The Wrong Marquess EPB Read online

  Ellie almost felt as if she were listening to one of Aunt Myrtle’s novels. “And who was the gentleman?”

  “Lord Savage. And yes, I can see by your wide eyes that you know his reputation for being a man who . . . well . . . keeps women.” She issued a self-deprecating puff of air. “I seem to be a magnet for them, don’t I?”

  “And yet you are handling it quite well, indeed.” Ellie blinked, utterly gobsmacked. “You are not the shy and reserved Prudence Thorogood I always knew. Where in heaven did you find all this bravery?”

  Her friend stared back thoughtfully. “I think I found it at the bottom. It’s like the stain that lingers inside a teapot. It will still be there when everything else has been wiped away.”

  This time, the tears gathered in Ellie’s eyes and she clutched her friend’s hand in her own. “Well, you’ll be staying with us now and I won’t hear a word of argument about it. And besides, we have a book to finish, which could use your perspective.”

  She wanted to say so much more. But, just then, she heard a familiar booming voice speaking to Mr. Rivers, the sound rising up from the foyer.

  Both Prue and Ellie shared a look and said simultaneously, “George.”

  They both stood, Prue looking like a startled doe, her gaze darting to the hallway. “I don’t want him to find me.”

  “Quick! Into the cupboard,” Ellie said, dashing to the corner to open the narrow door.

  In the same moment, a headless dressmaker’s dummy toppled forward and into Prue’s arms. Behind it the shelves were stocked full of fabrics, appliques, ribbons and hats. “Why is all this in the parlor?”

  “We’re three women living together. We don’t have room in any closet.” They bobbled the dummy between them and the entire scene was so absurd that they both started to laugh. But Ellie heard the heavy footsteps on the stairs and whispered, “Hurry.”

  She was just shutting Prue inside when George swaggered in.

  “Who’s your friend, Ellie?” he chuckled.

  Startled, it took her a moment to realize that he was making a jest about the dummy. She just stared back at him like she was seeing him for the first time.

  Honestly, she still didn’t want to believe that the original scoundrel had been right in front of her eyes all this time and she’d been blind to it. How could she not have known?

  Brandon had known. He’d even tried to warn her. But she had been a fool.

  “I thought you were out of town,” she said curtly.

  He gave her a wink. “Aren’t you glad to see me? I know you are. You cannot fool me with that false glower of yours.”

  “Actually, I’m not—”

  “Come now, is that any way to greet me when I came to ask you a very important question?”

  Ellie huffed. She was in no mood for games. In fact, she was irritated at herself, worried that Prue might suffocate in the cupboard, and feeling an overwhelming urge to murder George by beating him with the dressmaker’s dummy. But then she heard the voices of her aunts chattering as they returned home and she knew she wouldn’t have time to hide the body.

  With her thoughts so distracted, it came as a complete and utter surprise when George sank on bended knee and took hold of her hand.

  “Ellie, my dear, I’ve never loved anyone the way that I love you. In fact, ours is the only future in my dreams.” He laughed, affecting a bashful expression. “Of course, I’m not usually given to all this romantic drivel but you must bring out the best in me. So what do you say, hmm? Are you ready to be my Ellie until death?”

  Until death? What a morbid way to propose! Had she truly waited all her life to hear until death?

  She was so stunned and seething and utterly disappointed that she didn’t react at all. Not until she heard her aunts’ collective gasps from the doorway.

  Not until her own gaze swerved over and she saw Brandon standing there, too.

  Chapter 36

  “Never underestimate a debutante when marriage is on the line.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  “Brandon!” Ellie called out, but it was too late. He turned on his heel and walked away. She tried to pull free, to run after him, but George held fast to her hand. “Let go of me, you oaf!”

  He frowned up at her. “I don’t think I like you referring to other men by their given names.”

  “Is that so? Well, I don’t like you proposing to me with the same words that you did to proposition my dearest friend, with the hope of trying to make her your mistress.”

  Aunt Myrtle gasped. “George! Is this true?”

  “I knew you didn’t deserve our Elodie,” Aunt Maeve said, stalking forward to swat him with her reticule.

  Ellie wrenched her hand free and he fell back on his haunches. “You are a bounder, a cad and a spoiled child! And I hate that I’ve wasted so much of my life on you. Because of you, the best man I’ve ever known just walked out of my life.” In her tirade, she swung her arms widely and the dressmaker’s dummy fell on him, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  Aunt Myrtle rushed forward to pick it up but accidentally dropped it on him again . . . with a bit of force. “Go on, dearest. Lord Hullworth couldn’t have gotten far.”

  “It’s true,” Aunt Maeve said, pausing her reticule swatting to brush a tear from Ellie’s cheek. “The fact that he came to see you means that it isn’t too late.”

  Then Prue sprang from the cupboard. George went pale, lifting his hands in defense. “I can explain everything, my dove.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Prue set her hands on her hips, then she looked to Ellie. “Well, what are you waiting for? This is your chance to be brave.”

  Ellie smiled and rushed to the door.

  * * *

  Bloody hell. What had Brandon been thinking?

  He’d known better than to seek out Ellie. After all, she’d made her choice the day she’d left.

  There must have been a twisted masochist living inside his brain that decided to come to London and try one more time to make her his. And yet, when he’d learned that she’d been stopping by his town house to see if he’d returned, that same part of him was optimistic.

  Arriving at Upper Wimpole Street, his anticipation intensified as the elder Miss Parrishes greeted him on the pavement in front of their steps. They’d both smiled eagerly, claiming that their niece would be overjoyed to see him. And as they’d walked inside, the ladies told him of the perplexing behavior of their niece—the need to linger beneath every archway they encountered; a visit to the zoo to feed the bear, the elephant and the giraffes; and tomorrow, they were scheduled to take a boat onto the Thames. They couldn’t fathom what had gotten into her.

  But Brandon could.

  He knew that Ellie was trying to conquer her fears. That she was tired of being afraid. And for each stair he’d mounted, a tremendous glut of hope filled him.

  Until he saw Nethersole kneeling and Ellie’s hand in his.

  There’d been no need to linger. No need to drive the nail in the coffin.

  Obviously, the only reason she’d come to see Brandon was merely to tell him that it was over for her. Well and truly over.

  So he’d turned on his heel and left.

  His open landau waited out front and he stepped inside, calling up to his driver. “To the town house, Diggs. But I’ll only be staying for a moment to settle some business, and then we’ll head back to Crossmoor Abbey.”

  The old driver screwed up his face in perplexity. Regrettably, Diggs was as deaf as a turnip. So Brandon repeated himself, adding a wave of his hand to encourage him to spur the horses.

  “Very good, milord,” he said with a smile and a nod.

  Just as Diggs began turning the carriage around to head toward Regent’s Park, Brandon heard his own name. He turned reflexively to the familiar voice that had been embroidered into his soul. Even though he had no desire to see her again, his gaze could not stray from Ellie as she flew out of the house and down the
stairs in a cascade of skirts, dyed in a color that only brought an aching reminder of her blush.

  “Wait! Wait!” she called, her arm outstretched as she rushed into the street.

  Brandon looked away as if he didn’t see her. They had bid their farewells. And besides, he knew she would turn back.

  But, as the coach wheels rumbled slowly over the cobblestones, he realized he was wrong. There she was, jogging beside him, out of breath and flushed.

  “Miss Parrish, don’t be a fool,” he said tightly. “Give up this nonsense and go back to Nethersole.”

  She shook her head, her curls in disarray. “Lord Nethersole is currently being pelted with pillows and reticules by my aunts and Miss Thorogood. You were right about him. And I daresay, he will not trespass on our doorstep again.”

  “Ah. I see that I’ve arrived just in time to remind you of your second choice.” Believing she would end this farce if he pretended to ignore her, he jerked his attention forward as the carriage straightened on the road, the horses spurred to a slow trot.

  But she kept pace beside them, lifting her skirts higher. “I realized something recently. I wasn’t afraid of dying—well, no more than the average person—but I was terrified of living. I thought that I was keeping myself safe from the heartbreak of loss. That’s why I’d set my cap for George.”

  “And you made a splendid choice,” he said gruffly, kicking himself for coming here at all. “Now, stop this nonsense.”

  The horses sped up marginally.

  So did she, her amber gaze darting to the road and back to Brandon. “I cannot. I have to tell you that I’d set my cap for George because I knew I’d never love him completely. I held on to the idea of him like a shield that would protect me. But with you, I was vulnerable.”

  “And now you’re putting yourself in needless danger,” he growled on a rise of alarm as they neared the intersection, his pulse galloping. So he did his best to scare her away. “Are you not afraid of falling beneath the carriage, of being crushed by the wheels?”

  She nodded vigorously, her eyes wide. “It would be a garish way to die, I’m sure. But I wouldn’t mind, if it meant that yours was the last face I saw.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Diggs! Stop the carriage,” he called out, but the driver had started to sing as was his habit and he couldn’t hear a thing.

  “I left you, Brandon,” she continued, running in earnest now, panting for breath, “not because I feared that . . . if I lost you . . . I wouldn’t be able to survive it. But because I was afraid I would . . . and that I’d have to go on living without you. I just couldn’t bear it.”

  “Death is part of life, Miss Parrish,” he barked, preparing to make his way to the perch to get the driver’s attention or to grab the reins himself. But then the carriage hit a rut and slammed Brandon back to the bench.

  “So is living,” she called out, loud enough to be heard over the clamor of traffic as they neared the teeming Marylebone Road. “That’s what I didn’t truly understand until I met you. And now I know that I want to live my life to the fullest. That I want to spend every minute with you, even if we only have one minute together.”

  She put a hand on the black lacquered half door, the other gripping her skirts as she lengthened her stride to keep up.

  He shouted to his driver again and again, but the man didn’t slow.

  Brandon’s heart thudded in a panic, his lungs tight. Taking hold of her fingers, he leaned over the side of the carriage to put her away from the reach of the wheels. “Stop this. Let go, Ellie. I mean it! You’ll get hurt.”

  She gripped him tightly with both hands, her voice strangled, her eyes frantic and glistening with unshed tears. “You won’t believe me because I wasn’t certain at first. But be warned, I plan to be relentless. I’ll carry a dozen handkerchiefs and drop them at your feet. I’ll attend garden parties and soirees that I know you’ve been invited to. I’ll bribe any hostess for the chance to sit beside you at dinners. I’ll pretend a wounded ankle to gain a ride in your carriage. I’m prepared to make a spectacle of myself over you. I’ll even—”

  He cursed. Bracing himself, he lifted her off her feet, hauled her into the carriage and into his arms. They fell together, slipping down the edge of the bench until his back hit the floor, hard.

  Holding her tightly, he inhaled her scent like an opium eater. He pressed his lips greedily to her hair, her temple, her damp eyelashes and cheeks until he was sure he was lost. Hopelessly lost. “Damn it, Ellie. Will you never give me a moment’s peace?”

  “Never.” Tearful and smiling, she shook her head and wrapped her arms around him in this confined space, threading her fingers in his hair and raining kisses over his face and jaw. “Because if you still resist my diabolical machinations, then I plan to love you, quite thoroughly and as often as possible. Even if I must climb up to your bedchamber and tap on your window.”

  He couldn’t seem to hold her close enough, kiss her long enough. “Far too dangerous and we cannot have that.”

  “Perhaps you can give me a key to your door instead?” she asked as he nuzzled the underside of her earlobe.

  “But how do I know if you’ll use that key to lock us both inside for the next fifty or sixty years?”

  “I must confess, the thought did occur to me. Do you think it too bold?”

  “Well . . . People will talk.”

  She nodded sagely and rose up to look down at him with sudden severity, and he tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “Then you leave me no choice. You’ll simply have to marry me.”

  His lungs and heart stalled on a sudden rush of elation. He tried to keep it inside, but the corner of his mouth quirked in a revealing grin. “Is that your proposal, then?”

  “Hardly worth any sighs or swoons, I know. But, to tell you the truth, I’m suffering some terrible ailments at the moment and it’s difficult to concentrate. It’s my heart, you see.”

  “Hmm . . . That sounds serious. Shall I summon Dr. Lockwood?”

  “Why? Do you think he’ll marry me?” She blinked, all innocence.

  Brandon growled as he slid a hand to her nape and took her mouth in a claiming kiss that left them both gasping for breath. “The only man you’ll be marrying is me.”

  She grinned. “As you say.”

  Epilogue

  Ellie had wanted to marry Brandon by special license or race off to Gretna Green to say their vows over a blacksmith’s anvil, but the aunts wouldn’t allow it.

  “We haven’t been stealing recipes for years simply for our own amusement,” Aunt Maeve had said.

  “Well, not entirely. Although, I did start to enjoy our escapades,” Aunt Myrtle had added with a sheepish grin. “But that is neither here nor there. The truth of the matter is, we did it for you, dearest. You are going to have the grandest wedding breakfast that society has ever seen.”

  And it was. In fact, her wedding breakfast had even earned a mention in the newspaper.

  “They are calling it a vulgar display of sublime dishes,” Jane said as she lowered the page, her brow knitted in perplexity. “The statement is quite a contradiction. What do you think it means—did the author like it or loathe it?”

  Beside her on the settee in the parlor on Upper Wimpole Street, Winn laughed brightly. “It means they loved it, but hate themselves for eating too much.”

  Ellie grinned, overjoyed to have all her friends with her. Winn had just returned that week, after a lengthy sojourn in the south of France with her husband, Asher, his aunt Lolly and former pirate, Sir Roderick Divine, along with their newborn son. The young Marcus Holt was currently in the study, holding court as his father, Uncle Raven, Uncle Brandon and the aunts fussed over him.

  The delay in her nuptials also provided Ellie time to mend her bond with Meg, who had been justifiably cross with her for breaking her brother’s heart. But after an earnest talk and many tears, they were more like sisters than sisters-in-law. In fact, Meg had even charmed Jane, Winn, and Prue with her efferv
escence.

  “I know I hated myself,” Meg interjected with a groan as she slumped back into the upholstered chair. “After all, eating fourteen courses by anyone’s standards is quite vulgar, indeed. Oh, but the gooseberry tarts at the end were worth it. I’m only glad that there will never be another wedding breakfast like it.”

  “I wouldn’t be too certain,” Ellie said. “I overheard the aunts talking about your next Season and how they had grand plans for your betrothal dinner.”

  “Well, they can plan all they like, but I’m not going to marry.” Her determined gaze swept around the room and she pointed teasingly to each one of them in turn. “I see the calculated gleams from each of you happily married women, but nothing you say will persuade me. My brother may have found the love of his life; however, it will not be the same for me. The man I once gave my heart to, gave it right back to me, stating that I was too young and naive to know what I wanted. He then set sail and I have not seen or heard from him in the two years since.”

  “We could find him for you,” Jane offered. “It’s all a matter of research.”

  And Winn added, “Yes. We can even kidnap him, if you like.”

  “Then tie him to a chair and put a sack over his head,” Ellie added, sharing a look with her friends.

  Meg shook her head. “Thank you all, but no. I have decided that I should rather be content on my own than with a man who does not love me. Besides, there’s a somewhat vengeful part of my personality, rather pleased by the notion that he will regret losing me. One day, in the future, we’ll see each other again. I will be a stunning sight to behold, of course”—she shrugged, a small grin on her lips—“and he will be rendered speechless. Then I will pretend that I do not even know him and walk away.” She dusted her hands together for good measure.

  “Brava!” Winn cheered. “I absolutely adore your confidence.”