Page 67 of His Bluestocking Bride

Marcus reached for her free hand, taking it in both his own. “I care for you, Ellen. More than care. I—”

Her fingers slipped and the cup fell, but as they both hurried to catch it the liquid inside splashed out, soaking Ellen’s gloves. Thankfully, it missed her dress entirely and the cup stayed in Marcus’s hands.

Marcus’s eyes widened and he hastily put the cup on the table. “Ellen, I’m sorry—”

Ellen shook her head, stepping back. “It’s only my gloves. I’ll go change them. Excuse me.” She wished she could stay in her room the rest of the night. She’d no wish to come back, to listen to his words, his flattery, whatever it was he was attempting to do.

More than care?

She couldn’t even think on it. His offer to attend her on her journey was a kind gesture, nothing more. Her husband was a good man; he wouldn’t want her to leave London on her own.

Ellen didn’t look back when she left the room, and she pasted a smile on her face. If anyone made eye contact with her, Ellen nodded politely and hurried on her way, leaving no room for anyone to speak to her.

The hall was filled with people conversing, likely trying to escape the heat of the ballroom, but she ignored them and went to the staircase. Lucas stood near, and when she met his eyes he opened his mouth as if to speak, but Ellen shook her head and hurried past.

Changing her gloves, she decided, would take the better part of half an hour as she attempted to collect herself.

Ellen’s chambers remained dark except for what little glow came from the fire. No one expected her to be back in her room and Sarah was assisting with the ball below stairs. Knowing she would leave in the morning with barely any time to pack, Ellen had no wish to return to the ball.

Her mind needed settling and the best way to do that would be to focus on another task. Packing for a few minutes would perfectly fulfill that need.

Stripping off her damp gloves, Ellen laid them on the table. She moved to the mirror to adjust the pins in her hair but paused. In the reflection of the mirror, she saw the door adjoining her room to Marcus’s stood ajar, a soft light pouring from within. Ellen looked through the doorway and realized someone must have left a lamp lit in his room.

Her task would be easier with light, she told herself. At the threshold of her husband’s room she hesitated, looking inside a domain unknown to her, but then she stepped inside.

Marcus was downstairs and he would not begrudge her the light.

Going further in, Ellen soon found the source of the glow at a desk near the window. She went to it and reached for the lamp. She stopped when her eyes fell upon the very sketchbook, leather-bound and of the finest material, she had given to her husband as a wedding gift.

Without meaning to, she put her hand down upon it and remembered the day she’d made the purchase, full of hope and longing, wanting nothing more than to belong to Marcus, to care for him. He’d very nearly scoffed at her gift, she’d seen it in his eyes.

Why was it here? In London?

The ribbons meant to tie it closed were loose, and wrinkled, as though they’d been tied and untied many times. Had he used it? Though he claimed to no longer draw, had something inspired him to renew the habit? It came from Orchard Hill with him, which must mean something.

Ellen’s hand stayed on the cover, sliding slowly to the corner, her fingers itching to open it and see what her husband had laid down on the blank pages. Was he as good an artist as she remembered?

She loved him. She wanted him to love her, truly, and not merely try to win her through his flirtations and practiced words. Ellen needed him to understand her, to value her as more than a companion. If only he would love her as a man ought to love his wife, as she ached to be loved.

It would be breaking his trust to look at his sketches, like reading a diary or a private letter. Ellen gave the cover one last stroke and reached for the lamp.

“You should look,” Marcus’s voice said through the darkness, sounding nearly breathless. Ellen turned, realizing she had not heard him enter the room because he stood in hers. He stayed there, hovering between their chambers, one hand against the door frame.

“Please, Ellen,” he said, his eyes dark, his expression unreadable. “Look inside.”

Her heart pounded a steady, firm rhythm in her chest. She swallowed and shook her head. “It isn’t my business.”

But he didn’t move, or speak, his only entreaty was the change in his expression, bereft of hope but full of longing.

Longing?

Ellen shook her head and reached for the cover again. One sure way to dispel the tension would be to give him what he wished, to see why he carried what he had claimed was not important. In a hurried motion, Ellen took the corner of the book and flipped it open, laying bare a sketch several pages in. She drew in a quick breath and raised her hand to cover her mouth, lowering the lamp as she gazed upon the page on which her likeness resided.

It was her, yet not the way she saw herself. The face that looked up at her, the eyes were dark and mysterious, the smile barely present. A curl behind her ear looked as if it had just fallen free of its pins. She reached out and traced the curl with one finger, then took the page in hand and turned it, to see another sketch of her, less detailed, more fluid in depicting her walking on a garden path.

She turned back to the beginning to find an orchard as it would appear in spring, full of life and leaves, and her figure walking down the row of apple trees.

Ellen splayed her hand over the sheet and closed her eyes, steadying herself. “What is this, Marcus?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.