Page 9 of Marquess of Mistletoe
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Leo hadn’t indulged in many assignations. They were a lot of bother, women sometimes got the wrong ideas, and in the back of his mind, always, was the thought:She’s not Marielle.
He knew enough though, to part from Marielle at her door, spend twenty minutes tending to his ablutions while ignoring Rafe’s snores, then steal down the corridor and tap softly on Marielle’s door.
She opened it instantly and hauled him into her sitting room by the sleeve of his dressing gown.
“Petunia is asleep across the hall,” she said. “She hears better than a hound, and sometimes has trouble sleeping.”
Marielle was in a blue velvet robe that swathed her from neck to ankles, and her sitting room was chilly. The door to the bedroom was ajar, and the covers had already been turned down on the bed.
Sometimes, impetuosity was lovely. “Petunia is your companion?”
“My companion, my conscience, my worst fear. I’m afraid I’ll look in the mirror one day and see I’ve become the older relation nobody truly wants to invite for a visit, but they do so out of pity.”
She locked the door, then paced to the window, where she twitched at curtains already closed.
“That fate will never befall you,” Leo said. “Are you nervous, Marielle?”
“Yes, and no. People do this—have liaisons.”
Shehadn’t done this. Leo concluded as much from the way she eyed the open bedroom door, as if unsure she wanted to cross the threshold.
“It’s only me, Ellie. If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll understand.” And he’d die a little too. To have his heart’s desire restored to him, then snatched away by doubts…
If nothing else, this encounter with Marielle had clarified one important point: He’d acquired a marquess’s title and wealth, but to acquire a marchioness with the calculation and cold-heartedness of a typical aristocrat was beyond him. The lovely widow probablywaslovely, but what sort of woman chose her husband based on his title and his bank balance?
He’d keep tomorrow’s appointment, and make his apologies to all parties, for negotiations would be over before they began.
“You’ve been to the Continent,” Marielle muttered, as if the fleshpots of Egypt had somehow been on his itinerary. “You’ve probably waltzed with Italian contessas and German princesses.”
“A few.” None of whom Leo could recall even by title.
“Leo… I was married to one fairly unimaginative man, who never sought passion from me, and hadn’t—I’m making a hash of this.”
Leo took her in his arms, loving the feel of her. “On Tuesdays, when you would often leave a letter for me in the oak tree, I’d pace and pace and pace, waiting for the sun to go down, waiting for my family to seek their beds. Waiting for the moon to rise. Minutes were like years to me, and yet, when the time finally came to climb out my window—”
“You hesitated,” Marielle said, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Because what if there wasn’t a letter waiting? How would you stand the disappointment, and endure until we might steal a few minutes in the churchyard on Sunday?”
His letters to her had been carefully placed in the crook of the tree trunk on Fridays, wrapped in oilskin in case the gods of weather were so disobliging as to send rain.
“There’s a letter in the tree for both of us, Marielle. It says, ‘Don’t fret away this one, lovely night. Trust your heart, and be brave.’”
He kissed her, because once Marielle started fretting, she became fixed on her worries.
“I hate being brave,” she said, kissing him back. “I’m glad you’re here, Leo. Glad you didn’t come to harm during all those years of soldiering.”
“So am I.” Leo was also a little bit sorry for her late spouse, because the man had died without realizing what a lovely, passionate, special woman he’d been married to.
As a young man, Leo had been able to kiss endlessly, despite rampant desire clamoring for greater intimacies. Finally, finally, he need not exercise such heroic restraint with Marielle, nor she with him.
“Please take me to bed, Leo, or I’ll have my way with you here on this draft floor.”
He scooped her up in his arms, carried her to the bed, and placed her on the mattress. “Door open or closed?”
The room would grow that much colder with the door closed.
“Closed. Petunia might barge in here at an ungodly hour, and the last thing—Leo, I want to see you.”
