Page 131 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
Chapter Twenty-Six
Make a clean break when it’s time. Bastards have a way ofsticking.
Marquis de Mowleswas a dead bore. But he also had an avid interest in perfumery, so his hothouse garden and attached stillroom were stunning. Together, Maybelle and the marquis discussed flowers, methods for distilling their scent, and the troublesome insects that plagued him.
That was fascinating for the first couple hours. After that, Maybelle grew restless which only made her relations more irritating. Her grandfather stressed that the marquis was a genius at money. Except for his odd flower hobby, he would make a solid husband. Her grandmother extolled the French title, one of the few remaining after those mad peasants cut off everyone’s heads. And Eleanor—who seemed to understand a great deal more than she let on—commented that the marquis was often too busy to notice what went on around him. He would be a distracted husband as the years went on, and that was always good.
Maybelle listened with a smile and a nod, pretending complete agreement. But in her heart, she screamed. Nothing so soft as a quiet sob. Nothing so unending as the ache that came from losing her mother. This was an unrelenting scream of frustration. How could the man to whom she’d given her heartcalmly watch her commit herself to someone else? How could Bram have left her like that?
She knew it was the way of theton. Marry for advantage, then take a lover. But she’d been raised differently and could not comprehend such a life. And so the hours ticked by with horticultural discussions by day and an empty bed at night.
Inside, she screamed.
*
There was asmall gathering on the fifth night. In addition to herself, her grandparents, and Eleanor, the marquis welcomed a few of his closest friends. The plan was for him to formally present his ring to her so she could joyously accept.
The guests had been arriving all day from London. The trip was not that onerous, and they each arrived with good cheer and broad smiles. So much so that Maybelle fantasized about slapping the next one who punctuated his grin with a wink. She stopped herself by memorizing names and attributes. After all, as the marquis’s wife, she needed to remember them all.
Two expatriates from the Continent who were dead bores.
A bluestocking with a special interest in insects who always sported dirt somewhere.
And finally, the Duke and Duchess of Bucklynde, also known as the sailor duke and his seamstress wife. Both were Eleanor’s relations, and they were stopping here for the night before finally going back to London.
Maybelle functioned as hostess, greeting the guests as if she truly were the new marquess, and she prided herself that she’d not dropped a singlehall day.
Then, as evening shadows began to gather, Maybelle dressed in her best gown, had her hair pulled and pinned with ruthless domination by a German maid, and sat down to inaneconversation before an indifferent meal. Odd how after a few weeks in London, she was picky about what she consumed. As if her childhood of being grateful for every morsel had never been.
“Maybelle? Are you feeling quite the thing?”
“What?” Maybelle turned to the collection of ladies on the settee. It took her a moment to realize that her grandmother was the one who’d asked the question. “I’m terribly sorry. I must have been woolgathering.”
Her soon-to-be fiancé pranced over, his French accent thick and irritating. “I’m afraid ze country has not ze excitement of London,n’est-ce pas?”
“Actually,” she said, simply to be contrary, “I like the quiet. It’s much more soothing—”
Bang, bang! Bang!
Everyone jumped as the door knocker slammed down with such force, it echoed within the house. Maybelle turned to the marquis with a frown. “Are we expecting anyone else?”
“Non.We are not.” His face was pulled into a tight frown, which, she abruptly realized, was not that different from his usual face. The man was tall and gaunt. His skin tended to sag on his face, which pulled everything down, even when he was happy.
Meanwhile, everyone turned to look, but this was a large country establishment. No one could see the front entrance, though they certainly heard the commotion.
“You must let me see Miss Ballenger. Damn it, you must let us in!”
Maybelle shot to her feet. Eleanor rose a moment later. They both recognized the voice, but Maybelle was the only one to voice his name.
“Bram.”
The marquis shot her a look. “You know this man?”
She nodded, her mind whirling, and her heart—damn that organ—was beating triple time. And while the marquis was telling the butler to allow him in, her belly began to quiver, her breath grew short, and everything in her yearned for him.
He was here.
He was here.
