think I’d . . . just climbed a mountain. Could we sit down, do you think?”

  “Of course.” He chuckled and kissed her cheek. Then he eased her to the cool, smooth surface of the stone bench, tucking her securely beside him. “Are you going to open your eyes?”

  “Mmmhmm,” she murmured, snuggling closer with her head resting against his shoulder, fully intending to watch the sunrise with him. But then she yawned drowsily. “In just a minute . . .”

  His scent and his warmth filled her lungs and a sense of pure contentment washed over her in lulling, slumberous waves. She could feel the glow of the sun on her skin and see it behind her eyelids, yet she had no desire to alter anything about this moment.

  Her thoughts began to drift aimlessly, over the gardens and trees and beyond the riverbed. All the while, she felt the security of his embrace, the gentle passes along her arm, the calming caress of his hand interlaced with hers, his thumb tracing the tender curve of her palm.

  Dimly, she worried that she might be falling asleep. After all he’d done, he deserved to have a conscious partner to watch the dawn with him.

  But he eased her mind on that account when he pressed his lips into the twist at the top of her head and whispered, “There’s no rush, sweetheart.”

  * * *

  Brandon took to his mount later that morning, needing the exercise to clear his thoughts and take command of his willpower. Both were impossible feats after his sunrise with Ellie.

  She’d slept through the whole of it and then some, her breaths steady and deep as if lost in a dream. Even though it had been the last thing he’d wanted to do, he had to rouse her when he heard the servants’ footsteps in the hall along with the rattle of brushes and ash bins.

  She’d been surprisingly difficult to awaken. But he’d enjoyed the process of pressing kisses to her temple and into the fragrant dark curls that rested against her cheek. Each time he whispered her name, she’d sleepily said his own. She’d curled closer, too, turning toward him with her thigh sliding along his, her hand drifting over his shirtsleeves. And his body responded in thick, liquid pulses that tempted him to no end.

  He’d wanted to lift her onto his lap so that they could fall into this dream together. But it was also that very desire which kept him from giving in to it. When she chose him, he needed her to be fully sentient and conscious.

  Lifting her hand, he’d nibbled softly into her tender palm. And she had awoken on a breathy giggle that would fuel his fantasies for weeks. She’d blinked sleepily up at him with a smile on her lips and a tiny puddle of drool at the corner of her mouth.

  “Good morning, again.” He’d watched as color, brighter than the sky had been nearly an hour before, suffused her cheeks. She’d attempted to stammer out an apology but he stopped her with a finger to her lips, reassuring her that every moment was perfect in his eyes. Then he briefly kissed her, drawing the dewy dampness at the corner of her mouth into his own, taking only a sweet sampling before leading her off the terrace.

  By the time he saw her at breakfast, only a tinge of embarrassment lingered, her eyes soft with their shared memory.

  With that moment lingering in his mind, he headed back to the stables. Brushing down his horse, he contemplated ways to keep their momentum on a steady path. Thus far, they’d made excellent progress, not only for their future together but for her own. He wanted her to live a full life without fear or hindrance of any kind. Because when Ellie lost herself in a moment—like in the garden at the inn when she’d broken apart and shuddered in his arms—there was no sight more beautiful in the entire world.

  Distracted by the recollection, he jolted when he turned and saw her standing in the stall’s open gate.

  “Did you hear what I said?” she asked with a light laugh when it was obvious that he hadn’t. “I told you that Meg and I are here to spoil the horses. This is for you.”

  Like the original temptress, she smiled beguilingly and lifted the apple in her grasp.

  His pulse pounded thickly in his veins. His mind swiftly conjured an image of her making the same offering while wearing only a fig leaf with her dark hair cascading down her shoulders and curling around the perfect shape of her breasts.

  Poor Adam never stood a chance.

  Brandon moved toward her with hungry intent. Her honeyed eyes widened, lips parting. Grasping her wrist, he brought the fruit to his mouth.

  But she stopped him, slipping free and shielding the apple with both her hands. Her head tilted in bemusement. “That’s not for you, silly. It’s too green. You’ll suffer a stomachache. I brought it for your horse.”

  Behind him Samson whickered impatiently, or perhaps the stallion was laughing at the fool who couldn’t pull himself together long enough to think of anything other than lowering Ellie down onto the nearest bed of straw.

  “Right. Well then . . .” He scrubbed the back of his neck. “Would you like to feed it to him?”

  She pressed her lips together to hide her smile, but he could see mirth dancing in her gaze. “Are you blushing, Brandon?”

  “You caught me off guard, is all. I was . . . preoccupied by other thoughts when you came in.”

  “I didn’t think such a thing were possible. You’re always so levelheaded.” She grinned, clearly pleased by this defect, and tossed the apple in the air, catching it readily in her palm. “I have to wonder what could keep the estimable Marquess of Hullworth—most elusive bachelor in London—so preoccupied?”

  When she tossed the apple a second time, he reached out and snatched it. Then he caught her wrist and tugged her inside the stall.

  “You,” he said huskily, curling her arm behind her back to pull her flush against him. “I’m always thinking about you.”

  She gasped, pink-cheeked and hand splayed over his racing heart. But she didn’t pus
h him away. In fact, she molded deliciously against him as her lashes lowered and her gaze drifted to his mouth.

  He struggled to remember why he was being patient. To hell with taking things slowly! He wanted her with a desperation he’d never felt before. Needed to taste her, to feel her bare skin against his own, her body clamped tightly around him as he plunged deep inside her slick heat.

  Losing his battle against temptation, he lowered his head . . .

  “Ellie,” Meg called out, her voice near enough to make them spring apart. “Which stall did you disappear into? I must warn you that Brandon’s horse can be quite wolfish when it comes to treats. Give him one taste and he always wants another.”

  As if his sister were speaking of Brandon instead, Ellie speared him with an accusatory look, her delectable breasts rising and falling on shallow, panting breaths.

  Guilty as charged, he shrugged and gave Samson a solid pat as he fed him the apple. “What can I say? We like our treats.”

  Meg appeared in the doorway. “There you are! And I see you’ve found Brandon. Have you asked him yet?”

  “Asked me what, exactly?”

  “If you would send another invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Thorley and my friend for dinner this evening. I know you’ve done so each day thus far, in addition to taking time out of your schedule to pay calls, and I hate to be a bother but—”

  “You could never be that,” he interrupted with firm but fond regard.

  “And I’ve already talked to Aunt Sylvia,” Meg interjected, “who conferred with the cook and said it wouldn’t be any bother at all to have three more. Between us, I think Monsieur Poive is trying to impress Aunt Maeve after the”—she looked over her shoulder and continued in a whisper as if it were a scandal not to be repeated—“broken Dutch sauce incident.”

  Ellie laughed. “Yes well, my aunts shouldn’t have invited themselves into the kitchen in the first place. And Maeve is rather notorious for being particular when it comes to sauces.”