The Wrong Marquess Read online

  “But how did you . . . that is . . . I never told . . .”

  “Your aunts mentioned that you’d unwrapped a shawl earlier today.” He shrugged. “I surmised the rest.”

  “Thank you.” The words came out on the barest breath as she tentatively took the gift. Their fingertips brushed and, even beneath her glove, hers tingled.

  She stared down at the white petals in bewilderment. He was full of surprises, one after the other. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked it. Then again, she wasn’t entirely sure she disliked it either.

  He looked toward the house and back to her. The golden glow from the windows silhouetted his head and shoulders but left his eyes shadowed. And she couldn’t help but wonder what color they were in this moment—a distant gray or that velvety green?

  “To guard your reputation,” he said, his low voice sending ribbons of warmth cascading through her, “I shall return to the ballroom first and ensure that your entrance will go unnoticed.”

  She felt a slow smile dawn on her lips as he mounted the steps to the terrace. “How very gallant of you. Planning to create a spectacle?”

  After such an inauspicious beginning, she could never have imagined the first day of their acquaintance ending like this. There was a distinct possibility that she would not hate him forever after all.

  At least, that’s what she thought . . . until he looked down at her and spoke again.

  “No indeed. I plan to ask Miss Carmichael to dance.”

  A swift, scalding heat scorched the insides of her veins at once. She wasn’t sure what was causing such an intense reaction. Why should it matter to her with whom he chose to dance? It didn’t at all, she assured herself. They were veritable strangers and nothing more.

  And yet, when he dared to flash a grin an instant before he turned to head inside, she couldn’t seem to stop the impulse to pluck every petal off the flower and toss the bare stem to the ground.

  Whatever this unwelcome feeling was, she would have to make note of it for the primer. It would serve as a warning for debutantes to stay far away from gentlemen who had unwelcome effects on one’s physiology.

  Chapter 4

  “When suffering the unwanted attentions of an undesirable gentleman, avoidance is the surest remedy.”

  —A note for The Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat

  “Pray, walk slower, Brandon,” Meg said with a frown the following day. “It is no use trying to outrun them, you know.”

  He grunted in displeasure, but slowed nonetheless.

  They’d only been in the park for a quarter hour and had already encountered three handkerchief droppers, two accidental stumblers, and one limping debutante hoping to play upon his sympathy to drive her home. He’d gritted his teeth while politely assisting the first five, and hailed a hackney cab for the sixth.

  “These constant efforts to gain my attention have become suffocating,” he grumbled under his breath.

  His sister clucked her tongue. “It is your own fault. After dancing with Miss Carmichael last evening, you’ve created a frenzy. Even the society pages are speculating whether or not London’s most elusive bachelor is finally ready to tie the knot.”

  Brandon hated that moniker. He was just a man. And he longed for the simple pleasures that any other man might take for granted—a walk through the park without being accosted by husband hunters, a dance with a lovely woman without it appearing in the papers, or simple companionship without ulterior motive.

  “But what I cannot understand,” Meg continued, “is why you danced with that vainglorious ninny at all. She is beautiful, to be sure. But I knew you didn’t like her the instant she’d purposely dropped her handkerchief to cause a stir that would link her name to yours.”

  He certainly hadn’t intended to resume his acquaintance with Miss Carmichael after their initial introduction had ended. But he’d suspected that his absence had been noted from the ballroom and, if Miss Parrish and he had walked through the same door—even minutes apart—he knew all too well that rumors would quickly abound.

  The article in the gossip pages this morning would have been ruinous.

  “And there you have your answer,” he lied. “Perhaps, my displeasure over the utter monotony of these games has frayed the last coils of my civility, and so I felt obligated to make amends for any curtness I displayed.”

  It was a plausible excuse. In fact, it was the very excuse he’d given himself before he’d danced with Miss Parrish. The same dance that he’d lain awake thinking about all night, replaying every touch, breath and sigh, his head spinning as if he were standing on the diorama platform in Regent’s Park.

  “Fear not, your gallant facade was convincing enough for the others. Only I know when you are displeased with your company,” Meg said with a smug purse of her lips as they walked along the path. “Though it has been such an age since I’ve witnessed enjoyment from you that I might mistake it for something else. Last evening, for example, I thought I saw a glimmer of contentment past when we were speaking with the three Miss Parrishes.”

  “Must have been an aberration,” he said, but his thoughts ventured again to the dance in the garden.

  Even now, hours upon hours later, his muscles contracted with the memory of her body pressed against his. He could still feel the weight of her head nestled against the crook of his shoulder. The supple cushion of her breasts. Her heart pounding hard against his own. It was as though she’d been stitched against his skin like a suit of clothes.

  As he walked, his shoulders shifted in restless agitation. He wanted to be rid of these sensations.

  This confounding desire for Miss Parrish made no sense. After all, she’d been playing a coy game with him from the beginning, much like Miss Carmichael. And the last thing he wanted was to allow himself or his sister to be taken in by another deceiver.

  “An aberration, hmm?” Meg mused. “That is a pity, indeed, for I believe my new friend is on yonder bench.”

  Distracted by his own thoughts, it took a moment for him to realize what his sister said. He absently followed her gaze to the figure seated up ahead. Then he jolted to a halt.

  In the same instant, Miss Elodie Parrish looked up sharply from a pocket-sized book in her gloved hands, like an angler startled to attention when a fish snagged the lure. Her gaze widened on him, a flush rising to her cheeks. Beneath the ribbon of her bonnet, he saw her throat constrict on a swallow. And beneath his cravat, his did the same. Damn this infernal attraction!

  Meg tugged his arm, propelling his steps forward. “Good day, Ellie. What a lovely coincidence that we should meet in the park today.”

  “Good day,” she rasped, her voice as insubstantial as it had been last night after the music had ended.

  For some unholy reason, the sound of it made him want to soothe her. To close the distance between them in two strides and hold her like he had in the garden.

  Thankfully, she dragged her gaze away from him to look at Meg. After a delicate clearing of her throat, she said, “Though, I couldn’t call it a complete ‘coincidence.’ That word implies no foreknowledge. And I must confess that, when I read your correspondence aloud this morning, my aunts were compelled to choose this park in the hopes of seeing you again. We normally walk in Regent’s Park which is a stone’s throw from Upper Wimpole Street, of course.”

  At once, Brandon felt a surge of scalding irritation.

  This meeting was no more happenstance than the sun rising in the sky each morning. Not only that, but he knew this game, too—the ever-sly mention of her address in hopes of luring him into her trap by inciting his curiosity.

  Polite conversation dictated that he was now supposed to tell her of some familiarity with that street. Perhaps even mention an acquaintance who lived there. To which she would respond with practiced surprise, marveling at happenstance, before inviting him to pay a call whenever he should find himself in the vicinity.

  But Brandon, seething through gritted teeth, refused to play his pa
rt. “At least you openly admit to plotting this time, unlike our first meeting.”

  “To plot—” Miss Parrish stopped on a scoff. Her cheeks abruptly cooled. “Oh, yes. I forgot how we’re all trying so desperately to marry you.”

  “As you say,” he added coolly.

  She squinted at him, the warm brandy fire of her gaze turning hard as brass ingots. “’Tis no wonder you chose to walk out of doors today, my lord, for it seems the only venue capable of housing your immense ego.”

  “No truer statement has ever been spoken, I’m sure.” Meg slipped her arm from his. Sitting down on the bench beside Miss Parrish, she glowered at him as if he were in the wrong for speaking the truth and her duplicitous companion was wholly blameless.

  “Well, that is fine, indeed,” he said to the little traitor. “Have you not said, yourself, that you are tired of the ceaseless methods used to gain my attention? For all we know, your supposedly faultless friend was sitting here alone and waiting for the opportunity to claim an injury and beg a ride home to Upper Wimpole Street.”

  Meg linked arms with Miss Parrish in a show of solidarity. “Ellie would never do such a thing. Now, I insist that you apologize and invite her to walk with us.”

  “Actually, Meg . . .” Miss Parrish began with something of a rueful laugh. “While I am not opposed to a much-deserved apology, I cannot walk with you. I did, in fact, turn my ankle—”

  “Ah ha,” Brandon interrupted smugly.

  “—whilst descending from a phaeton’s perch a short while ago,” she finished, darting an irritated glance to him. “Nevertheless, you may rest assured that your brother would be the last person I would ever prevail upon to assist me in any way whatsoever.”

  Meg issued a sympathetic sigh and nod. “I do not know what has befouled his manners, but I should rather wait here with you than go another step with him.”

  “You are too kind,” the friend replied with a sniff, pretending as if he wasn’t there. “However, you must forgive him, I suppose. His dance last evening must have put him in the path of Cupid’s arrow, and now he is forlorn that it isn’t Miss Carmichael on this bench. Obviously, his grumpy little heart simply cannot take another moment without her.”

  Meg tried to smother a surprised laugh with her gloved fingertips but failed miserably, her eyes dancing.

  Brandon’s attention fixed on Miss Parrish and the peevish edge to her tone. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was jealous. She’d sounded the same last night when bringing up Miss Carmichael’s handkerchief, without seeming to realize that she’d essentially admitted to watching him across the ballroom.

  Truth be told, her admission was precisely the reason he’d chosen to dance with Miss Carmichael in the first place. Invoking Miss Parrish’s ire helped to keep a necessary barrier between them. Because the more she adamantly refused to acknowledge that her symptoms stemmed from a basic attraction, the more he wanted to prove it to her. And that was a temptation he would not give in to.

  She was still the enemy, after all. Not to be trusted.

  Even so—and despite his own suspicions of her ulterior motives—bantering with her caused a grin to tug at his lips. And since he couldn’t very well leave his adversary feeling as if she had gained the upper hand, he said, “You are quite clever, Miss Parrish. I did enjoy the ball and the partner in my arms . . . for the first dance.”

  Her eyes went round as gold guineas. Then, he had the immense pleasure of watching her blush anew, color slowly blossoming on the crests of her cheeks like the petals of a peony opening to sunlight. With such a fair complexion and expressive features, there was little she could do to conceal her true thoughts. And that, he decided, was a quality in her favor.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him, Ellie. Brandon only had the one dance,” Meg said. “It is a pity you had to leave early, though. I do hope your aunt has recovered.”

  Miss Parrish blinked and turned toward Meg. “She has, thank you. Aunt Myrtle sampled one too many canapés before dinner, but she is hale now. In fact, that is her over by the nut seller’s cart.” She gestured with a nod, then flicked a defiant glance to Brandon. “Aunt Maeve is riding in the phaeton I mentioned a moment ago.”

  There was blatant challenge in the arch of her wispy, black-winged brows. That look said, Call me a liar. I dare you. She even pursed her lips and waited for his response.

  And Brandon—damn it all—felt an annoying impulse to take her by the shoulders, lift her from the bench, and kiss that provoking mouth in front of the entire ton.

  These urges were getting out of hand. Clearly, he needed to think of a new tactic to expose her scheme before he did something to make the two of them the latest on-dit in the scandal sheets.

  But she was skillfully subtle in the way she upheld her pretense. It was almost as if she’d expected her pursuit to meet with obstacles, and had contrived to wear him down bit by bit each time they met. The thought was unsettling. He’d barely known her above a day and she’d already gotten beneath his skin. There was no telling what state she’d have him in by week’s end.

  However, if he was correct about her tactics then, theoretically, the only thing she couldn’t anticipate was a quick surrender.

  Hmm . . . Perhaps that was the answer—upset the plot altogether. And the surest way to take her off guard was to appear to give her precisely what she wanted.

  “Very well, Miss Parrish,” he said. “You win.”

  She hiked her chin. “And what, pray tell, have I won?”

  “Meg and I will drive you home.”

  His sister gasped in surprise and grinned up at him in frank approval. “Well done, Brandon. You are, once more, my favorite brother. See, Ellie? I told you he could act the gentleman and be agreeable when he chooses. And a drive home is the least we can do, after all you’ve done to keep me from fading into obscurity as a mere shadow that once lingered in the vicinity of London’s favorite bachelor.”

  “Quite so,” he agreed with a grin, feeling his own victory close at hand. “The attention and admiration my sister’s frocks have garnered have also provided me with a few moments of respite, and for that I am in your debt. Name your recompense for my boorish suspicions and it shall be yours. Within reason, of course.”

  “Of course,” she parroted with all seriousness. “My goodness, what a prize indeed. I hardly know what to demand.” A conspiratorial glint lit her eyes as she turned to his sister. “What do you think, Meg? Should I ask for a trip to Paris for you and I, along with my aunts?”

  Meg coughed to cover a laugh. “That would be lovely!”

  “Indeed, it would. Then again”—she tsked and issued a sigh—“surely it is too late in the spring to see Paris at its best.”

  “Oh, quite so. A deplorable city unless one visits between the end of April and the beginning of May,” Meg agreed with mock disenchantment.

  “Perhaps theatre tickets, do you think? That is assuming your brother holds a box.”

  “I do,” he answered quickly—half with impatience and half with something he could not name—waiting for her demand. Hell, he was actually eager to hear it, if only to end this torment of not knowing what she would take from him.

  “Hmm,” she murmured with a tap-tap-tap of her fingertip against the corner of her mouth, and cast him a sly sideways glance. “For such an elusive gentleman, you were certainly easy to capture under my thumb.”

  “As you say,” he offered again, his pulse thrumming, itching beneath his skin.

  Considering her options, she pursed those lips again.

  He took an unconscious step closer before he caught himself and curled his hands over the lapels of his coat, rather than her shoulders. He felt as if he were on the verge of going mad from waiting.

  Then, at last, she lowered her hand in her lap and looked up at him, her expression open and seemingly guileless. “I should like to be your friend, Lord Hullworth. No more of this ‘she’s plotting to marry me’ nonsense.”

 
Brandon simply stared at her. For a moment, he couldn’t form a coherent response. Of all the requests she might have made, this was all she wanted?

  He was ashamed to admit that part of him believed her. But that was the fool talking, the part unaccountably attracted to her.

  The rest of him, however, thought it highly suspect. A new kind of plot. Oh, and she was clever, too. The minx.

  But so was he.

  “If friendship is what you ask, then you shall have it beginning this very instant,” he said, deciding to play this let’s pretend to be friends game. For a time. Though he wouldn’t allow it to drag on for too long, for Meg’s sake.

  Miss Parrish exhaled slowly. A soft—perhaps even victorious—smile played on her lips as she extended her hand.

  Without hesitation, he took hold of it. He felt the mutual squeeze run in a warm current through his entire body, and saw it glowing in her cheeks. He couldn’t help but wonder if this blush was brought on by guilt, attraction, or some combination of the two.

  Withdrawing her hand, she averted her gaze, then startled slightly as she looked past his shoulder. “Aunt Maeve, you’ve returned,” she said, tilting her head in perplexity. “But . . . where is George?”

  The older woman stepped crisply toward their group and waved a hand in the air in an absent gesture. “Oh, you know how he is, flitting off on a moment’s notice. But he did lend me this for you to use.”

  Brandon frowned at the ebony walking stick and watched Miss Parrish take hold of it, her palm curving over the faceted obsidian hilt. But why would she require . . . ?

  He knew the answer in the same instant. Damn! She truly was hurt. And he was ashamed and disconcerted to realize that all he’d done was to offer her mockery.

  He was ready with a humble apology. Considering how their prior conversation ensued, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see a look of superiority on her face at the confirmation that she had, in fact, turned her ankle.

  But Miss Parrish became unaccountably shy and refused to meet his gaze, as if embarrassed. Either that or she’d been expecting the owner of the walking stick—this George—to accompany her aunt and was disappointed by his absence.