Marquesses at the Masquerade(71)

She left the dance floor, shaking, and headed for the refreshment parlor. She heard the colonel say something about procuring her some punch, but she ignored him and continued on her own. How did their secret get out? She had told no one, and she trusted Exmore.

A warm hand latched on to her elbow, and Exmore whispered, “I need to speak to you.”

She slowly turned. Exmore’s face was politely composed but pain imbued his burning eyes. “Please.” His voice had a hollowed-out quality.

She shouldn’t meet him here. Not at a crowded ball with her uncle hovering about. It was too dangerous. Yet, she replied, “Yes,” to his imploring gaze.

He walked to a closed parlor door, opened it, and slipped inside. She glanced again at her uncle to find he was still deep in conversation with another gentleman. She paused a moment more, having second thoughts, but then slipped into the parlor with Exmore.

*



Exmore seized her shoulders, holding on to her as if they were in some swift-moving current and she would be cast away from him otherwise. “What did he say to you?” he demanded.

Annalise didn’t need any more explanation. She comprehended him immediately. “That man Lewiston said… that you killed some lady he loved. That she died from grief that you inflicted. He was a horrible man. I couldn’t stand touching him. How dare he say these things to me? And at a ball. He is mad.”

Exmore released a deep breath. He should have known Annalise would be sensible. “He is not mad, but he is a very angry and hurt man.”

She held up her hand. “Please, don’t put me in this situation between you two. There are aspects of your life that I don’t need to know about. You are a m—”

“I’m a drunken libertine.”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what others say. But I need to tell you something. Something I—I haven’t admitted to anyone else.”

The unspoken words had sat in his mind for years and affected every minute of his life, burned in his heart. His life was divided into two times periods—before Cassandra’s death and then after. He had planned to bury the secret with his death and Lewiston. Until that time, he had been prepared to live with the ugly truth day to day, hour to hour. But now, as he looked at Annalise’s compassionate eyes, the words were too heavy, and he couldn’t carry them anymore. Something in her face—in its unique contours—made him feel safe, as though she had some power that no one else possessed to heal him.

“You can tell me anything you need to,” she encouraged.

The truth he had held back so long burst out. “Lewiston loved Cassandra.”

She blinked. “This—this is about Cassandra?” The machinations of her mind showed in her eyes. “Were they lovers? But—but you loved her!” she said fiercely, protectively. “You loved her so much! I remember what you told me that night. How you loved her with a depth I couldn’t conceive. Oh, Exmore.” She drew him into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not as it seems.” He buried his face in her silken hair, drawing in her vanilla scent.

“Tell me now,” she whispered. “The truth. All of it. You needn’t worry about my feelings.”

“I loved her.” The words emitted from a deep, despairing place. “I loved her too much.”

“You cannot love someone too much, Exmore,” she said quietly.

He drew her tight... He needed her warmth, her strength, her understanding. “Unless they don’t love you. Unless your love is unwanted.”

She sucked in her breath. Her body stiffened for a moment, and then all the softness flooded back. “Oh, Exmore. No. I always thought… yours was the perfect marriage. I coveted it when I had been abandoned. I was jealous of it. I thought… I’m sorry. Oh God.”

“I fell wildly in love with her from the start.” The truth had been poisoning him. He had to get it out. “My father advised me against the match, believing I was too young. I wouldn’t listen. She was all I knew, all I thought about. I didn’t know that she loved another. I didn’t. I thought her reserve was part of her calm countenance. Unknown to me, her father forced her to marry me because I was a future marquess, and Lewiston, then, was only the younger son of a baron.”

He drew back until he could see her eyes. “I didn’t know.”

She caressed his shoulder. “Of course you didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t have encouraged her to marry me. I feel like a monster.”

“This isn’t your doing.”

“I never suspected anything. She was a good wife—a model wife. Yet, I felt she always kept something from me. Her elusiveness drove me wild. I couldn’t get enough of her. I spent years trying to steal into her secret world. I thought that was how love worked.”

The tears he had never let himself cry filled Annalise’s lovely eyes.

“The pregnancy made her ill. She couldn’t hold down water or food. It was torture to watch her body writhe with retching convulsion. She… she…” He swallowed. His throat burned. “She called out Lewiston’s name. Until then, I had never heard of the man. She begged her maid to come and write a letter to Lewiston. Beneath her delirium, she knew she was dying.” He searched her face, soft with compassion. “I—I did something I shouldn’t have,” he admitted. “I betrayed her trust.”