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Chapter Twelve
Freddie was in a great deal of trouble. The carriage ride home had been done in seething tension, and she had stayed silent in fear of rousing his ire any further. The marquess was in a rather dangerous mood. Even more so than the first night he had kissed her senselessly. A bite of regret lingered in her heart. Her actions had been reckless, without a care for her reputation, and perhaps to his mind showed her continued immaturity.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
His expression remained shadowed, but she felt the surprise in his stare. It occurred to her then she had never once apologized for the shenanigans done in the past, the ones he claimed grayed his hair prematurely.
“How did you reach to the ball?”
“We…I…borrowed a carriage from 48 Berkeley Square. I was safe in reaching the ladies club. I simply sent home your carriage afterward.”
“I assumed you had help with this foolhardy plan.”
She winced. “Yes.”
“What were you thinking to have come to that place?”
It was too painful to admit it. Yet, she only wanted honesty between them. “I did not want you to take a lover. I suspected that is what you might…do.”
A rough, disbelieving laugh came from him. “Why does that even matter, Freddie?”
Because I like you…no…I have fallen in love with you. The confession felt heavy on her tongue, and it was the fear of his rejection or his derision that kept the words from spilling out. It was exceedingly difficult to tell a gentleman of your romantic feelings when one was uncertain of that gentleman’s own.
“I will own that I did not properly think about my actions. However, I am not sorry I ruined your evening.”
The marquess said nothing to that bold claim, and she folded her hands in her lap. Had he already taken a lover before she arrived? Frederica had been shocked when Lucinda told her the deed could be done in as little as five minutes.
The carriage clattered to a stop. The marquess’s clasp as he assisted her from the equipage was gentle, and he led her through the front door and into the townhouse. She took a silent breath and faced him. The shadows of the hallway made it impossible for her to discern his expression, and she loathed the heavy press of disquiet upon her heart.
“Percy—”
“Go to sleep, Sprite.”
The flat dismissive words had her stepping back from him. She dipped into a small curtsy and turned away from him. Frederica hurried down the hallway and up the stairs, conscious of the feel of his eyes on her retreating figure. She did not glance around or stop until she reached her chamber. Once there, she leaned against the door, startled to feel a trickle of tears on her cheek.
“Do not be silly,” she whispered, wiping them away. Then she closed her eyes. “Oh, I have made a muck of it!”
Frederica removed her shoes and climbed onto her bed. Hugging a pillow onto her chest, she thought about how differently the night could have gone. With a rueful chuckle, she admitted she would have taken the same path.
I am impatient and intemperate.
Being intimately acquainted with one’s flaws did not make them magically disappear. With another groan, she rolled over on the bed and glared at the door. She would not sleep a wink tonight unless she spoke to the marquess. Frederica was not worried he might really banish her to the country, but she thought it was time to perhaps confess her growing love for him.
Her stomach pitched and roiled as if she had eaten something disagreeable. Pushing into a sitting position, she tucked a small wisp of hair behind her ears.
“How can I think to confess my tendre when I do not know if he has taken a lover this night?” she whispered.
The only answer was the pop of the crackling fire in the hearth. Her thoughts went to that almost violent kiss in the gardens. Pressing her fingers to her lips, she noted their tenderness.
What had urged him to kiss her then? Had it only been anger that drove his lordship?
It cannot be, not when he had appeared so tortured and hungry.
Frederica came off the bed, padding to the door to open it. She exited her room and hastened down the stairs before she allowed good sense to convince her to retreat. Once at the library, she knocked on the door and waited. No answer came forth, and she frowned because there was a sliver of light peeking from beneath the door. She knocked once more and then gently opened the door, pushing her head inside. The marquess stood by the window, and to her bemusement, had a decanter of liquor in his hand, which he tipped directly to his mouth and swallowed.
“My lord?” she called his name, commanding his attention.
His shoulders stiffened, but he did not turn around. She took a deep breath and rushed to say the words weighing on her heart before her courage fled.
