Marquesses at the Masquerade(74)

“I do,” she choked through her tears. “Very much.”

“What waits for you in Holland, Annalise? Maybe love, maybe more emptiness. I am here. I simply want your companionship. That is all. We can be a marriage of friends.”

She shook her head. “No, no. Years from now, you may fall in love again. I shall hold you back.”

“I’ve been in love before, and so have you. How did it feel?”

“Don’t make me think about that!” She remembered waiting, waiting for Patrick to write, refusing to believe he had abandoned her. Days had trudged on as she had hand-fed her dying mother and learned to manage a home for her father. Her mind had known he was gone, enchanted by a new land, but her heart didn’t speak the language of her mind. It had hurt and yearned. It had driven her to write letters to Patrick, to replay all their memories, trying to recapture the magic of his love while she was cleaning oozing bedsores on her father’s body.

“I think friendship may be better than love,” he said.

Annalise wasn’t convinced. “But if we are married, you will require an heir and… and a true wife would… I don’t know if…” She released a nervous breath. “I’m having a difficult time saying this. A marriage is intimate.”

He rose to his feet, all the while keeping his gaze on hers. “May I kiss you?”

She studied his lips. They were soft, waiting, and she wasn’t averse to knowing their touch. “Yes,” she whispered.

Yet, he didn’t. He gently stroked her cheek with his thumbs, taking in her face. Then he closed his eyes, slowly lowered his lips, resting them on hers. His were warm, the edges slightly roughened where he shaved. His scent—like pine trees in the winter—filled her. He began to move his lips, asking her for more. She opened her mouth, letting him inside. Their tongues tentatively touched, tasted, caressed.

Kissing Patrick had been a wild, almost desperate sensation. She hadn’t been able to get close enough to Patrick, her body alive and cracking with wild energy. Kissing Exmore was a lulling, sweet sensation, like the steam off of the hot tea and the peaceful tap of the rain from that day at the tea shop. And like that day, she didn’t want the kiss to end, but go on and on. He finally pulled away, but only to rest his forehead upon hers.

“Will that do?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Are you sure I’m who you want? Me? Odd, curious me? You don’t love me either.”

Again, he rubbed her cheek. “Marry me, Annalise. You once said that you felt like a stranger to yourself… I know that feeling. I will give you space to find who you are. You can study botany and naturalism, and I will tell you how brilliant you are. You can delight me with your odd, curious, and wonderful insights. We can read to each other as you did to your father in the garden. We can talk over tea and let the hours fly by. Marry me.”

She couldn’t go back to her old home, and she couldn’t find the London she had known with Patrick. It had all passed away, like her parents. The future in Holland waited with relatives she had never met—strangers who were hundreds of miles of ocean away. She didn’t love Exmore in the way she had loved Patrick. She couldn’t deny the advantage of his title and that their children would always be provided for. But more than anything, she admired Exmore and trusted him. He made her laugh. And that meant so much after being lonely and sad for so long.

He kissed her forehead. “We will be content. Say yes, my Annalise.”

My Annalise. No one had called her that since her father died.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”





Chapter Eleven





* * *



The next morning, Annalise woke to wind splattering rain against her window. Beyond the glass, the world was a blurry, watery gray with people scurrying about with umbrellas. Annalise gripped her taut belly and remembered: Today, she was getting married. Exmore wanted to remove her from her uncle’s house as soon as possible. To this end, he would obtain a special license that morning, and the wedding would take place in the afternoon.

The idea of a marriage of friends was comforting. She could give up on finding love again—the passionate love she had had for Patrick and the potential happiness or pain it might cause—and just accept a situation that was good enough but not ideal. Since her parents’ deaths, the world seemed much bigger and harder, and she, much smaller and fragile. But now, in the rainy, cold morning, she realized she had made a mistake. Everything was wrong. She knew Patrick was never coming back to her. He didn’t love her. Yet, today would be the final end to her doomed courtship with Patrick. She hadn’t realized how much she had been hanging on the thinnest thread of hope for Patrick. But now, all hope, no matter how dim, was extinguished. He was gone to her forever.

“No,” she whispered. “No.” It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Her aunt swept into the room, her cheeks and eyes bright with excitement. Phoebe and Mrs. Bailey were in her wake. “Oh, my darling, you must get ready for your wedding!” her aunt said in a singsong voice. “I’ve told everyone. And a letter from your future husband has arrived and these lovely orchids for you to carry. Mrs. Bailey, put these in a vase.”

Annalise took the letter, opened it, and read.



All will be well. Come to the chapel at four, my lovely bride.