How to Impress a Marquess(50)

He bowed before Lady Cornelia’s father. “May I ask your daughter’s hand for the first dance?”

Panic seized Cornelia’s features.

“She would be honored,” replied her father. He clasped Cornelia’s arm and tugged her forward.

She appeared like the frightened virgin of some indigenous people, about to be sacrificed at the yearly ritual to appease the harvest gods.

“A-are you really the sultan?” she stammered as he escorted her to the floor. Something about her high, girlish voice and vacuous eyes made him want to answer, Of course—apart from the times you’ve see me, I live in the sixteenth century, wear a caftan and turban, and maintain a large harem of highly intelligent, cultured women who live to pleasure my body and mind. I merely pretend to be a marquess and go to Parliament as a diversion. The life of an evil, murderous sultan can be so tedious. Instead he replied in cool tones, “’Tis an old joke between Miss Dahlgren and me.”

She tried to smile. However, his explanation didn’t entirely wipe away the fear in her eyes that George might somehow contrive to murder her on the dance floor.

Other couples came forward to dance. Fenmore, staggering from inebriation, led Penelope. She glanced at George as if to say help me!

Lord Charles, escorting Miss Pomfret, brushed George’s shoulder. “How are those wedding plans, old boy?” he muttered low enough for only George to hear.

George’s hands balled. Black rage burned in his heart and contracted his muscles. His dance partner made a frightened squeak. For God’s sake, woman! He glanced toward the door, hoping to see Lilith in all her creamy loveliness. Yet the threshold was empty. Where was she? He needed her.

The music began and the dancers swayed to the first steps of a waltz.

George’s eyes blurred with the colors of the dancers’ clothes—black, white, gold, rose, and blue, all bathed in the chandelier’s light. He forced himself to concentrate on the dance rhythm. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.

Charles swept near again. “Where, oh where is your intended?” he quietly taunted as George spun Cornelia. “Clearly, it’s true love.”

George almost missed securing Cornelia’s waist. The ballroom transformed to splotches of angry color, like black and red paint tossed onto a canvas. Like the painting he’d created after the robin eggs were smashed. He needed Lilith. She understood what was happening. She knew him. He glanced toward the threshold only to see a servant entering, hoisting a platter of wine glasses.

Charles waltzed close again, his eyes shining with malicious, mocking blue light as when he was George’s childhood torturer. “I may vote on your little bill after all. I may—”

Charles couldn’t finish because a fist—George’s—had smashed his vicious mouth, silencing him. George wasn’t sensible of what happened until after the fact. He remembered his muscles flexing, fist flying forward, and knuckles hitting teeth, all the while shouting “To hell with that bloody bill.”

Charles was flung away from his partner, stumbling backward into the center of the floor. A drop of vivid red blood oozed from the side of his mouth, contrasting with his fair looks. Gasps resounded. George knew he should feel shock or remorse, but not the sheer exhilaration pulsing through his veins.

Charles charged. George didn’t flinch but leaned in with anticipation. Every morning he’d spent in the boxing parlor made it all rote. George easily deflected the oncoming punch and then rammed his fist into Charles’s ribs. George braced for a jab to his chin; a more seasoned fighter would have made such a move, but Charles was not as nimble or potent as his vicious words. He left himself unguarded for George to deliver another blow to the gut. Charles dangled on George’s fist and then crumpled to the floor.

The orchestra stopped with an ugly flat note of the French horn. An electrified silence crackled in the air, broken only by Lady Cornelia, who cried “He is the sultan” and fled to her father’s protective embrace.

George stared at Charles, who lay huddled, clutching his belly. George wanted to growl, Get up and fight through the pain. But Charles couldn’t follow through his flimsy cruelty with real strength. His facade ripped away, Charles was as substanceless and cowardly as George’s father had been.

The Duke of Cliven rushed onto the floor. “Son! My son, are you well?” he cried, as if Charles were nine and had tumbled from a tree. “Speak to me.”

Charles rolled over, cradling his bleeding face. “You bloody cove!” he hissed at George.

Lady Marylewick materialized in the center of the scene. The tightness around her forced smile and fluttering eyes formed a grotesque picture. “Ha, ha, ha,” she said lightly. “How very funny. Men roughhousing like little boys. Come, let’s all dance again. Play the music. Play it! What a darling little jest it all was. Just darling. But it’s over.”

“Darling?” Charles quipped. “He attacked me.” Charles came to his feet with his father’s aid. “Find another supporter for your ridiculous bill,” he told George. “I’ve grown weary of you, as has all of Parliament.”

“Lord Marylewick, you will answer for yourself!” warned the duke. “You shame this nation, the prime minister, the Tory party.” He paused for dramatic effect, dropping his voice to a low, gravelly tone. “And your late father.”

Wasn’t George supposed to be ashamed for dishonoring his father? But the duke’s words rested as heavy on his conscious as baby-bird feathers.

“Now, now,” cried Lady Marylewick. “It was merely a tiny misunderstanding. Everything is…is…perfect.” She glanced desperately about. Finding no one who shared her view, she turned to her daughter. “Penelope, look happy.”

Penelope bit her lip and began to shake her head. “I’m not happy.”

“Yes, you are,” retorted his mother. “You are perfectly content. Stop talking nonsense. Everyone is content. Perfectly, perfectly content.”

Penelope looked at George. Pain in her eyes. “I want…I want a divorce.” The words seemed to burst from her mouth, as if she couldn’t silence them any longer.

Another gasp rippled through the crowd.

“You can’t divorce me,” barked Fenmore. “A proper wife can’t divorce her husband. Tell her, Lord Marylewick. She’s embarrassing me.”

George began to pivot, taking in all the silent faces contorted in horror. Laughter began to flow through him like a spring breaking through the earth. England’s big, dumb joke, the plodding, starchy George was the sinister villain. Who would have thought? He had done something truly terrible and his bill was destroyed, his house party was in ruins, the secrets of his family exposed for everyone to see. All the things he fought so hard to maintain were crashing down, becoming gossip fodder for people he never really liked nor admired anyway. He should care, but he didn’t. He should be on his knees apologizing; instead he just laughed, the weight of years flowing off his shoulders.

“Yes, she can,” George choked through his mirth. “She can certainly divorce you, Fenmore. Good God, I would divorce such a faithless rogue. She’s been the best wife she could and now she can live the life she wants. That’s right, Penelope, my dear, don’t look happy, be happy. There is a huge difference, you see.”

Penelope burst into tears that transformed to wild laughter. She rushed to her brother and he wrapped her into his arms. He could hear the whispers around him. He realized that his guests didn’t understand the liberation he felt. They would only censure him, but he didn’t care what they thought anymore. All his fears, the things he thought so important and weighed on his mind, scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind. All that was left was what was true.

“Lilith Dahlgren!” his mother screamed, losing any semblance of propriety. “This is her work. She has ruined this family. This is all she ever wanted.”

“No,” George said. “She never wanted to destroy this family. She wanted to be a part of it. She only desired to be…” Loved. And he, too, had withheld it from her out of his own fears. “Oh, God. I am the sultan.”

He had to get back to her. His Colette.

He clasped Penelope’s hand and they rushed from the room.

Behind him, he heard someone clapping and then Lord Harrowsby said, “By Jove, a wonderful house party this year. The best I’ve ever attended.”



George slipped through his betrothed’s door, ready to take her in his arms and tell her the words I love you.

But her chamber was empty. On the commode, a letter with his name on the envelope waited atop a stack of papers. He could hear the roar of his own blood in his ears.

“Don’t you dare have done something rash,” he hissed.

He opened the letter and his stomach clenched.

Dearest George,

I was selfish to keep you for myself. I’m childish in my belief that my love for you was strong enough to overcome our history. That you would come to love me as I love you. You always said I was naïve in my beliefs and you were correct. And now, despite the deep pain I feel in leaving, I do not regret for a single moment sharing my love with you. You are an extraordinary man.