The Marquess Who Loved Me - By Sara Ramsey Page 0,99
as he replaced the cap. ”You’re the second woman tonight to mention a highwayman.”
Christabel nodded. “The story just seemed so…unlikely.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” Ferguson said, slanting a glance at Nick.
Nick gestured toward the door. “The fireworks seem to be done. We should return to the group before we are missed.”
Ferguson looked ready to argue, but Ellie nodded. “I will go with you to the pub, Lady Christabel. I don’t want to leave Mrs. Grafton alone during her ordeal.”
“I shall come with you,” Nick and Ferguson both said simultaneously.
She shook her head. “What do either of you know about nursing patients? Ferguson, escort your wife and the twins home. And Nick, I’m sure your talents would be better spent interrogating my guests.”
She was right. He already had a suspicion. Norbury’s absence from the fireworks had turned from enviable to damning. Waiting to confirm it might make the trail go cold.
But the thought of Ellie injured — or worse — instead of Lucia had Nick on edge. “Very well,” he said. “But find me when you return to Folkestone. We must talk.”
She paled at that, as pale as Christabel had been when discussing murder. Was she really that scared of what he might say to her?
“Of course, my lord,” she said. He told himself her voice was cool for the benefit of their audience, not as a genuine reflection of her feelings.
Then she swept out with Christabel at her side — two women who seemed ready to battle any foe.
Ferguson twirled his walking stick. “Shall we go hunting now, or after I’ve beaten you for hiding a bloody highwayman from me?”
Nick pulled on his gloves. “I meant to tell you, I’m sure, but I didn’t want to interrupt your monologues.”
“My father must had detested you,” Ferguson said, clapping him on the back. “Hunting it is.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
When Ellie returned to Folkestone shortly before midnight, she didn’t have to search for Nick. The door between his room and hers was ajar.
She shrugged out of her pelisse, hat, and gloves and tossed everything onto her bed. Then, before her courage failed her, she walked through the door. She had managed not to think of him at the pub, although brooding might have been preferable to the grisly sight of Lucia's many stitches. She had left her maid in Marcus’s capable hands — and, surprisingly, Lucia hadn’t protested his involvement in her affairs. But Ellie’s stomach suddenly felt full of stones.
Did Nick want her as much as she wanted him? Or was his love a phantom that no amount of desire could resurrect?
When she entered, she heard the echo of the previous night. He sat in the same chair, next to an equally large fire, and his eyes were hooded and unreadable.
”Will you join me?” he asked.
Asked. Not told. She shut the door and walked to him. When his hand extended, it wasn’t to stop her — it was to invite her to take the other chair.
Part of her wanted to stay on her feet, keep him off balance, gain the upper hand. But if she wanted him to be real for her, she was honor-bound to be real for him.
She sat. “Did you learn anything from the guests?” she asked.
It wasn’t the question she wanted an answer to. He shrugged it aside. “My batman returned from London — the tattoos were too common to learn anything from. Your brother and I made a bit of progress here, though. But all that will keep until tomorrow. Is Lucia feeling well?”
“She will live, although she’d feel better if she allowed Christabel to dose her with laudanum.”
They fell silent. Neither seemed quite able to make eye contact, not with the ghosts of the previous night’s conversation chilling the air between them. Then, abruptly, Nick stood up. “Stay there a moment,” he said. “I have something for you.”
He disappeared into his dressing room and returned a moment later with a small box and a leather pouch. “What do you want, Ellie?” he asked, his voice taut, as though he’d had to force the words out. “Pleasure? Or freedom?”
On “pleasure,” he raised the box. On “freedom,” he offered the pouch. As he waited for her response, his hands seemed perfectly balanced — a choice between two fates, with nothing to tip the scales.
Nothing but him. “Why must I choose?” she asked.
He sat down again, balancing the pouch on one knee and the box on the other. “Because I can’t think about any future beyond tonight if you’re here only because I