Marquesses at the Masquerade(81)
“Suppose? You suppose?” he shouted. “I love you.” The words came out before he realized he had said them. He had never admitted to himself that he loved Annalise. He hadn’t allowed himself, because he had fallen too quick to trust himself—because he hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable again. Yet, the words tumbled out, raw and bleeding. He studied her, waiting, hoping she wouldn’t break his heart. Hoping some miracle would salvage the moment. Please, Annalise.
“But—but we are friends,” she stammered.
He grabbed another handful of letters from her portfolio and tossed them at the fire grate.
“No!” She rushed from the bed and snatched up the pages, crushing them to her naked chest.
He stared at her, thinking he might cry himself, as she huddled protectively over the letters. How was this happening again?
“Why did you do this to me?”
He tore from the room.
*
Annalise had gone too far. She had said words she couldn’t take back. A hundred I’m sorrys wouldn’t suffice. She revisited the morning scene over and over, but she couldn’t correct it. What had happened would calcify into a painful memory.
He loved her. Her own husband loved her. Why did she feel miserable? She would do about anything to have those wild, obsessive feelings for Exmore that she had for Patrick. And even in this lowest of moments, she couldn’t keep down the flutter of excitement in her wretched, cruel heart knowing Patrick was coming.
She decided she would be as affectionate, as lovely as possible to her husband, trying to make up for the truth she couldn’t hide. But a quiet voice tugged at her conscience, reminding her that he had known. He had known all along about her feelings for Patrick. He had known she didn’t love him, and he had advocated a marriage of friendship. And then he changed the rules and threw everything in her face.
Nonetheless, the morning after his discovery of the letters, she sought him out, wanting to beg for his forgiveness. He was nowhere to be found. For hours, she waited, her frantic mind immediately jumping to the worst conclusions: He had gone to a hell and was drinking and gambling. What if a woman approached him? She couldn’t bear the thought of him with another. Yet, he was a marquess, and many married peers openly kept mistresses. She tried to tell herself that she was being unrealistic, yet these anxious thoughts continued to whirl in her mind as she went about her day, answering correspondences, meeting with the housekeeper about domestic matters, and greeting morning callers. She and Exmore had begun making friends with other married couples. It took so much strength to smile and laugh along with friends as if nothing was wrong. She sat across from the couples, watching their affectionate little glances at each other and felt like an impostor.
She should have gone to Holland and spared Exmore this pain. She had only tried to do what she thought was best. Exmore had told her that she made him happy, but she had to think he wasn’t very happy now.
Exmore finally reappeared in the early evening. He came to her parlor, where she was speaking with the butler about a monthly order from the wine merchant. With the servant present, she couldn’t leap from the table and embrace her husband as she wanted. The anger that had animated his face earlier was gone, replaced with coldness. He announced he planned to work in his library until Parliament began and walked out.
Once the butler left, she hurried to Exmore’s library. She tapped on the door and entered when he said, “Yes.” He glanced up.
She squeezed her hands together. “I’m so, so—”
“I have to know the details of this bill by Parliament,” he said. “I’m speaking.”
“Oh.” She swallowed and changed tactics. “Then do you mind if I sit on the sofa and read a few letters? I only want to be near you.” She often stretched out against him and read her correspondences with the beat of his heart in her ear.
“No, no, go ahead,” he said without looking up.
She nervously sank onto the cushion, keeping her back straight. She didn’t know what was worse—not having him around, or having him close, yet feeling separated by an invisible wall built of icy hostility. Two hours passed in this ugly silence. She would have preferred if he had verbally sparred with her or even glowered, rather than this cold nothingness.
Finally, he rose. “I must go. Enjoy your evening.” He strolled out. Not a kiss, not an embrace, not even a glance at her.
Now her own ire spiked. She wanted to chase after him and say, You can’t even hold a conversation with me about what happened?
Three hours later, a footman delivered a note from Exmore.
I apologize, but I will be unavailable to attend the theater this evening. I think your cousin Phoebe would enjoy taking my place.
Thank heavens for the excitable Phoebe. Her effervescent enthusiasm for the play and the leading man helped Annalise survive the play. She sat next to Annalise and whispered, “Oh my goodness, he’s handsome and charming. I’m wildly tingling all over.”
Annalise didn’t find him handsome at all. Her husband was handsome and charming. This actor, with his makeup and posturing, couldn’t hold a candle to Exmore. And the depressing production about star-crossed lovers who met terrible ends did little to help matters.
Exmore wasn’t home when she returned after midnight. Annalise lay in bed but couldn’t sleep. Tears streamed down her face. Hadn’t he said that she wouldn’t have to be alone anymore? Hadn’t he said their marriage of friendship would be full of laughter?