Rebel Marquess (33 page)

He gave a brief and decisive nod. “Right. Let’s have this done then.”

He followed the earl down the short hall. As expected, the chapel was filled to overflowing. He saw several of Eliza’s sisters seated near the front with their husbands, more of his cousins filled in the pews across the aisle. Cousin Bertram was right in front with a sour expression. The old coot was the next in line to become the marquess if Rutherford failed to produce an heir.

At the thought of children, Rutherford’s feet hesitated and he nearly stumbled the last few steps to his spot at the front of the church. How delightful Eliza’s child would be. Precocious and sweet. Clever and determined. Tingling warmth spread through his chest at the thought she could even now be carrying his child.

He took his place and turned to face the gathered crowd. The muscles of his face fell into a familiar expression of stern condescension. It was all he could do to hide the churning riot of emotions that continued to stir in his gut. He trained his gaze on the doors at the back of the chapel and waited with bated breath for his first glimpse of Eliza.

And he waited. For nearly twenty minutes, he waited before he gave in to the urge to check his pocket watch. She was almost a half hour late.

Cold foreboding crept over him, coating his raw nerves with a fresh layer of fear.

He turned his scowl to where her clan sat and noticed they were whispering amongst themselves with wide eyes and fluttering hands. Amongst his family, it was the same thing. The murmur of low voices was a dissonance of speculation spreading like a wave through the packed church.

When the door at the back opened, Rutherford nearly sighed in relief, but it was not Eliza making her appearance on her father’s arm. It was Lady Terribury, looking pale and nauseous.

And he knew. With a pain that shot straight to his chest and seized his breath in a ruthless blow, he knew.

Eliza was not coming.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Eliza made it back to London early the next morning, having only stopped to change horses and use the convenience. In truth, she was surprised she made it the entire way. Her intention had essentially been to get far enough that by the time anyone caught up to her, it would be too late to march her down the aisle for the wedding.

The marquess would never go through with the union once it became obvious the bride had run away. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

His grandmother wouldn’t allow it.

But no one gave chase. Perhaps they realized there was no point once the damage had been done. She had left the Marquess of Rutherford waiting at the altar. There was no undoing that.

Eliza returned to Terribury House feeling as though she had endured the emotional toll of a lifetime during the last twenty-four hours. It had been a constant struggle to keep her thoughts from settling with regret on the marquess and the effort had drained her of all strength, emotional and physical. She went straight to her room, dropped into bed fully dressed and fell asleep.

When she awoke, it was to see her mother sitting silently on the edge of her bed. Eliza felt as though she hadn’t slept a minute, yet she could tell several hours had passed by the slant of light through the window.

She lifted herself to a seated position and looked at her mother pensively, feeling like a naughty child.

Lady Terribury did not turn to look at her, though she must have known Eliza was awake from her movements. Her mother’s gaze was trained straight ahead and her angular chin jutted out sharply. Her thin spine was rigid and her hands were folded one atop the other in her lap. She was so still it barely looked as though she breathed.

Just as Eliza opened her mouth, not sure yet what she would say but hoping something appropriate would come to mind once she got started, Lady Terribury broke the silence first.

“Do not say a single word, Elizabeth.”

The tone of her mother’s voice caused a frisson of alarm to chase across Eliza’s skin. She had known she would have to face her mother’s wrath and disappointment, but she had convinced herself her actions should not have come as any surprise when she had been begging to be released from the engagement for months. But there was something in the stark and frigid words that cut Eliza in a way she hadn’t expected.

“You will listen, for once in your life, to everything I have to say. You will not argue or interrupt me with quips you think I am not clever enough to understand. You will remember that I am your mother and deserving of your respect. You are a nineteen-year-old child and you do not know everything of how this wide world of ours works. If you are as clever as you think you are, you will consider very carefully what I have to tell you.”

Her mother paused then, but Eliza did not even dare to nod her head.

Lady Terribury took a slow and bracing breath. “What you did yesterday will never be forgiven.” Instinctively, Eliza braced to defend herself but bit her lip to hold back the rush of words threatening to flow from her mouth.

“It was the act of a selfish, immature girl who gave no thought to how her behavior would reflect on those close to her. Those who have done everything to see her settled in a proper manner. Those who have spent years worrying and scrambling to provide the best possible opportunities.” Her mother’s voice strained and raw color reddened her thin face. “Everything I did for you and your sisters…fighting to gain invitations to the grandest ballrooms and dinner parties, ingratiating myself to all the right people whether they were personally deserving of it or not, presenting you girls in the finest gowns and
trying
to instill in you what grace I could was so someday I would be able to look back and feel like I did my absolute best to ensure all of my daughters left my household for something better.

“When you decided, in all your wisdom and experience, that the life you could have had as the Marchioness of Rutherford was not worth the good name of your family, your father’s word of honor or my efforts, you took all those years of wishes and hopes and love and you tossed them into the mud.”

“Moth—”

“Not. A. Word.” Lady Terribury cut her off.

Eliza felt her chest squeezing with the effort to resist explaining herself. She had never had any intention of disrespecting her parents or all they had done for her. She loved them both. She simply wanted to live her life by her own choices. Why was that so terrible?

“And now you will live with the consequences of your actions.” Lady Terribury rose from the bed to stand stiffly at its side, not altering the direction of her gaze to spare even a glance at her youngest daughter. “And so will the rest of us. I only hope that in the strength of their marriages, your sisters will find some protection against the backlash that will surely come. And I warn you now,” her mother’s voice lowered forbiddingly, “do not even think to come to me or your father for comfort or support when you realize the full destructive results of your behavior. It was your great and lofty desire to be independent. From this point forward, you are on your own.”

Turning on her heel, Eliza’s mother walked across the room, her skirts snapping against her legs with each step. The door closed behind her with a near-silent click, but to Eliza it may as well have been a resounding slam for the heavy finality it represented.

From that point forward, Eliza became like a specter in her own home. For the first several days, her father refused to look her in the eye. Whenever she passed, he hung his head as if her shame was his own. If she attempted to speak to him, he would step away. Her mother spoke to her, but in clipped phrases that imparted only the most necessary information. That was how Eliza discovered that although she would be allowed to remain living in Terribury House, her mother made it very clear it was for appearances sake only. She would not be allowed to continue in the same manner as before, as if nothing had happened.

Eliza was not sure what her mother meant, but she suspected she would find out over time.

Then one day a missive arrived for Eliza. Though she had never seen his handwriting before, the instant she spied her name written in the elegant and slanting script she knew the letter was from the marquess.

She would have thought anything the marquess had to say would have been directed to her father. She did not know all the terms of the marriage agreement, but she assumed there would be some material compensation that would have to be released for her failure to meet her end of the contract.

But this letter was very clearly directed to her. She took it up to her bedroom and carried it to her bed. She crawled up into the center and curled her legs beneath her. As she brushed her thumb back and forth over the inky lines that formed her name, her heart grew so heavy she felt as if it would choke her.

She flipped the precisely folded letter over and over in her hands; afraid to open it yet also desperate to do so.

What would he say to her? Would he say he understood? Tell her he had forgiven her even if no one else could?

Ignoring the burn of her throat and the prick of regret behind her eyes, she opened the letter. There was no greeting. No signature. Just one stark bold statement—a cold directive.

You will inform me if there is a child.

Eliza’s breath froze painfully and she curled onto her side in the middle of her bed. The letter was clutched in her fist. For all the pain she was feeling, she expected great torrents of tears, but they did not come. After a while, she realized she could not allow herself to shed tears that would absolve her of her actions. She could not weep for what had happened, because it was what she had chosen. The pain and the guilt of her decision would be hers forever.

Only two days later, she was able to send a response to the marquess. She knew he had only asked to be informed if she proved to be pregnant, but she felt bound to advise him either way.

There is no baby.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Rutherford stared at the cards in his hands.

A winning hand, he suspected. But the acknowledgment gave him no pleasure.

He had come to his club tonight hoping for a distraction. Or rather, Blackbourne had insisted that was what he needed.

He had been continuing through his life these last few weeks as if nothing had happened. He attended balls and soirées. He rode every morning in the park and met his friends at the club for drinks and cigars. He figured all of that should have counted as proper distraction, but apparently the earl disagreed. When Blackbourne suggested a private game of cards with old friends and excellent brandy, though the idea held no more attraction than any of the other activities he had endured lately, Rutherford hadn’t seen a reason to refuse.

He lifted his gaze to assess the other players around the table.

Blackbourne gave nothing away in his easygoing expression. The earl could hold that innocuous half-grin through an entire Italian opera if he wished. Grimm, the poor fool, was the exact opposite. He revealed every little bit of joy or disappointment as if his face were a mirror to reflect the cards in his hand to the rest of the table. Apparently, he currently held a promising hand. The fourth at the table should have been Whitely, if the man was not at that moment pacing nervously in his study while he awaited the birth of his fourth child.

Instead, Rutherford met the cock-sure gaze of a man who always managed to rub him on the raw. Of all the people Blackbourne could have tapped to fill Whitely’s place, Leif Riley, the Viscount Neville, was the very last person Rutherford would have chosen.

“Lay your card, old man,” Neville prompted with a twisting smirk. “I’ve got much better things to do than sit here all night.”

“Then go do them,” Rutherford retorted, turning his attention back to his hand with a distinct lack of concern.

“Oh, I do intend to fleece you gentlemen for all you’ve got first. It is not often I have the
privilege
of sitting at a table with such respectable money.” The viscount flashed a jaunty grin before he reached for his whisky, apparently fine French brandy didn’t suit him, and tossed the liquor down his throat with an unceremonious flick of his wrist. Neville’s inflection made it quite clear he saw the invitation to the game as no great honor at all.

Rutherford ignored him.

Usually, he couldn’t stand the viscount’s cocky arrogance and intentional disrespect, but tonight he could not bring himself to be bothered by it. He tried to concentrate on his strategy, but after another long moment, he gave up and arbitrarily chose a card and flipped it onto the felt.

The next few hours went by at an excruciating crawl. Rutherford barely paid attention to who won each hand. His attention kept sliding and he would find his mind wandering to other things.

Irrelevant things. Thoughts that no longer held any significance but could not be shaken from his consciousness.

In moments like these, when the activities of his life failed to draw his focus, thoughts of Eliza would come forward from the recesses of his mind. He recalled the pastoral image of her sleeping within the circle of ancient trees at Silverly. The impertinent twist of her lips when she challenged his perspective on gothic romance. Her smile, her hands, the taste of her lips.

“Good God, Rutherford,” Neville exclaimed in mocking exasperation. “You play cards like a doddering old fool. Is your eyesight going? Do you need someone to sit at your elbow and tell you what you’ve got?”