The Marquess Who Loved Me - By Sara Ramsey Page 0,60

lost.

She was already lost.

She dipped down, scooped up a palmful of untouched snow, and pressed it against her face. The cold shocked her and she sucked in a deep, cleansing breath. The crisp air burned as she inhaled, froze as she exhaled. It was enough to help her slow her steps, enough that by the time she returned to the house, her wet face felt composed.

But not enough to save her from herself. Which left the question — should she run as far from Folkestone as her funds and courage could carry her?

Or should she let her heart fight, grimly, hopelessly, incurably, for a future she was sure Nick would never give her?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hours later, after another of her chef’s delectable but interminable dinners, Ellie wanted wine. Great, overflowing vats of wine, in such quantities that the fumes alone could cloud her judgment. She would drink to excess, flirt and laugh and dance until she could no longer stand, and confront reality in the morning. Or the afternoon, when her head stopped spinning. If she waited long enough, she could repeat the cycle again without confronting reality at all.

Could she spend the four months Nick demanded in a state of utter inebriation?

She suppressed a scowl and reached for her teapot, part of the Spode service that had been a wedding gift. Her father had commissioned it for her and Charles, and she had received it long after she’d already put off her mourning. “May I refresh your cup, Aunt Sophronia?” she asked.

Her aunt held up her cup with an irritated sigh. “I know you’ve found your respectability now that your sisters are with you, and I applaud you for it, but I had hoped for stronger stuff. Where are the perfectly matched footmen bearing chalices of wine?”

“Packed up and put away, your grace,” Ellie said as she poured. “But the tea is excellent, don’t you think?”

Sophronia sniffed. “I don’t wish to waste my remaining years on tea. And from the way your fingers are drumming the pot, you don’t wish it either.”

Ellie deliberately set the teapot aside and folded her hands in her lap. “You are a terrible influence, aunt.”

They were sitting slightly apart from the rest of the women in the company, who had spread themselves throughout the connected drawing rooms after dinner as they waited for the men to join them. But Sophronia was formidable enough to say anything she pleased, whether she had an audience or not. “I am above reproach,” Sophronia declared. “And if I say we should have wine, then no one would think to question it.”

“Very well, I shall summon the butler. You are not making it easier for me to reform myself.”

Sophronia sniffed. “You never did invite me to one of your bacchanals. I refuse to allow you to reform before I attend one.”

Ellie looked through the connecting doors to where Kate and Maria sat together, giggling and sharing secrets. Even if they had both set their caps for Sebastian, it was all innocent — not the kind of trouble they would have found themselves in at one of her earlier parties. She turned back to Sophronia with a small shrug. “You are too late for a bacchanal, aunt. And anyway, I couldn’t play the jade forever. Everyone must change eventually.”

Sophronia leaned in, suddenly serious. Ellie had seen the liver spots hidden under Sophronia’s gloves, but her grip was still strong as she took Ellie’s hand. “You can change however you wish, Elinor. I admit, I would rather see you become a patroness of Almack’s than some dreadful, loose-moraled minx. But I thought you’d learned this lesson already — be who you want to be, not whatever someone else would make you.”

“And if I don’t want to host another infamous party?” Ellie asked.

Sophronia waved a magnanimous hand. “There are other hostesses who will take your place. But I’ll still have wine tonight.”

Ellie laughed. Sophronia was a force unto herself. Ellie was a force in some circles as well — and could be in others, at least as long as they didn’t know of her sudden poverty and Nick’s lascivious demands.

But did she want that kind of influence, the kind that gave her power without friendships and solitude without anyone to question her? Or should she take her aunt’s advice and chart her own course?

Lady Salford joined them then, choosing to sit with Sophronia and Ellie rather than some of the younger ladies. “I must compliment your chef, Lady Folkestone,” she said as Ellie