Marquesses at the Masquerade(84)

Exmore reached for the decanter on the table beside him.

Patrick continued digging about in his nostalgic memories. Annalise remained fixed on the window. Exmore sipped from his glass and followed Annalise’s gaze. A dull brown finch was perched on the sill. As soon as Exmore saw it, the bird flew away.

“I—I have a headache,” Annalise said suddenly, interrupting Patrick’s continuing reverie.

Patrick bolted from his chair and rushed to her as if Exmore wasn’t there. “I’m sorry. Let us send a servant for your present relief.” He touched her shoulder, and Annalise released a high, quiet hum.

Exmore rolled the burning brandy on his tongue and stifled the urge to strike Patrick.

Annalise’s eyes trailed down to where Patrick’s hand rested upon her. “No, thank you. I—I need to rest.” She crossed to the door and then stopped, turning back. “Welcome back to London, Mr. Hume. I hope you are happier here than in India.” She studied him a second more, then her eyes lit on Exmore. He busied himself pouring another brandy. She walked out of the room.

For a moment, neither man spoke. Exmore drank from his brandy, wishing he could hasten the glow of inebriation. He didn’t offer Patrick a glass.

“How extraordinary,” Patrick began, wagging his finger in the air. “I think you once said that she wasn’t fit to be a gentleman’s wife. Her nature was too wild and unyielding. When I defended her, you said she required more grace than she possessed to be my wife. Whatever changed your opinion of her?” He tried to make his words sound innocent. Exmore wasn’t tricked. He heard the accusation in them.

“Don’t remind me of what I said then,” Exmore growled.

“But I listened to you. I followed your advice. I sailed across the world because you told me to.”

Exmore shot to his feet. “You put up no resistance. You didn’t fight for her at all. You walked away from her, breaking her heart. She deserved better.”

Patrick opened his mouth and then shut it. After a pause, he said, “I broke her heart?” He seemed awed by this knowledge, his ego swelling at the realization that he possessed such power. “Well, I suppose you’ve mended it, haven’t you?” He chuckled, a low, menacing sound—a laugh he must have acquired in India. “Just don’t forget whom she loved first, my cousin. I could have had her.”

Exmore made no words of farewell to Patrick. He simply set down his glass and strode out. It was the best option to keep Patrick’s handsome face intact.

Exmore glanced up at the empty space that had once been occupied by Cassandra’s portrait as he walked up the stairs to Annalise’s chamber. Their marriage had ended in irreversible death. His and Annalise’s marriage would continue in name and nothing else. They couldn’t live in this tangled mess they were caught in, especially when the man she truly loved loitered about London.

He had made a mistake persuading Annalise to marry him. This sham of a marriage was his fault. Now he had to do his best to undo the damage he had inflicted, and then he would disappear into a gaming hell.

If she wanted Patrick, then he would give him to her. Exmore wouldn’t say a word against her if they were discreet about their affair. But Exmore wouldn’t wait around to witness the love she could never give to Exmore lavished on Patrick. Exmore wasn’t strong enough to feel that kind of pain. For a few beautiful weeks, Exmore had thought he could rise above the ashes of his life after Cassandra. He had believed he could build something new and strong, but he had based his hope on a shaky foundation.

Annalise had been right that night so many years ago when she had vehemently cried that she would love Patrick forever. She had been right that friends shouldn’t marry. What had he done to her? To himself?

He tapped on her door. “Annalise,” he whispered.

She opened the door. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks damp. Scattered across the floor were the letters to Patrick. They were strewn haphazardly, as if she had thrown them.

“Please, please,” she said and gestured him inside.

He drew in a steeling breath and began the proposal he didn’t want to make, a pragmatic solution to this sad union. He had only to get out the words, and then he could disappear into a numbing bottle of brandy for the next months. “Perhaps we can live separate lives—”

“Is it too late to say I love you?” she cried.

“What?” Had he heard her correctly? No. He was afraid to believe. His heart had been damaged by hope before.

“Is it too late to say I love you?” She pressed her hand to her mouth, sobs shaking her shoulders.

“Oh, Annalise,” he whispered. He tenderly drew the tear-wetted strands of hair away from her cheeks.

“I don’t know the man who called today. I surely don’t love him. I don’t even know him. All this time…” She closed her eyes. “What have I done? I’ve caused so much trouble out of my foolishness. I’ve missed you so terribly.”

“Hush,” he tried to soothe her. “Don’t let it trouble you.” Her misery ached in his own chest.

“I saw him next to you, and in my heart there was nothing for him. Nothing. Empty. All my love was for you. He was a stranger. But I wrote all those letters to him. Every day. I wasted so much time. And I drove you away. I hurt you. And yet, I can’t… I can’t…” She searched his face, looking for an explanation.