The Marquess Who Loved Me - By Sara Ramsey Page 0,2

his life would have been, if he had claimed this house the day he had inherited it. It would have been easy enough to do — take his damned cousin’s title and the estate his father had never been allowed to return to.

And his cousin’s bride — the woman who should have been his.

His thoughts were consumed by Ellie tonight. But he still had space to examine the house’s defenses. If his would-be murderer had followed him from India, it would be absurdly easy to slip onto the estate. In fact, it seemed no slipping was required — Napoleon himself could likely walk into this party unmolested, and perhaps be offered refreshments and a bath before he started hacking away at people.

The tide of his anger swept him up the stairs and warmed his blood. An answering blast of body heat met him at the door. A crush of people milled in the grand foyer, spilling into the public drawing rooms and salons beyond the entryway.

It was a masquerade party — that much was clear immediately. The guests wore even more elaborate Elizabethan garb than the servants. Beneath the perfume of hothouse flowers, he smelled musty cedar. Some of the guests wore costumes that had been stored for decades, if not centuries. The gold and silver threaded clothes and bushels of jewels would do a maharaja proud.

Ellie’s birth, as the daughter of a duke absolutely obsessed with bloodlines, had always been high enough to attract a better class than Nick. Her current milieu said she’d found it.

He was tall enough to see over most of them. It had been a consolation years earlier, when they would have had him scraping at their feet. Now, it was merely a convenience. His eyes were already scanning the crowd, looking for red in a sea of blondes and browns and silvers, when someone tapped his elbow.

A servant stood at his side, frowning imperiously. Too young to be a butler — but then, the grooms were young as well. The servants weren’t just young, though. They were perfectly formed and immaculately dressed, as though Ellie had hired staff better suited to standing for her paintings than for menial labor.

Nick raised an eyebrow.

“My lady was most specific in the invitation about the preferred costume for this evening. Sir,” he added, with just enough doubt to set Nick’s teeth on edge.

“My lord,” Nick supplied.

The man colored slightly. “My lord,” he repeated. “My apologies. But still, the marchioness…”

Nick handed him his greatcoat, hat, and gloves, stripping them off with a predatory efficiency that made the servant flinch. The man almost refused, starting to gesture toward a cloak room. But Nick didn’t stop. “Send someone to air out my room. And tell me where to find the marchioness.”

“May I have your card, my lord?”

“No.”

He’d been in London five days and hadn’t ordered calling cards. It was likely an offense grave enough to have him tossed out of the House of Lords — but they would have half a dozen other reasons not to welcome him before they even reached matters of etiquette.

The servant swallowed. “If you would be so good as to wait just a moment, my lord, her ladyship will welcome all of her guests soon.”

He had stayed away from her for ten years. Part of him wished for another ten. Another part of him didn’t want to wait ten seconds. But he shrugged, let just enough displeasure show in his eyes to make the servant wince again, and waved a magnanimous hand. “Very well. I will find her myself after she’s greeted the guests.”

“Would you care for a mask, my lord? Not that you must take one, of course,” he added hastily, when Nick’s eyebrow slowly rose again.

He looked out over the crowd. Nearly all of the others wore costumes, not masks. Few would recognize him — few had known him, other than his fellows at Eton, and he’d seen none of them in over a decade. But if the servants were too dense to realize who he was, he would save the surprise for Ellie herself.

Maybe he would see something on her face to repay him for everything she’d done.

He turned back to the servant and took the mask he offered. He pulled on his formal gloves, obeying that social rule even if he cared for none of the others. And then he strode through the crowd, ignoring muttered huffs of protest as he elbowed toward the closed double doors on one side of the