The Marquess Who Loved Me (30 page)

Prudence didn’t even flinch. “That tactic may find success with Madeleine. She is so shocked when you don’t pour your heart out that she stops asking. But I
know
, Ellie. I feign amiability just as you feign cynicism.”

“You believe my cynicism to be an act? I assure you, it’s not. People
will
use you for their own ends, Prudence. And you
will
do things that are unforgivable. With your family history — even with what Amelia did to you in Scotland — I thought you would understand that.”

Their friend Amelia had spent the previous summer trying to “save” Prudence from an arranged marriage she desperately needed — only to be compromised by, and later married to, Prudence’s would-be fiancée. But Prudence just sighed. “If all you let yourself do is lament the past in your studio, it’s little wonder you think you believe what you just said.”

“I don’t think it — I know it.”

“And yet you save people. What would have happened to Lucia, do you think, if you had believed her transgressions to be unforgivable? Or to Madeleine — she and Ferguson never could have married without your help. Why do you help people if you think betrayal or your own failings are the inevitable outcome?”

Ellie couldn’t respond. Her blocked response was an almost physical experience. Her mind drained of words, just as her breath was knocked out and her throat closed against her. Prudence, the friend Ellie had thought to take to Europe with her, the woman Ellie pitied for having less freedom and money and prospects and all the rest…

“I’m not kind, Prudence,” she said. Her voice was low, and she couldn’t look Prudence in the eyes. “You are remaking me in your own image, not the one I deserve. It’s not altruism or genteel goodwill that drives me. Just the regret that I didn’t stand for myself when I should have, and the desire to stop others from making the same mistake.”

She sipped her chocolate, but the bitter concoction brought her no joy. When she finally dared to look at Prudence, there was no shock there — only consideration.

Finally, Prudence spoke. “I am sure a vicar would tell you to be more selfless. But in the face of great personal disappointment, you chose to help those who needed your help and found what enjoyment you could in the rest of your life. Your decision to give others the chance you didn’t have, rather than trying to take it away from them…that says all I need to know about your character.”

Ellie believed her. It was the belief that struck her, even more than Prudence’s words. The woman Prudence described — it was how Ellie wished she saw herself on the days when everything was dark.

It wasn’t much — not a proclamation that Ellie was a hero, or a saint, or any other superlative. But if she believed it, if that assessment of her character was correct, then she was
human
— not the goddess Nick had made her into, not the fallen soul she’d believed herself to be, not the perfectly cool aristocrat the ton applauded.

And in that small, still moment, with the fire blazing and Nick’s bergamot scent whispering around her like an old friend, she knew what she wanted.

“Prudence,” she said, “how did you know what to say?”

“I didn’t,” Prudence said, shifting in her chair. “But perhaps…perhaps I wish someone would say something similar to me.”

Regret flickered over Prudence’s face. Ellie wondered, not for the first time, when Prudence would do something about it. “Do you love Lord Salford?” she asked abruptly.

Prudence blinked, then pressed two fingers to her temple as though she’d been coshed over the head. “I beg your pardon?”

“Alex. Do you love him?”

Prudence turned back to her writing desk. “I haven’t the faintest idea why you would even suggest such a thing.”

“Take a bit of unsolicited advice, then, as repayment for giving it — whatever it is you regret, do something about it. If it’s Salford, say something. If it’s your circumstances, run away and have an adventure. You are a rational woman. If what you are doing doesn’t bring you joy, change it.”

Prudence snorted. “Felled by my own logic. That is why I study history, not philosophy.”

But there was amusement in her voice, enough to make Ellie laugh. She left Prudence to her books — not because she wanted solitude, but because she felt like painting something, anything, for the first time in weeks. She went up to her studio, ready to pour her heart onto the canvas.

Perhaps she and Nick couldn’t be real for each other. There was a chance that too much had happened to them, that there were too many words they couldn’t take back and too many wounds they couldn’t heal. But she was willing to try. Either he would see her heart and believe in it — or he wouldn’t be able to forgive her, no matter what she said.

Either way, she would have peace. She just had to hope that Nick could make the choice they both deserved.

Ellie painted all day. A maid brought a tray for her sometime in the afternoon, after she had shamelessly ignored her guests — she would rather give them reason to gossip than waste a precious hour of daylight.

But while it was likely easier that she had not seen Nick, she couldn’t help but wonder what he would say when they were alone again. When she finally descended to the drawing room at six o’clock, after dressing in a lush green evening gown, Nick still hadn’t appeared.

Most of her guests were present, though. They were eating an hour earlier than usual to make way for the larger entertainment Ellie had planned. She always included the villagers and tenants in an event during her house parties, and the neighborhood would be celebrating in the village that night with ale and other refreshments. Her aristocratic guests would proceed to the village for fireworks at nine — late for the farmers and shopkeepers, but early enough that her chef was likely still cursing her plans.

After scanning the drawing room in search of Nick, her eyes found Christabel instead. Her former sister-in-law stood apart from the group, looking handsome but slightly stunned in a pale blue muslin gown that gave her figure a softer, more feminine look than the outgrown pinafore she’d worn at home. Ellie joined her immediately. “I am delighted you decided to come, Lady Christabel,” she said, kissing her cheek.

Christabel didn’t look delighted. She looked equal parts determined and terrified. “Thank you, Lady Folkestone. And thank you for the loan of a dress. I haven’t seen this many people from the ton since your wedding — I hadn’t realized how out of step with fashion I had become.”

Ellie had whispered the offer of a dress at the dower house in an attempt to win her over into coming. She was glad it had worked — but she hadn’t realized just how isolated Christabel had been. “Did your sisters never bring you to London for a season? I admit, my circle didn’t include debutantes often enough for me to notice, but I assumed they would see you settled properly.”

Christabel’s lips compressed. “They grew too busy with their own lives, and all too happy that I was in the country watching over Mother.”

Ellie could fix this. She could take Christabel under her wing. She was little different from all the other people Ellie had rescued — and her vague sense of guilt over Christabel’s abandonment added to her determination. She opened her mouth, ready to offer it…

But then Nick walked through the door.

He looked disheveled, somehow, despite his perfectly tied cravat and impeccable evening suit. But even the best valet couldn’t prevent a man from shoving his hand through his hair too many times. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The corners of his mouth turned down with the weight of the thoughts he carried.

Did he want her? Or was he considering how to say goodbye to her?

*
   
*
   
*

He was a coward. He should have sought her out. He should have told her what he felt. But how could he tell her when even he didn’t know for sure?

So he’d avoided her during the day — not a difficult task, as it turned out, since he heard from one of the footmen that she was in her studio throughout the daylight hours. And at dinner, they were seated at opposite ends of the vast table, with forty or so people and more than that number of dishes spread between them.

But there was something different about her. He could barely see her through the candelabras and epergnes and other interfering decorations, but when he did catch a glimpse of her, she seemed to glow. It couldn’t be with happiness. She was too distracted for happiness. But her occasional smile seemed meant for herself, not for either of the guests next to her.

It was a mystery he wanted the answer to. The answer had to wait. Dinner ended. The company dispersed to gather cloaks and hats for the ride into the village. He thought about avoiding the festivities, but Norbury was the only guest who had declined, after claiming he’d caught a chill. Nick would rather keep Ellie in his sights than spend an hour with his least favorite houseguest.

But Ellie slipped away from him, choosing to share a carriage with Lady Christabel and Percy Pickett. Perhaps it was for the best. Whatever he decided to confess to her, he didn’t want an audience for it.

They reached the village just in time for the fireworks. The Folkestone village was a trim, neat little cluster of shops and houses with an open green in the middle. A church flanked one side of it, but he was more familiar with the pub on the other side of the rectangle. If he planned to stay in England, Nick would need to learn more about the town, the tenants, and everyone else in the neighborhood. He would have to put down roots in soil that he’d always assumed would reject him.

But the villagers who bowed and curtseyed to him seemed genuinely pleased that he was there. And for the first time, Nick thought that perhaps spending parts of his year here, rather than in a warehouse or counting room, might be a worthwhile endeavor.

He found Ellie as the first firework shot up into the sky. She was buried deep in the heart of the group, but she stood out for him under the sparkling shower of light. She still had that glow, the one that made him want to learn her secrets.

She had looked almost the same at Vauxhall a decade ago — lit up under fireworks, not knowing that he watched her from the shadows. But on that night, she had been astonished and delighted by everything around her. Now, fireworks were something she could have whenever she wished. She yawned slightly, stifling it with a gloved hand, and looked out over the crowd rather than up at the sky.

He was sad, suddenly, that neither of them seemed to enjoy such simple things as fireworks, or dancing, or a perfect bit of moonlight. But if some fairy came and gave him a choice, he would stay in this moment, not return to that one. She’d been more easily delighted in that life — but she was more certain in this one.

He was old enough now to see the value in certainty. And it didn’t hurt that her father was dead in this life and couldn’t run Nick off like he had at Vauxhall. Nick strolled up to her, but she didn’t tense when he greeted her — if anything, she relaxed.

“So you’re not avoiding me after all?” she murmured.

He could barely hear her voice under the excited chatter around them. He leaned in to her ear. “No more than you are avoiding me.”

She looked up at him. Another firework lit the sky, and her blue eyes were eerie under the sparks. “You said we would talk today. Should I expect a note tonight, or have you changed your mind?”

He scanned her face, but he couldn’t read what she wanted of the conversation. Did she want a farewell? Or a future?

Before he could respond, he heard a crack of exploding gunpowder. There should have been a firework immediately after it, but the expected display never came.

His hackles rose. Gunpowder without a firework could only mean a gunshot, unless someone had brought firecrackers or one of the fireworks had malfunctioned. He looked out over the crowd. No one else had noticed. Their faces were all turned up to the sky, waiting for the next display. He heard laughter, happy conversation, easy jests — both the villagers and the aristocrats were enjoying themselves, despite the cold.

No one screamed. There was no indication that anything was amiss. He tried to relax and pretend nothing was wrong — that he hadn’t heard anything strange, and that he wasn’t a coward in the face of her questions.

She must have seen something of his conflict flicker across his face. “Is something wrong?”
 

“Perhaps we should rest tonight,” he said, pitching his voice low so no one would overhear him. “I’d wager neither of us have slept since I came home, and I at least am too old for all-hours revelry. There’s time to talk tomorrow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If you’re too old for revelry, I’m too old to wait.”

He would have grinned, but a child ran up to them, weaving through the crowd and skidding to a stop just short of Ellie’s skirts. “Mr. Claiborne needs you, milady,” he said, his high-pitched voice creaking with excitement. “He said you must find Lord Folkestone and come to the church.”

Ellie frowned. “Was he alone?”

“He had a lady with him. He said to find you, then the surgeon. And not to tell anyone else.”

His eyes were wide and his shoulders were thrown back with importance, like a little lieutenant given his first command. Nick gave him a shilling and sent him running off through the crowd on the second half of his errand.

But when Ellie started toward the church, he grabbed her arm. “This could be a trap.”

She shook her head impatiently as another firework shot up into the sky. “The child belongs to the pub owner. He knows what Marcus looks like. Something’s wrong, Nick. And unless Marcus is the one setting the trap, we need to join him. Will you let me go? Or shall I start screaming until someone else takes me there?”