Marquesses at the Masquerade(42)

“You are wrong!” the impertinent girl persisted. “I will love only him forever. You must believe me. You must repair what you have done.”

“I have done nothing but talk sense to a young man, and therefore, I wouldn’t repair it if I could.”

“I love him.” Her voice was a trembling, broken whisper. “Don’t you understand?”

He rested his hand on her elbow, attempting to escort her out. Yes, he knew what it was like to be deeply in love. And each day, as his wife struggled with her pregnancy, he prayed that sickness or death wouldn’t part them so soon.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

In an abrupt motion, she pressed her cheek against his chest, clearly desperate for comfort—even if it came from her perceived villain. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around her, taking in her warmth. He closed his eyes. In her quaking sobs, all the worry for his wife and their unborn child, all the anxious thoughts he tried to keep hidden, rushed to the surface. Even in her manic sorrow she must have perceived his fears. She drew back, her lips parted in surprise. Then he saw something in her eyes—a wisdom he didn’t know she possessed. He began backing away, his heart racing, ashamed to be vulnerable before her.

“No,” she whispered, reaching out to him.

“Go—go home, you silly girl,” he growled. He turned from her and fled the room.

“I hate you,” she called to Exmore, her voice echoing in the corridor. “You have destroyed my life.”

“So be it!” He broke into a jog toward his wife’s chamber as if the devil were on his heels.

*



Cassandra lay in bed, curled on her side, as Exmore had left her to receive the hysterical Miss Van Der Keer. Candlelight flickered on the shape of Cassandra’s body shrouded in quilts and on her glossy dark curls that spilled onto the pillow. He studied her in the firelight, not wanting to disturb her. His heart began to calm in her presence. She had always had the power to soothe him. She didn’t have to say any words. Being near her healed him.

“Exmore,” she murmured, sensing his presence. He loved the sound of his name on her tongue. Her soft voice seemed to caress the syllables.

He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Are you feeling better, my love?”

They had been so joyous when the physician determined she was finally increasing after years of trying to conceive. But he and Cassandra hadn’t expected how exceptionally ill the infant would make her. She could hardly move from her bed, and she vomited what little she could eat. The physician said it wasn’t uncommon for a woman to do poorly in the first weeks of pregnancy, but the sickness would pass in the later stages. Exmore wasn’t reassured. His wife was losing weight, not gaining. At times, she could hardly sit up for dizziness and nausea.

“Yes, the broth Cook’s sister recommended is working a little.”

He smiled. “Thank heavens for wise grandmotherly types. They seem to possess more common sense knowledge than all members of the Royal Society combined.”

He sat carefully on the mattress beside her. She turned and studied him.

“What is wrong?” How she could read him. He could keep nothing from her. His every aspect was open to her.

“Do you remember the ridiculous girl chasing after Patrick?”

“Oh, her. What outrageous thing has she done now?”

“She paid me a call this evening. Unaccompanied and in a wild state. It seems I’m a heinous villain because, in her addled mind, I forced Patrick to leave her.”

“How shocking,” she said, but her voice lacked any outrage. “What—what did she say?”

“That she will love Patrick forever. That I don’t understand true love. The stuff of Drury Lane melodramatic rubbish.”

Her brows creased.

Exmore continued, “I played the wise father—heaven forbid, we should raise such a rag-mannered hoyden—and told her that she would fall in love again with equally wild fervor and other such nonsense.”

“Maybe she will,” Cassandra whispered.

Exmore lifted her hand and kissed the gold band he had slipped on her fingers years ago. “I’m sure of it. Most likely next week.”

“No, I mean perhaps she will love Patrick forever. After all, I was hardly out of the schoolroom when we married.”

“But you were far more wise and mature than this foolish child.”

“Yes, such a foolish, foolish child,” she murmured, her gaze softening, focusing inward.

Exmore wished he could pry into her mind and study its workings. She had an ethereal quality, as if another part of her dwelled somewhere else. Her mysterious inner life drove him wild, making him insatiably hungry for her.

He leaned down and snuggled next to her, keeping his feet off the bed. He only wanted to be close to her. When he carefully rested a hand protectively on her belly, she stiffened.

“My dear, I’m—I’m not feeling well,” she said.

“I thought the tea helped.”

“It did, but...”

“My love, I’m content merely holding you.” They hadn’t been intimate since she’d become ill.

“I just... I would prefer, that is, I should like to be alone.” There was an inflection of a question in her voice. He knew if he asked again to hold her, she would acquiesce. She always did as he asked. But he couldn’t be a selfish, clinging husband. He understood her desire for solitude. Whenever he came down with a chill, he wanted only to lie in bed, alone in his misery.