The Marquess Who Loved Me - By Sara Ramsey Page 0,84
was bowed, and she seemed to evade anyone who might want to talk to her with just enough grace to not cause offense.
He turned back to her brother. “I may never learn with Ellie. But for the rest — I vow I will keep her unharmed.”
Ferguson scanned his face. Then he nodded. “Don’t fail, Folkestone. I want to see her happy. If you are the one who can do that, I will fête you. But if you aren’t…”
He left the consequence unvoiced. Nick acknowledged it with a curt nod. “She will be fine. She’s made of sterner stuff than any woman I know — she will probably survive us all.”
Ferguson laughed. “True. Then I’ll leave you to it.”
“Is this where I am expected to applaud your monologue?”
The duke laughed again. “I can see why my father hated you. Unlike him, I think you are exactly what Ellie deserves.”
He left before Nick responded. Then he called for his wife. She skated over to him, and he swung her off the ice and into his arms. Madeleine laughed and put her hands onto his shoulders as he bent to remove her skates, then leaned down to whisper in his ear. From the way she looked at Nick, he knew they were talking about him.
Everyone liked to talk about him, it seemed. But he was too struck by Ferguson’s parting shot to care. It almost sounded like Nick would have Ferguson’s blessing if he pursued Ellie in earnest. Not that he needed it. She could legally marry whomever she liked. But Ferguson’s comment was the opposite of what Nick had expected.
And he hadn’t realized that her family’s approval mattered to him until he had it.
He cursed and left the pond, walking back to the house with a ground-eating stride. He told himself he didn’t love her. He told himself he didn’t want to make her his bride. He told himself he would be happier with any other woman at his breakfast table for the next thirty years.
But he was a liar. And he was also a coward. Because, in his secret heart, he knew that he would rather never ask her than risk her turning him down again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Hours later, after everyone had retired for the night, Ellie shivered as she pulled a voluminous golden veil over her flowing hair. “If Nick wanted me to catch my death of pneumonia, he needn’t have spent forty thousand pounds,” she muttered. “It’s little wonder there are no seraglios in London. We would all freeze to death.”
Lucia sniffed, her temper still high. Ellie had returned to her chamber ten minutes after midnight and found her maid cursing, with fervor and fluency, over the blackened morals of the Claiborne men. “He doesn’t give a fig for your comfort, my lady. But you do look splendid. I’ll allow that he has taste.”
Ellie tugged down the bottom hem of her bodice, but it ended in the middle of her ribcage. She couldn’t cover her belly unless she wrapped a blanket around herself. “I look like a prime fool. Is this how my guests feel when wearing the costumes I prescribe for them?’
“At least the costumes you demand cover everything,” Lucia said loyally.
Ellie noticed that Lucia didn’t answer the question, but it didn’t matter. The dress Nick had sent wasn’t a dress — it was a fitted bodice and a floor-length skirt as seductive as anything she had seen in paintings of the East. The skirt fastened with a drawstring, the bodice with little hooks down the front — but she wore nothing under either piece. It would be quick work to remove them again.
In another mood she would have loved this ensemble. It was gold, worked throughout with gold thread and thousands of amber-colored beads. Lucia had taken her hair down, per the instructions Nick had sent, and rimmed her eyes with kohl. And she’d reapplied Ellie’s jasmine perfume before handing her the veil. The veil didn’t cover her eyes. It covered her hair instead, with two inches of heavy trim that weighed the veil down over her forehead. Without pins to hold it in place, it would be easy enough to drop for him.
Ellie’s hands fisted in her skirts. She forced herself to relax. Lucia frowned unhappily, but she didn’t say anything — what was there to say?
Ellie nodded briskly, feeling like a colonel trying to calm a frightened recruit. “Go to bed, Lucia. Despite his theatrics, I am quite sure the marquess won’t harm me.”