The Wrong Marquess EPB Page 3

  Ellie felt an instant pang of sadness and irritation on behalf of this young woman. She couldn’t imagine entering a London Season without having any friends to rely upon. As for herself, she’d been fortunate in that regard, having met Jane, Winnie and Prue at finishing school eons ago.

  “Nonsense,” she said to Meg. “Everyone deserves a friendship founded on trust. And I would be honored to be yours, if you would have me after I’ve made such a cake of myself.”

  “Unfettered honesty—especially at my brother’s expense—is at the very top of my list of requirements.”

  “Well . . . you may wish to delay your decision until after you’ve seen what I’ve done to your dress.”

  Meg peered over her shoulder. “Just how unconventional is the repair?”

  “Terribly,” Ellie said with mock severity. “How do you feel about dragons?”

  Meg giggled. “I can honestly say that this is the most fun I’ve had all Season.”

  “Surely not. I imagine you’ve had scads of gentlemen callers.”

  Her slender shoulders lifted in a graceful shrug. “I suppose. Dancing with them is quite thrilling, but they are all fusty conversationalists. My brother seems determined to introduce me only to the dullest, most insipid men, the majority of whom speak to me with marked condescension as if I have no brain of my own.” She sighed. “Just once I want a man to look at me with unquenchable desire. Surely, that isn’t too much to ask, is it?”

  “No, indeed. Every woman deserves a man who gazes upon her with such passion that she can feel the heat of it from across the room.” Ellie spoke the words with such conviction, one might imagine she were an authority on the subject. But the truth was she hadn’t even been kissed since her twentieth birthday. Five years ago—and one fewer gray hair—to the day.

  “Precisely,” Meg agreed. “The only problem is, Brandon believes that no man who would look at me in that manner could have honorable intentions.”

  “No man? That is quite untrusting of his own sex.”

  “Indeed. He is a veritable sentry. If a gentleman so much as smiles in my direction, he is there to act as a blockade. Is it any wonder I try so hard to elude him at parties?”

  Ellie turned thoughtful as she finished the last stitches. Perhaps the Lord Hullworth she’d encountered in the garden had been the overprotective elder brother, distracted by concern for his sister, and not the gallant gentleman the ton professed him to be?

  Even so, he was still rude. And now she understood him to be a curmudgeon, too, stealing the enjoyment of the Season from her new friend.

  “I wish you did not have to endure such restrictions,” Ellie added with sympathy. “It is a great pity that my friends and I have not yet completed the book we’re writing. The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat will be a guide to aid debutantes in determining the differences between gentlemen and scoundrels.”

  The inspiration had come to Ellie, Jane and Winnie when their dear friend, Prudence Thorogood, had been exiled from London after being caught in a compromising situation in the gardens at Sutherfield Terrace. She’d been away for a year now and Ellie missed her terribly.

  “That is the cleverest idea I’ve ever heard. It would not only educate young women but their stuffy chaperones as well.” Meg smiled broadly. “All I ask is that you finish this book without delay so that I can shove it beneath Brandon’s nose.”

  Ellie laughed as she reached into the box for a small white button. “I should like nothing more. However, I must confess that my research into the actions of the marriage-minded man has been rather . . . limited. After all, if I understood their mindset, I’d likely be married already.”

  “As selfish as it may sound, I am glad you are still unwed because you are here with me. I’ve so enjoyed our meeting.”

  “As have I.” It was a rarity, indeed, when making an acquaintance felt more like meeting a long-lost friend. That hadn’t happened since she’d met Jane, Winnie and Prue. And with the absence of so many dear friends, Ellie did not take the kindred feeling for granted. “Well, just one more stitch now . . . and there. Finished.”

  Closing the lid, Ellie stood and dusted her hands together.

  Meg dashed toward the standing mirror in the corner and twisted to look over her shoulder. Then she gasped. Her gloved hand flew to her mouth, her clear blue eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  Ellie’s heart was in her throat. She’d clearly made a serious error. “Oh, Meg, please forgive me. I’ve overstepped and I—”

  “It’s perfect!” Meg exclaimed, clapping happily as she twirled in front of the mirror. “A bright red kite on a sky-blue dress, and it even has a tail of lace and a little button.”

  Ellie’s shoulders sagged in relief and she swallowed down her worry. “I’m so glad you like it.”

  “I love it! And, for once, I don’t think anyone will be paying attention to my brother.” With a little hop, she enfolded Ellie in a brief, exuberant embrace. “I don’t know how to thank you. Oh, and you must let me introduce you to Brandon. I know I’ve said some terrible things about him, but he is actually a wonderful brother. And I know he has my best interests at heart—just don’t tell him I said that.”

  “If you like,” Ellie said, wary at the thought of meeting Lord Hullworth. Again. “However, there is no need to introduce us. Truly. In fact, I should be perfectly content without any further discourse between us whatsoever.”

  But Meg paid no attention to the small protest. Her enthusiasm could not be contained and she tugged Ellie out of the retiring room without delay.

  And, for a short time, the dreaded gray hair was completely forgotten . . . at least until she met Lord Hullworth.

  London’s most elusive bachelor, though he may be, he was also arrogant, suspicious and determined to make her feel every day of her twenty-five years.

  Chapter 2

  “A true gentleman will never make note of a flaw on a lady’s person. If he should commit such a heinous crime, then the unmannerly beast is better off forgotten.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  Brandon didn’t know who had first saddled him with the moniker of London’s most elusive bachelor, but he’d like to strangle that person.

  For two years, he hadn’t had a moment’s peace. What he did have, however, was a list of all the cunning tricks that women liked to use to bait would-be grooms to the altar.

  Some preferred simple methods: come-hither smiles, batting eyelashes, and tittering laughs at his most banal utterances. Others were more direct by dropping articles of clothing at his feet: handkerchiefs, gloves, shawls, and even garter ribbons. Some boldly touched him, proclaiming innocence. Dear me! I beg your pardon. Is this your shoulder/arm/hand/thigh?

  There were those who feigned injuries. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d driven Meg through the park only to have a woman hail him from the path, claiming an injured limb and begging him to drive her home.

  And there were even those who popped out of nowhere to ensure a collision. This was usually followed by a witness to the event who would hint at having seen a clandestine embrace, attempting entrapment.

  Thankfully, keeping his own reputation above reproach had saved him from the nuptial noose five times over by such ploys. Or rather, five and a half if he counted his clash with Miss I did not see you there a few moments ago.

  She’d nearly bowled him over.

  He’d caught her reflexively, fully intending to release her at once. But the impact had forced the air from his lungs. So he’d drawn in a necessary breath, never suspecting that the sudden immersion into a fragrant cloud—fresh and sweet like clover bathed in midnight dew—would leave him rattled.

  That was the only way to explain why he’d held her for too long. Why his gaze had drifted, transfixed, to the suffusion of pink watercolor rising to the flawless porcelain canvas of her cheeks. And why a strange sort of restless impatience filled him as he’d waited for her to meet his
gaze.

  It had seemed to take forever. He should have been looking for her presumed cohort hiding behind the hedgerow or a topiary. Instead, his sole focus had been on those lashes. The fringe was so dark and sooty that he imagined one brush with the pad of his thumb would leave a permanent stain. Then they lifted to reveal a pair of almond-shaped eyes, the amber color pure and clear like cognac in the firelight. And heat pooled in his gut as if he’d drunk a whole snifter of that libation in one swallow.

  Clearly, the collision had addled his wits.

  He’d nearly forgotten that it was all just another ruse. A snare. Another woman who thought that marriage was merely a game. But then he saw the alert blink of recognition in her eyes, her lips tilting in a practiced smile as she’d offered an all too familiar excuse.

  My apologies, sir. I did not see you there . . .

  A swift flood of irritation had brought him back to his senses. She was just like all the other husband hunters, cunning and manipulative. Never to be trusted.

  At four-and-thirty, he was certainly no longer the callow youth he’d once been. No longer the man who’d so easily fallen for deceptions and machinations. So it cost him nothing to dismiss the deceiver. Before she could spring her clever trap, he’d turned on his heel and resumed his search for Meg.

  His young sister was the only reason he endured the Season at all. To his way of thinking, in order for her to gain the proper understanding of the type of man she wanted to marry, then she had to be introduced to a number of them. And if attending balls and parties kept her from suffering any regret over her choice of spouse, then he would bear the agony of a thousand London Seasons.

  Though, clearly, the affection between siblings was one-sided. Meg had been only too happy to leave him in the company of wolves a short while ago, skirting merrily away when a legion of rapacious mamas and their coquettish daughters had cornered him—quite literally against a column—on the terrace. A cacophony of invitations followed, along with list upon list of feminine accomplishments.

  If it hadn’t been for an exhausted bumblebee landing upon Lady Doyle’s bonnet and the subsequent limb-flailing hysteria that followed, he might never have escaped. Though, little good it had done him to break free, only to head into the garden with Miss I did not see you there lying in wait.

  The encounter still rankled him. Why hadn’t he shrugged this one off like all the others?

  Perhaps, the simple explanation was that he was tired of it all. Exhausted from exhibiting every ounce of gentlemanly decorum to women who merely saw him as London’s most elusive bachelor. Yes, that must be the reason, he decided.

  Thankfully, this afternoon would be over soon.

  A short while ago, he’d caught a glimpse of his sister hurrying through the terrace doors. Since gentlemen were disobliged to enter the corridor designated for the female guests, he waited in a gold chintz antechamber off the main hall, concealed from direct view while keeping a close eye on the staircase.

  Outside, tea was being served on the lawn. Dozens of linen-draped tables waited beneath striped canopies as the melodies of a string quartet drifted in through the open French doors on the late spring breeze.

  Inside, his attention briefly veered to a pair of older women emerging from belowstairs. They passed by his alcove but were too absorbed in conversing over scraps of paper to notice him. Once they reached the doors, they exchanged quick, furtive glances around before stuffing those folded missives down their bodices and then snickering to each other like a pair of criminals.

  Peculiar, he thought as he watched them steal out toward the lawn.

  Hearing Meg’s laugh, however, he quickly forgot them and turned his gaze toward the staircase. She was talking animatedly to someone not in his field of vision, her gloved hands moving in excited gestures, as was her habit. The instant she saw him, her eyes brightened with mischief. She gave a jaunty salute as if declaring herself the victor in her game of escape-the-chaperone.

  “There you are, Brandon. I’d wondered where you’d gone,” Meg teased with a cheerful grin.

  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t be cross with her. So, he smiled with wry fondness in response. But his amusement abruptly faded the instant he saw her companion.

  It was her, the amber-eyed viper from the garden. Apparently, the cunning debutante had moved on to other tactics.

  Of all the ploys for his attention, the worst was any attempt to befriend his sister under false pretenses. Meg’s heart had been broken by too many would-be acquaintances. It made his blood boil to think of her suffering over someone’s scheme again.

  Though it took effort, he subdued the anger rising beneath a polite mask. “Thought I’d take a turn about the garden. You know how much I enjoy these parties.”

  “Sarcasm hardly makes for a good introduction to my new friend.” Meg tutted in mock reproof.

  He flicked a glance to the supposed friend and said, tightly, “We’ve met.”

  “But not formally. At least, that’s what Ellie says.”

  “Oh?” His gaze shifted to those cognac eyes, heat roiling in his gut. “And what else does Ellie say?”

  Meg sidled up to him, grinning. “As to that, I refuse to betray her confidence. However, there is a chance that you did not leave her with a very good impression of you.”

  Her companion’s eyes went round as saucers and her cheeks paled. “Meg, I—”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Brandon is relieved by this. Are you not, brother? You see, he’s positively hounded wherever we go. At least, with you, he can have a respite. And that is why I am determined we shall all be the best of friends,” she said, reaching out to take the other woman’s hand to tug her closer. “Brandon, I should very much like to introduce you to Miss Elodie Parrish. And Ellie, this is my often-smothering but usually quite amenable but ancient brother, Brandon Stredwick, the Marquess of Hullworth.”

  The interloper dipped into a curtsy, her cheeks abruptly saturating with the color of guilt and deception. “My lord.”

  “Miss Parrish.” He bowed stiffly, then proffered his arm to Meg. “We shouldn’t wish to keep you any longer.”

  “Brother, that is rather abrupt. I thought we might tour the garden in companionable conversation.”

  “Tea has already been served. Our table awaits. If Miss Parrish likes, we could escort her to her own. I’m sure there are those among her party looking for her. A chaperone, perhaps, or even”—he paused to scrutinize her critically—“a charge. Are you governess of one of the young debutantes in attendance?”

  She stiffened on a blink, then speared him with a look of such contempt that he knew, at once, he’d insulted her. It was ingrained in him to make amends. After all, his father had been an impeccable example of how a gentleman ought to behave. And yet, Brandon did not apologize. Acting the gentleman would not dissuade a schemer’s plot. He knew from experience that it only encouraged them. And he refused to see his sister hurt again.

  He would willingly endure dropped handkerchiefs, feigned injuries and even accidental collisions. But not this.

  Knowing it was better to end this farce now, he held his tongue and met her flinty gaze with his own.

  “You are not yourself, Brandon. I fear the sun has singed your manners,” Meg said curtly, then dropped her arm from his. “Ellie, I must apologize. He does not know what an angel you’ve been to me.”

  The schemer shook her head and prettily offered, “No, Meg. I am the one who should apologize. I kept you too long upstairs when your brother was obviously worried about your welfare. Think nothing of this introduction. I’m sure I will not.” She cast one final disdainful glance his way before smiling at his sister. “But I look forward to seeing you again this evening at the Easterbrookes’ ball.”

  With that, she left. And with each step she took, he exhaled a taut breath that seemed to burn the lining of his lungs.

  Once they were alone, Meg swatted his arm. “I cannot believe you! I meet one person who enjoys my co
mpany—without any designs on you whatsoever—and you do your best to insult her. I’ve never been more embarrassed. And that is saying a great deal considering the fact that you are out to steal all the joy from my Season. I thought that was the point of it. After all, you and the high and mighty Mr. Prescott both declared that I wasn’t ready for marriage until I experienced more of life.”

  “And you clearly are not ready. Marriage requires you to have your eyes fully open.”

  “That’s peculiar. Our father always said it was the heart, not the eyes, that needed to be unhindered by obstructions.”

  “Then allow me to weed out those who are unworthy of you,” he said patiently.

  “Father wanted both of us to marry for love.”

  “For me to marry, it would take an act of divine intervention.”

  Years ago, Brandon had given up any hope of finding a wife. He easily recalled the day when he’d been standing at the base of a set of stairs similar to these, pleading with Miss Phoebe Bright after she’d just said the words that had ripped out his heart.

  “I cannot marry you. The Duke of Horsham has offered for me and I have accepted. My father is drawing up the contract.”

  “But we’ve pledged ourselves. We love each other.”

  “You’re appallingly naive, darling,” Phoebe had said with a pat of her gloved hand to his cheek. “That is how the game is played. For a time, you had a pretty girl on your arm, which made you look all the more desirable, while I had a handsome young buck thoroughly besotted with me, which made the older, fat-pocketed nobility who sat at your uncle’s table take notice. Now I am going to be a duchess, and a rich one at that.”

  “Money and status will not make you happy. But I would, every day of your life,” he promised, taking her hand to press it against his chest. “You have my entire heart.”