Rebel Marquess (32 page)

“Eliza, is something wrong?” Her heart completed a tumbling summersault at the sound of his rich voice. She put her back to the window and looked to where he stood across the room.

He had not moved since he’d closed the door. His handsome face was drawn into harsh lines of concern and question. Looking into his eyes, a warm sigh moved through her body but stopped short in her throat, blocked by fear. She felt as though the certainty of her future balanced on a knife point.

She forced herself to be brave and form the questions that could send her sliding painfully down the blade’s edge. “What do you really think about the fact that a book I have written is going be published?”

His brow furrowed, creating a twitch in her fingers as she instinctively yearned to smooth it out. He took a step forward then stopped, and Eliza realized she had flinched at the thought of him coming near. Not because she didn’t want his nearness, but because she wanted it too much.

He had noticed her involuntary reaction and his expression shifted. A cool and shimmering veil of distance fell between them. Her heart ached at the withdrawal, though she knew it was necessary.

“Of course, I am happy for you.” His tone was low and deliberate. She could see he was struggling to understand what had changed since reaching his bedroom. And she appreciated that.

“Of course,” she repeated. “You understand I intend to continue writing and trying to have my work published? This novel will be under the name Elizabeth Terribury,” she could not keep the pride from coloring her voice. “How will you feel when the Marchioness of Rutherford publishes her first title? Or her second or third?”

He heaved a sigh and shoved a hand through his hair. Squaring his broad shoulders, he came toward her. His eyes held hers until he reached her and lifted his hands to gently cup her shoulders. The weight and warmth of his touch seeped into her bones, but rather than comforting her, she felt a twinge of panic.

“As the marchioness you will have dozens of responsibilities you do not have now. It is more than a name, it is a social and political position and one you cannot take lightly.” She stood stiffly beneath his hands and did not reply. “You can continue to write, of course. As a hobby,” he stressed and paused as if to be sure she understood. “When we are married, your focus will be on your position as my wife, the Marchioness of Rutherford.”

Eliza almost smiled at the way he spoke, as if by declaring something he made it so. A foregone conclusion.

“That is what I thought you would say,” she said.

He began to run his hands down the length of her arms as if to warm her. Perhaps he could feel the chill that had entered her body.

“You will do well as the marchioness,” he assured. “Grandmother likes you.”

Eliza looked up to meet his heavy gaze and held her breath.

What about him? Did he like her?

He looked back at her with an expression of shadowed concern and stern pride. His jaw was tensed, and though she saw a hint of familiar warmth in his eyes, it was muted by his stoic, aristocratic veneer.

He was worried, yes. But she wondered how much of his thoughts just then were concerned with her happiness and how much was centered on ensuring his betrothed was prepared to meet the demands of her future station.

She suddenly wanted to cry. She never cried, but as she stood there in his bedroom, she felt a welling of fear and sorrow so overwhelming it stopped her breath and forced her pulse to thud loudly in her ears. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what she was grieving the loss of—him or her dreams.

“I think you should take me home after all,” she said.

After a brief pause, he nodded.

Their walk back through the house was as quiet as their entry. Yet now, rather than the delicious swirling of sexual anticipation, a heavy shroud of uneasiness draped over them.

The carriage was still in the courtyard. He assisted her into the vehicle and they rode to Terribury House in silence. As they drew up in front of her house and Rutherford made as if to exit the carriage, Eliza touched his arm. She nearly drew her hand back as an expected spark of sensation traveled through her at the casual contact.

“No need for you to escort me to the door, my lord. I can manage the short distance on my own.” She tried to insert a teasing note into her voice, but she didn’t quite manage it.

“Nonetheless,” he replied as he opened the door and stepped down to the pavement.

As Eliza took his hand and exited the vehicle, she felt a rush of longing to step into him, wrap her arms tightly around his waist, and press her cheek to the solid surface of his chest. She needed him to wrap his strong arms around her and press his lips to her hair and tell her all would be well. Because in that moment, she was quite certain it would not be. In fact, she suspected things would never be well ever again. And he was the only person who she imagined might be able to convince her otherwise.

Instead of embracing him as she longed to do, she placed her hand in the bend of his elbow and walked alongside him to the door. He lifted the knocker and the door opened to reveal the Terribury butler. The senior servant had been in their employ since Eliza had been very small and he looked at her now with raised brows and an incredulous expression.

“Miss Terribury, I had not realized you were out. And Lord Rutherford.”

Eliza swept into the hall and offered a quick explanation as she removed her gloves and unhooked her spencer. “Yes, I completely forgot about an errand I had to run. To save a little time I managed to grab a quick hack. I encountered Lord Rutherford quite by surprise, and he insisted on driving me home. Is that not gallant of him?”

She handed her spencer and gloves to the butler and gave him a winning grin.

“Would you mind terribly fetching my notebook for me? I believe it is on my writing desk in my bedroom. Or perhaps I left it in the attic. I cannot recall for certain.”

The butler gave her an odd look at the strange request. It was not something she would typically ask of him since it was a task any underservant could perform. But it was the first excuse she could think of to send him away from the front hall, and she was desperate for just a few moments alone with the marquess before he left.

“Of course, miss,” the butler finally said with a bow before turning to the marquess to inquire, “And shall I take your coat and hat, my lord?”

“Ah, no,” Eliza replied with a fleeting wave of her hand. “Lord Rutherford has business to attend to and must be off again quickly.”

With another bow, the butler turned and disappeared down a hallway and out of sight.

The marquess spoke first, before Eliza had a chance to form the thoughts she wished to express. “I may not have an opportunity to call on you before the wedding.” He hesitated, clearing his throat before continuing. “I do not want you to worry about the future, Eliza. I will assist your transition into your new role. You will not be alone. I expect…” He hesitated as he looked into her eyes and she wondered what he saw there to give him pause. When he continued again, his voice had softened to a low tone. “I hope you will be happy.”

Eliza’s heart hurt so badly she feared it might be trying to tear itself out of her chest. Unable to control her impulse any longer, she launched herself against him, throwing her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her so their mouths could meet in a desperate kiss. Eliza released all of her turbulent emotion into that kiss, clinging to him, needing him in a way that frightened her.

And then, before she melted into him completely, she pushed against his shoulders and arched away, forcing him to release her. She barely managed to choke out the words, “Goodbye, Michael,” before she spun away and ran like a coward up the stairs to her bedroom.

When she heard the front door close behind him, the sound echoed through her aching heart for hours afterward.

Chapter Twenty-Six

As Eliza moved quickly about her room, collecting the items she would need for the next few weeks, she refused to look at the embroidered gown laid out on her bed. The scent of roses and orange blossoms from the wreath waiting to be placed atop her head filled the room with its heady pungency and made her stomach turn.

It was the morning of her wedding. She had traveled with her mother and father to Breckmore Palace, the Rutherford family seat in Lincolnshire, the day before. The many branches of Rutherford’s cousins were already present and most of her sisters and their families had arrived as well.

All was quiet in the grand country manor. The guests all slept, though many of the servants had likely arisen before the dawn like Eliza. She expected it would be at least an hour more before the full flurry of activity began as maids and footmen rushed about, trying to accommodate the instructions of both Lady Terribury and Lady Rutherford. All of the house would be in preparation for the grand wedding breakfast, which was to take place following the ceremony in the small parish church.

Or at least, that was everyone’s expectation.

Everyone except Eliza. Her preparation had nothing to do with the pale-blue gown overlaid with the finest white lace and embroidered with hundreds of tiny seed pearls or the rose and orange blossom wreath. It had nothing to do with the wedding breakfast or the parish church or the Marquess of Rutherford.

She was leaving.

Now. While she figured she had at least a three-hour start before anyone realized she was missing. Throwing her cloak around her shoulders and stuffing a wide-brimmed bonnet atop her head, Eliza swept up the small traveling bag and left her room.

As she crept down the hall and soundlessly descended the narrow servant’s staircase, she thought of the marquess. With a turbulent ache that had grown familiar since her decision had been made, she imagined him as she suspected he was at that moment. She knew he had spent the night at a comfortable inn near to the church and pictured him just now rising from his bed and rubbing his hand over the night’s growth of beard on his jaw. He would call for a bath and a shave and then he would dress as he always did, with proud and understated elegance.

Eliza bit the inside of her cheek to distract from the pricking behind her eyes and the weight in her chest. She stepped into the hazy morning light of the back courtyard and tugged the brim of her bonnet a bit lower over her forehead. Striding purposefully down the cobblestone drive to the stables, Eliza closed the lid on all thoughts of the marquess and suppressed the emotion churning in her stomach. She would have time to reopen the box again later, and then she would allow the feelings of sorrow and injustice to overwhelm her. But not now.

Michael Ellison Gerard, the Marquess of Rutherford, was nervous.

It took him a bit to realize the cause of his rapid heartbeat, cold sweaty palms and the feeling as if his stomach were twisting in a violent revolt was a case of unsettled nerves. It had been so long since he had experienced any of the symptoms. Acknowledging his anxiety, however, did not solve the problem. Because beneath it all was a hollow fear that in marrying Eliza today, he might lose her forever.

He wished he could erase from his mind the image of her as she had been in his bedroom in London—uncertain, lost and frightfully young.

That had not been the Eliza he knew, who challenged him at every turn to acknowledge his own faults. She could not be forlorn or confused. She was as steady and bright as the sun itself. A woman who laughed at his overdone self-awareness and provoked a desire to be more than the caricatured impression he had perfected over the years in his efforts to keep people at bay.

Music started up in the chapel. He could hear it and knew it was his cue, but still he did not leave the sanctuary of the small room behind the altar. Because once he stepped out into the chapel filled with both their families, he would be committing Eliza to life ever after as his wife.

He had seen the plea in her eyes when they had last been together. She had wanted to beg him not to go forward with the marriage, but something had stopped her.

Had she seen his grim determination to stay the course before them as it was laid out?

He could not abandon her after the intimacy they had shared. More so, he did not want to. Somewhere along the way, he had grown accustomed to the idea of having Eliza as his wife, on his arm as they attended social functions, across the table from him as they engaged in conversation through dinner. In his bed, in his arms and forever in his thoughts. She had infiltrated the fortress of his existence without trying, and from the moment she did so, he had become a better man for it. His enjoyment of life had been made richer by her smiles and deeper by the sparkle in her gaze.

Yes, he wanted to marry Eliza. He wanted it with every bit of certainty in his body.

But he knew she did not want him in return. That he intended to marry her anyway filled him with such trepidation he thought he might be ill.

The door to the preparation room opened and Rutherford was jolted from his reverie. The Earl of Blackbourne came through the door with a rakish but not unsympathetic smile.

“Are you ready? You missed your cue, old man. The music is on its third run through. Time to await your bride in front of the masses.”

Rutherford had a flashing vision of Eliza walking toward him from the back of the chapel and his heart squeezed with painful anticipation. No, he did not want to miss her entrance. He intended to be there for her every step of the way.