Marquesses at the Masquerade(76)

Exmore must have sensed her distress, for he beckoned to a manservant and pointed to the painting. The manservant nodded.

“We must have your portrait painted and hung in its place,” he told Annalise.

“No!” she cried without thinking. She was horrified at the idea of London Society entering his home and seeing her likeness towering above them. The thought reminded her that as marchioness, she would have to host balls, dinners, and musical evenings. Dear Lord! All she really wanted was to draw wildflowers. Not this!

Wasn’t marrying a marquess supposed to be some kind of dream? Well, it was. A nightmare.

Again, Exmore whispered, “All will be well,” in her ear, but his worried tone hardly soothed her.

She was finally shown to her chamber after an intimidating tour of her new home. And she learned there were four other grander estates that Exmore also called his residences. She was so overwhelmed she could hardly keep her thoughts straight. She remembered thinking how snobbish those old matrons had sounded at balls when they spoke of marrying near one’s station. Now their advice made perfect sense: Annalise hadn’t been brought up to be a marchioness. Now she even had her own lady’s maid—a willowy, lovely lady named Marie. Annalise missed homey, unfashionable Mrs. Bailey. She desperately needed someone from her old life at this moment.

Marie curtsied. “My lady,” she said, her French accent showing.

Don’t call me my lady. Don’t supplicate to me.

“I put your things away,” Marie said.

“Oh.” Annalise didn’t remember having her belongings packed and sent over. Of course, it must have happened. How distracted she had been.

Marie pointed to the various features in the chamber, including the neighboring sitting and dressing rooms. Then she gestured to an interior door. “And that leads to your husband’s chambers.”

Annalise stared at the door. Several days ago, they had spoken at a masquerade, and she hadn’t known his name. Now, they would intimately know each other. There was so much she didn’t know about him. The little important details that made up a person. She just had his broad strokes. It was all too quick.

“I am so happy you are here.” Marie arranged bottles on a vanity. “It’s been gloomy since Lady Exmore died… Oh, but you are Lady Exmore now.”

No, I’m not, Annalise wanted to say. I’m Annalise Van Der Keer. Instead, she only smiled and wrapped her arms about herself.

Marie helped Annalise out of her wedding gown. “Do you have a special nightgown for tonight?” she asked with a knowing smile. She seemed happier about Annalise’s wedding night than Annalise.

“No, just… just the ones I usually wear.”

Marie gave her a mysterious smile, making Annalise feel stupid for not thinking of a pretty nightgown for her husband.

After Annalise had donned her plain nightclothes, Marie brushed out her hair until it spilled in shiny waves around her shoulders. “Here, then.” She dabbed floral perfume on Annalise’s neck and then left with the wedding gown folded over her arm.

Annalise was alone. The rain pinged on the windows. It hadn’t let up all day.

What did she do now?

She eyed the door. Did she visit his chamber? Did he visit hers? Who knocked first?

She felt like a five-year-old who wanted to go back home to her mother and father.

She walked to where her leather portfolios rested on a large desk. She opened the top one, which contained her letters to Patrick, and drew out the last one she had written. She turned the stationery over and hastily wrote:



Dear Patrick, I’ve made a horrible mistake. What have I done? What have I done? It was supposed to be you. I was supposed to marry you…



She heard a gentle tap and glanced down at the letter. Oh God, she had written to Patrick on her wedding night? What was wrong with her? She felt oddly like she was already breaking the vows she had made only hours before. She didn’t have time to burn the letter, so she shoved it back into the portfolio.

“Yes,” she said.

The door slowly opened, and Exmore entered hesitantly, wearing a silk dressing gown of jewel blue and crimson. She had never seen him without a starched shirt, tailored coat, and cravat. In the firelight, his skin appeared bronze. His tousled hair shone as it fell onto his forehead and almost down to his shoulders. She could make out the planes of his chest peeking out from the V opening of his robe and the curves of his muscled calves beneath the hem. He cradled a wrapped package in his arms.

Despite his casual attire, he bowed stiffly.

“Are you well?” He nervously eyed her.

Why try to pretend? She wasn’t any good at acting. “I’m overwhelmed, scared, not sure I can be a marchioness, and I’m wondering if I made a mistake, but you… you look very handsome.” She gestured to him. “Well, you’re always handsome. But you are especially handsome tonight.”

Her words had the opposite effect than she’d thought they would. Surely, stating that she felt she had made a mistake would trouble him, but his shoulders relaxed with a long exhalation.

“I’m feeling overwhelmed myself. I saw how you struggled today, and I should have been—I should have been a better husband to you.”

“I understand,” she interjected. “I can imagine this was an emotional day for you.”