Page 7 of Marquess of Mistletoe
“He s-sent you to war,” she managed. “My own father, sent you to war. He told you I’d played you false. I never played you false, Leo. N-Never.”
“I believe you.”
And then she began to sob.
* * *
To hold Marielle again, just to hold her…
Leo had marched halfway across Spain, convinced that any day, he’d receive a letter from Marielle, apologizing and begging him to come back to her. He’d gone to bed at night—or to whatever patch of ground he was bivouacking on—praying for Marielle’s wellbeing, and grateful he’d at least not put her at risk for bearing a child.
Then he’d read not of her betrothal per se, but a sly piece of gossip about the Viscount H., much respected denizen of Whitbyshire, contracting for the creation of a full trousseau for his daughter, the lovely Miss M.R. The wedding was rumored to be scheduled immediately after her come out and first Season, but no groom had been named.
Leo would have died from overconsuming rum, except Rafe had found him passed out in his tent, and deposited him in the nearest creek. Leo’s headache had lasted for weeks, following him into battle, and fueling a reckless bravery the senior officers had noted favorably in their dispatches. Promotions had followed, and eventually, the business of war had replaced the heartache of Marielle’s betrayal.
“Ellie, don’t cry,” Leo murmured, for this was not ladylike weeping. Marielle’s tears were noisy and heartrending.
Leo scooped her up and settled on the settee with her in his lap. She subsided to shuddering and muttered curses, while Leo held her.
To hold her again… Perhaps this was a Christmas gift from on high, to hold Marielle again. A chance to make peace with the past, to forgive and be forgiven.
“I should have written to you,” Leo said. “Your father warned me not to humiliate myself with letters that you’d only return unopened. I could not have borne that, but I should have written to you.”
She was clutching his cravat with one hand, and held his handkerchief with the other. He’d always loved her hands, loved the grace and competence of them.
“I should have made inquiries at Horse Guards,” she said. “It never occurred to me. They would have told me where you were. I could have written, once I was well.”
Another shudder went through her. She was warm in Leo’s arms, and still his Ellie, but also not. Her dress was a rich burgundy velvet no young girl would be permitted to wear, and her fragrance was not the uncomplicated lavender water young women favored. Instead her fragrance whispered of spices—expensive, exotic spices.
My Ellie, and not my Ellie.
“Tell me about your husband,” Leo said. The lucky sod had better have treated Marielle well, or Leo might have to get drunk for another week.
“He made me laugh. That’s why I noticed him. He didn’t ask prying questions, he took me out walking when I wanted only to grow old in my sick room. My husband was a decent man. He neither sought nor offered me great passion, but we were cordial, and eventually we had a comfortable match.”
Was Leo to hate the man more or less for having offered Marielle only a decent, comfortable,cordialmatch?
“I learned to appreciate a soldier’s life,” Leo said, stroking his hand over Marielle’s hair. She’d once professed to hate her hair for being merely brown. “I wasn’t so highborn that the men disrespected me on sight, nor so much a commoner that the other officers resented me. I had a knack for settling disputes, and doing what needed doing. Those qualities were appreciated. I also had enough Hessians in my unit that I learned German to go with my French, and thus I ended up in Vienna.”
“So far away,” Marielle murmured. “What made you come back?”
German princesses intent on becoming his marchioness. “I was homesick, and I have responsibilities here. My father has been gone five years, and Mama and the girls expect me to look after things.”
Then there were the holdings of the marquessate. Leo had acquired no less than five estates, four of which he’d yet to even lay eyes on.
Fortunately, Marielle turned the conversation to the topic of Leo’s three sisters and their various husbands and offspring. Leo eventually parted with the pleasure of holding Marielle on his lap, and as darkness fell, they did justice to the servings on the tray.
Leo was still hungry when he put the empty tray outside the door, but he was also at peace in a way he hadn’t been for years.
Marielle hadn’t abandoned him, hadn’t accepted his proposal then turned her back on him. She had remained his friend all along. As Leo watched her straightening the pillows on the settee—liked things tidy, did his Ellie—he had the uncomfortable suspicion she might also still be the love of his life.
That would rather put a crimp in his plans to marry the lovely, titled widow in the New Year, wouldn’t it?
Chapter Three
Leopold Drake still made Marielle’s pulse flutter, and her heart sing, and all those other stupid, fatuous—accurate—metaphors. In one sense, she was relieved—she might be a widow of mature years, but she could still be inspired to passion.
Provided Leopold Drake was in the vicinity.
