Marquesses at the Masquerade(83)

Exmore hadn’t reminded Patrick that he had been married to another woman at the time of Patrick’s departure to India.

“Let us all go to the club and talk as proper gentlemen,” Wallis suggested. Wallis had exhibited a meekness around Exmore since the wedding.

Exmore excused himself, claiming he was on his way to meet with his man of business. Exmore remained coldly polite to Wallis out of familial duty, but he would never forgive the man for insulting Annalise.

“Then I shall call later today,” Patrick had said brightly, as if his visit would be the pinnacle of Exmore’s day and not the nadir.

Now, Exmore didn’t know how to feel. He wanted Annalise to witness how little Patrick cared for her. Yet, he didn’t want her to hurt even more. So much hung in the balance. The perilous game he had dared to play was ending. He wouldn’t emerge the winner.

Annalise had been right. Friendship wasn’t enough for a marriage. He couldn’t make Annalise love him, just as he hadn’t been able to make Cassandra love him. He had been a fool, and now he would see the consequences of his idiocy play out before his eyes. His heart ached like it had during those weeks after Cassandra’s death. What had he done?

*



Patrick arrived two hours later. Exmore met him in the drawing room.

Annalise didn’t come down, and Exmore began to think that she wasn’t coming. His relief was short-lived when he saw the door quietly open, and Annalise slipped into the room. She wore the same clothes as she had earlier. The sunlight glowed through the strands of hair falling from her lace cap.

Patrick, who had been thinking aloud about the kind of horse team he wanted to put together, trailed off mid-sentence. His lips parted. “Annalise,” he whispered.

Her eyes widened. Patrick stared at her, seeming to lose track of the moment. Then he shook his head as if awaking. He rose to his feet. “You look…” He gestured to his face. “Lovely. Quite lovely.”

For a long moment, neither Patrick nor Annalise spoke, but gazed at each other. Raw emotion saturated the air. Exmore’s heart felt like it was contracting. Why did he feel he was intruding on a tender lovers’ moment? And one of the lovers was his wife. He desired to stalk from the room, get on his horse, and leave behind London and the disaster his life had become.

“Please,” Annalise said to Patrick and gestured to a chair. She glanced at Exmore. He looked away. He wouldn’t let her see his pain.

“I’m sorry for my appearance.” Patrick nervously patted his richly embroidered waistcoat. “India’s finest tailors,” he scoffed.

Annalise slowly sat, her hands gripping the armrest. “Did you enjoy your time in India?” Her voice had turned breathy and soft.

“Every hour away from London was torment. Appalling climate and equally appalling inhabitants. I set forth making my way there and ignored the rest.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve read such delightful accounts of the customs and people. I thought that I should very much like to go.”

“Surely you can find more comfortable corners of the world than a mosquito-and dung-infested cesspool,” he quipped.

“But the art and traditions—”

Patrick waved his hand. “Ornate rubbish. All of it.” He rubbed his lips and chin while studying her again. “I can’t decide what about you has changed so radically. You are different. What have you been doing these years?”

Exmore waited for her to say that she had married. She made no mention of it, but said, “My parents died. I don’t know if you heard in India.”

Patrick visibly stiffened. “I’m sorry.” He paused, digesting the news. “I’m sorry. I remember how you were always telling me delightful stories about them. How you used to laugh about your father coming in from the fields with insects crawling all over him. And how your mother would sing louder than the other ladies in the church.”

“Yes,” Annalise whispered.

Exmore swallowed his bitterness. He didn’t know these stories.

“I wish I had known them,” Patrick said solemnly.

Another painfully laden silence infused the room. Exmore could hear the unspoken question that couldn’t be asked: What if Patrick had never left? Where would they all be now?

Patrick turned to Exmore. “So, when did you know she was the lady for you?” Beneath the amicable tone was a challenge.

Exmore wasn’t going to divulge anything about his feelings for his wife. He made a vague reference to the masquerade party. Patrick returned his pointed, bright gaze to Annalise. “Do you enjoy being a marchioness? You didn’t seem the sort when I knew you. Too casual and always laughing.”

“I—I’m still adjusting,” she stammered. “It’s very difficult some days.”

“Ah, but you must adore having parties,” Patrick continued. “Remember how we met at

Lady Denning’s musical evening? You challenged me to sing Bach, and I embarrassed myself, but did it to win your admiration.” He hesitated, considering his words, an introspection Exmore hadn’t seen in him before. “I… when I was in India, I would think about those days, you know. They seemed… sweeter. I missed them.”

Annalise regarded him for a moment, and then her eyes drifted to the window. Exmore couldn’t read her expression. Patrick had all but announced he had longed for her. She must be thinking about what would have happened if she hadn’t married Exmore. She would have been free to marry the man she had loved all along.