Marquesses at the Masquerade(57)

She crossed to her desk, drew out a piece of paper, and dipped her pen. What to say? A large blob of ink dripped onto the page. Again, that old anger she had nursed for Exmore returned afresh. She hastily scribbled.



What do you want from me? Why couldn’t you leave me alone?



Her door opened, and Phoebe popped her head in. “Are you coming to help us with my hair for the ball or not?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Annalise turned the page over and rose from the chair. She needed a little more time to think about forgiveness before she wrote any more.

*



Exmore cursed himself for sending the letter and illustration as he ambled toward his club. He might as well have tossed them into a void.

Although he had written that he would kindly avoid her, he desired to see her eyes and hear what she had said when she read the letter. Their conversation had been left dangling. Its incompleteness bothered him, because he had so much he wanted to say to her. He couldn’t explain it, but the only person in London he really wanted to talk to was her. He wanted to speak about more than Patrick. He wanted to tell her about Cassandra and how disoriented he had felt after she died.

But the kindest thing he could do was keep silent and walk away from Miss Van Der Keer. Too much bad history rested between them for any kind of friendly acquaintance. But during that time with her, as the fat moon had looked on, she had raised him above the gloom that weighed daily in his chest. He had a glimmer of hope that he could be attracted again to a proper lady and not sink to emotionless, soulless trysts.

He found himself standing before the print shop window where he had spied Annalise a few days ago. The small optimism in his heart faltered. All the illustrations of Visser had been taken down, replaced with political cartoons about the Prince Regent. He didn’t know why, but it felt like an omen as he gazed at the grotesque, exaggerated images of the corpulent prince instead of the beautiful drawings that had captivated Miss Van Der Keer.

He stepped inside. A different clerk, older than the one Annalise had enthralled, was setting out more ugly caricatures.

“Where are the Visser images?” Exmore demanded, a strange note of panic in his voice.

“Couldn’t sell them,” the man replied with a shrug. “We sold the lot of them to a shop on the Continent.” The clerk then nodded to a newspaper folded on the table beside Exmore. “Aye, but if you’re interested, Mr. Visser is in London lecturing. Perhaps he will have some prints with him.”

“May I?” Exmore lifted the paper and flipped through the pages until he found:



Mr. Christiaan Visser, renowned Dutch naturalist, will speak at the Royal Institution. Interested ladies and gentlemen are invited to attend.



The article went on to give the specifics of the time and room. Annalise needed to know about this lecture!

Yet, he had written that he would keep his distance from her. Hang it all.

“You may take the paper, sir, if it pleases,” the clerk said.

Exmore shook his head and replaced the paper on the table. “No, thank you.” If Annalise were meant to attend that lecture, she would have to learn about it through another means. He had given her his word.

He left, feeling that old edgy restlessness set in. For the rest of the afternoon, he could settle nowhere for very long, moving from club to club until the day’s session of Parliament began. He wanted to disappear into a gaming hell, letting brandy and the thrill of the turn of cards crowd out his gloominess. But dammit, he had to get better. He couldn’t live his life this way. He had to find a way out.

Back at home after Parliament, he shuffled through his invitations. He received six or so invitations for balls or recitals for any given night during the Season. He rarely received invitations to dine anymore, having left too many embarrassed matrons with an empty seat at their tables. As he glanced at the names, he wondered where Annalise might be.

Why can’t you stop thinking about her? Let her go, good man.

He tossed the invitations face down on the table and blindly picked one—a ball given by Lord Carruthers.

He had his valet adonize him and the carriage sent around.

For all his trouble, he danced three sets with pretty young things who possessed sweet smiles and insipid conversation. He could see the large moon looming through the windows—the same full moon that had shone the night of the masquerade, yet this night had none of the previous night’s magic. He caught himself scanning the crowd, looking for Annalise. But she wasn’t there. Frivolity surrounded him, yet he felt miserably alone and despondent. The sirens sang in his ear, Come away to a gaming hell. Stop trying, it’s no use.

By ten o’clock, he had succumbed. He slumped in a chair around a card table, drinking his second brandy and pondering whether to hold or ask for another card in a game of vingt-et-un. He held a ten of spades and an eight of diamonds. Good, but perhaps not quite good enough to win. But as he considered the probabilities of his cards, he realized he didn’t care about winning or losing. They felt the same—empty and dull.

Behind him, two young bucks were drinking at a small round table. They had been there for almost half an hour, but now their conversation drifted to his ear.

“Miss Littleton. I’ll wager she will be engaged in two weeks,” he heard one say. “Many fellows are vying for her.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The two men had been joined by a third, a dandy wearing a padded black coat and a collar so high it brushed against his earlobes. A book was set on the table before the men, and a servant had brought over an inkwell.