Marquesses at the Masquerade(47)
“You shouldn’t know such things,” Annalise said, but not in an admonishing way.
“No, goose, I’m to pretend that I don’t know such things. Such as a wealthy marquess will always be respectable no matter what Papa says. Every lady speaks of him behind her fan, except in our home because of Papa.”
“But he loved his wife so dearly.”
Phoebe pretended to dramatically faint upon the bed. “Perhaps sorrow has driven him mad.” Then she burst into giggles. “I should hope that a man would love me so much that he would be driven mad with passion for me… You know, like in The Fatal Love of a Maiden?”
“You do realize that Lord Exmore is a real man? He is not an actor.”
“Of course, I do, dear cousin. I’ve seen him at balls. Well, from across the dance floor. I’ve never really talked to him or danced with him. But he is ever so wickedly handsome.”
“I meant he’s made of flesh and bone and warts and has to make water like everyone else. I have never cared for him, but I know that he sincerely loved his wife in a deep way. And his hurt must be true.”
“I should like it very much if he would fall in love with me in a deep way.” Phoebe sighed.
Annalise opened her mouth to try again to get her point across to Phoebe but stopped. Maybe the problem was with Annalise. Perhaps she needed to relax and giggle again and care only about gowns and plays.
Phoebe must have got an inkling of her cousin’s thoughts. “My dear cousin, you are far too serious. You must be happy again. Go to the masquerade as a siren but in a gown. That will be great fun.” She bounced off the bed. “I know you are worried that people may cut you. But that was a long time ago. Don’t listen to Papa. Everything will be jolly. You will see.” She hugged Annalise. “I’m so happy you are here. We shall have a lovely time shopping tomorrow.” Phoebe made a silly little dance out of exiting the room.
Annalise crawled into bed. She was exhausted but couldn’t drift off. She waited until the entire house was silent with sleep, and then she slid out of her bed, opened the other portfolio, and drew out the contents: letters and letters to Patrick that she had never sent. She flipped through the pages, glancing at the words she had written through the years.
Today my mother stared up from her pillow. “I’m going to die,” she told me sadly. We have known this, but now she is resigned. My heart is broken.
Spring is here. The wildflowers are in bloom, so I took my paints to the field. As I painted, I wondered what landscape you saw. I wondered about everything you had ever done since leaving England and if I were so far in your mind as to be forgotten.
I sat Papa up in bed and read to him from Mr. Visser’s new volume, which arrived from Holland today. Papa complimented my Dutch, which had vastly improved. Remember how you teased me that Dutch was the most unromantic-sounding language?
Papa has passed from this world, and although I am alive, I feel great swaths of my heart have died too. Did you feel so lost and alien when you arrived in India?
And the last she had written:
I am coming back to London. The last place I remember being wildly happy. I know you are still in India, but somehow, I feel closer to you in London. Isn’t that silly? I wonder what I will say or do should I see you again?
She turned the last letter and dipped her pen in the ink.
I was mistaken. London is not the same. The memories remain, yet I am different. Can you ever return to the person you were before? I must find a way to make her come back. Can I find a way to make you come back?
Chapter Three
* * *
Exmore’s head pounded with a dull throb, his mouth was dry, and his stomach clenched at the thought of eating the toast and butter that the servants at Brooks’s had placed before him. The last twelve hours were snatches of images in his mind: a lovely actress at curtain call, the firelight on his glass of brandy, the dice rolling down a table, a paste diamond ring glinting on the actress’s finger, and the rain trickling down the filthy gutter as he held his stomach.
The owner of the ring had whispered into his ear, “Let me comfort you. Let me help you forget.”
But nothing could help him. She had kissed him against the door to her flat and fondled his privates, but he hadn’t reacted. She wasn’t her, and he was too drunk to pretend. He weaved home, his vision blurry, his steps unsteady, to where her portrait rose high in the entrance hall. The one he’d commissioned on their honeymoon. She stared shyly over her creamy shoulder at visitors. The artist had painted the lovely sunlight upon her pink gown and dark hair, capturing that radiance about her. The light had seemingly followed her, keeping her bathed in its glow. No woman could be more beautiful to him than she was.
He had drunk some more spirits, despite his butler’s warning. Then he had fallen into bed, letting his valet pull his clothes off him. Then he had drifted in and out of nightmares.
This morning, he had awakened reeking of the actress’s perfume. His face was bloated, his chin rough with stubble, but in the hall, she remained radiant in her silken gown, gazing upon him, her sweet expression unchanged.
Damn her.
He couldn’t stay in his home. It was the least emotionally comforting place he knew. So, he’d scooped up his correspondences and taken them to the club. He’d found a table in the back corner. He wanted to be left alone, but he didn’t want to be alone. He guzzled black tea and rested his clammy head on his hand as he read over missives concerning a vote that would take place in Parliament that afternoon.