Marquesses at the Masquerade(55)

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

“Get—get away from me.” She bolted for the door.

Forgive? As if he had accidentally stepped on her toe or bumped into her, instead of ripping her beating heart from her chest. She didn’t give her forgiveness so lightly. To Hades with London and Exmore. She just wanted to get away from London and all its heartbreak as fast as she could. There was nothing for her here… not anymore. She had been stupid to come back.

All the inhabitants of the refreshment room looked up when she entered. Their gazes felt like a splash of cold water on her face. News of her presence had pervaded the party. Everyone knew that beneath the stupid costume was Annalise Van Der Keer, the silly girl who’d disgraced herself chasing after Patrick Hume. She could see the malicious laughter trembling on the guests’ lips. She glanced back at the terrace, where Satan waited. She was cornered. She swallowed, raised her head, and walked across the room, ignoring the whispers.

The ball continued until two. Annalise thankfully didn’t spy Exmore again. She spent the rest of the masquerade wandering from room to room, pretending to look busy. All the while, she planned. It would take several weeks to arrange for a stay at a relative’s home in Holland. Tomorrow, she would write the letters. Upon receiving a positive response, she would buy a ticket on a boat and tell Mrs. Bailey that she didn’t require her employment. Dear, loyal Mrs. Bailey would be miserable away from her motherland. It was time Annalise truly grew up and left her memories of Patrick behind. He wasn’t coming back. He was gone forever. Her love for him was like having an amputated limb—she had to go on living despite the pain, scars, and missing part.

After Mrs. Bailey removed Annalise’s hideous costume and left her alone to sleep, Annalise opened her portfolio and drew out her last letter to Patrick. She turned the letter, writing across it.



Dear Patrick,

Sadly, our correspondence must end. I will always love you. But you do not love me, and I need to let go of the fantasy that someday you will again. Good-bye.



She read over her words as the ink dried. No! She wadded up the letter and then stopped and pressed it out. Why couldn’t she let go of him? Why had she chased his memory to London when he clearly didn’t love her? What was wrong with her?

*



Nothing could blot out what happened. The smoke and noise in the gaming hell hurt Exmore’s head. He couldn’t seem to add up his cards or remember what card led. Alcohol didn’t bring the sweet numbing sensation he craved for his self-loathing. Having lost ten pounds, he gave up and ambled home, hoping the cold air would clear his mind. He carried on a logical argument in his head as he wove through the streets

He had tricked Annalise. Why did he follow her to the terrace? Because he had to solve the mystery: Had she truly changed?

Yet, why did he keep talking once he had determined that her temperament had indeed calmed? Why did he ask her intimate questions when he had known he was violating her trust?

He looked up. The swollen moon was directly above him.

Because she made him happy. For the moments that he was with her, he felt lifted above the despondency that followed him. He hadn’t thought the conversation would go very far. He hadn’t thought he would have to admit who he was. He had wanted only to keep her near him. He could tell she hadn’t known happiness in a long while. She hadn’t appeared to know that Patrick was returning. She was simply lost, as he had been after Cassandra died—unsure of who he was and the world he inhabited. She had wanted to talk, and he had been the wrong gentleman at the right place and time. Like him, she was surrounded by people, yet she was painfully alone. He wanted to make her happy too.

Of course, he had ended up making her feel worse. Damn him.

He was sober by the time he entered his home. He kept his eyes averted from his wife’s portrait as he climbed the staircase to his chamber. He lit the candle on his writing desk and sank into the chair. He drew out a clean sheet of stationery from the drawer, dipped his pen, and wrote.



Miss Van Der Keer…





Chapter Five





* * *



Annalise had written and dispatched three letters to Dutch relatives by luncheon. She kept her plans to herself for now because Phoebe and her mother were bubbling with excitement from the masquerade. They subjected Mr. Sommerville to a detailed recounting of every costume and every dance partner.

“Enough, good wife!” he bellowed. “What have I done to deserve this torment?” He glanced down the table. “You are mercifully quiet, Annalise. Are you not in boughs over the masquerade too?”

Annalise jumped at the sound of her name. She had been staring out the window, wondering about the flora and fauna of Holland. They had tulips, of course, but she wondered what she might find that wasn’t in England.

“Ah, she’s daydreaming,” her uncle said. “One night in London, and she’s already ridiculously in love. Maybe this one will stay around, and I can pop her off. I need to start ridding myself of my female problem. It’s an infestation I have on my hands.”

His wife laughed.

“I was thinking about botany,” Annalise said flatly.

“Turning into a bluestocking, are you?” he quipped. “I suppose the ball must have bored you.”

“I had a wonderful time,” she lied. Aunt Sally and Phoebe had been too caught up in their excitement to have noticed the ripple Annalise’s presence had caused at the masquerade. Annalise decided it was best to remain silent about the problem since she would be leaving soon enough.