Despised & Desired: The Marquess' Passionate Wife, Page 2

  Ellie couldn’t help but cringe as her friend’s words re-opened the wounds that had only just begun to heal.

  Although two years had passed since a servant’s oversight had almost cost Ellie her life, even today, she remembered the heat searing her skin as she had fought the flames with her bare hands to save her brother’s life.

  Only six years old at the time, Stephen had knocked over a candle, which had quickly set the room ablaze. Alerted by his screams, Ellie had come to his aid. Her attention completely focused on him, she had barely felt the flames until Stephen had been safe. Then all of a sudden, excruciating pain had brought her to her knees as the flames had burned away her skin.

  Yet, somehow she had survived and fought her way back into life. Today, she could smile and laugh again, and whenever her eyes fell on her little brother, she knew it had been worth it.

  Glancing out the window into the gardens, she caught a glimpse of her brother playing with his dog, Rupert. Smiling, Stephen scratched the hound's belly as the dog licked his master's face.

  Yes, everything was as it should be. Her brother was alive and well.

  Swallowing, Ellie shifted her eyes from the peaceful scene outside the window to the ugly scars that would remain a part of her forever.

  The doctor had given her a special balm to massage into her damaged skin. For although new skin had formed, it was still tender and whenever she would stretch her limbs, the skin would feel as though it might be pulled apart any second. Her hands were the worst. The fire had consumed them both. Never again would Ellie be able to sit down to embroider a cushion or draw her friend’s image. Her fingers refused to handle such a delicate task. Even holding a teacup now presented a small challenge.

  However, none of this had been able to take away her zest for life. In Ellie’s eyes, the world still held wonders that needed to be explored and happiness that begged to be found. She had been happy again even if only for a short time.

  What had finally crushed her spirit had been the loss of the man she loved. Albert Cart-wright, Viscount Haston.

  During her recovery, her dream of a shared future had given her strength. Albert had always been so attentive and caring, always considerate of her opinion. Whenever she had set foot in a ballroom, his eyes had immediately found hers, lighting up with the love he had for her.

  However, after scars tainted her beauty, travelling from her right cheek, down her throat, over her shoulder and down both arms to her hands, the light had dimmed, and now lay dead at her feet. All hope was lost.

  “Maybe the dream I had ended badly,” Ellie whispered, forcing back the tears she could feel clinging to her eyelashes, “but that does not mean it is always futile as you say.” She lifted her eyes and met her friend’s pitying gaze. “I know that you only mean to caution me, and I thank you for that, but what is life without hope for a future? Maybe I will never again have the love that I thought I once had. But that does not mean that others can’t find it.” She took a deep breath, feeling the tension in her heart spread into her limbs. “Frederick is a good man, and he deserves more than obligation. With or without a title, he is not worthless, and I am hoping with all my heart that one day he will find a woman who will make him feel…treasured.”

  Madeline swallowed, then opened her mouth and closed it again, not knowing what to say.

  “You don’t have to explain yourself.” Shaking her head, Ellie smiled at her. “I know we look at life differently, and there is nothing wrong with that. I do not want to live without someone who loves me by my side: be it a husband, a sister or a friend. I know that now.” She squeezed Madeline’s hand. “You have to find your own way.”

  Her friend took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring tears to your eyes.”

  Hearing Madeline’s words, Ellie only then noticed the small drop rolling down her cheek until it reached the corner of her mouth. Brushing it away, she dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes. “I know,” she said, trying to smile. “I am grateful for your friendship and for your honesty. Most people only see the scars I bear and not the person underneath. They tiptoe around me as though a harsh word could do me harm. And yet, they are surprised when I smile since they are certain that nothing in the world could ever bring me joy. Many believe I should have died two years ago.” Madeline opened her mouth to object, but Ellie shook her head. “Yes, it is true. If I have no claim to happiness in my current state, what purpose does my life have?” She shrugged her shoulders. “On some days, I wonder about that myself. Even though I have a large dowry and my family is highly respected, I have no delusions about ever being a married woman.” A sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I am on the shelf as they say, but does that mean my life is over?”

  For a moment, Madeline simply looked at her before a mischievous gleam came to her eyes. “It most certainly is not,” she announced, reaching for Ellie’s hands. “Life has a lot to offer, and husbands are just one small part of it.”

  Ellie laughed, treasuring the friend who had stood by her through all of this.

  “Let us speak of more important matters than husbands,” Madeline continued, her usual eagerness once more taking over. “The Midnight Ball is in a fortnight. What are we going to wear?”

  Chapter Two − A Hero’s Return

  Grey clouds hung over Elmridge as Frederick Lancaster returned home. How long had it been since he had last been here? He wondered. Long enough for him to feel like a stranger, some-one who did not belong. And yet, this was his home.

  For a long time, Frederick sat on his gelding a good distance from the manor and stared at the house that he knew so well. He saw the window that he and his brother had climbed out of more than once in yet another search for adventure, the rose garden that his mother tended with the same care and devotion she bestowed on those she loved as well as the small family cemetery that now housed his father’s remains. The property looked like it always had, and yet, nothing was the same.

  Never again would he hear his father’s gentle voice as he spoke to him about the many wonders life held. Never again would he see his mother’s smile as she looked at them, love shining in her eyes. Never again would he feel safe, almost invincible, as he had all those years he had spent on his family’s estate.

  The harsh truth had finally found him, sinking its cruel talons into his flesh, refusing to ever release its hold on him. No, nothing was the same anymore.

  Urging his horse on, Frederick felt a looming dread settle in his bones the closer he came to the manor. As he pulled up the reins, a stable boy came running to take the horse. “Welcome back, Lord Frederick.”

  Nodding at the youngster, he turned and climbed the stairs, his feet heavy as lead. Two footmen opened the large double-doors, and Frederick entered the grand hall of Elmridge, his foot-steps echoing through the vaulted room like thunder rolling off the mountains.

  He should never have returned.

  “Frederick!” his mother exclaimed behind him, and he turned toward her with a heavy heart.

  Forcing a smile on his face, he slightly bowed his head to her as her dainty feet carried her across the marble hall and she all but threw herself into his arms. Her fragile arms closed around him, embracing him with a strength he never thought possible.

  “Welcome home,” she whispered in his ear before she stepped back, her watchful eyes searching his face. Although clouded with grief, they still held a mother’s undying love for her son, and an unexpected warmth washed over his cold heart.

  As her gaze slid over his face, taking in the small scar on his left temple, her hands gently brushed over his shoulders and down his arms as though asking about the wounds that lay hidden from her sight. She swallowed then and closed her eyes for a brief moment. When she looked at him again, a delicate smile played on her lips. “I am glad you have returned. I only wish your father were here to see you.”

  Bowing his head, Frederick swallowed. “As do I, Mother.”

  “Come,” she said, link
ing her arm through his. “You must be exhausted. I will have a bath drawn and food brought up to your room.”

  As they walked up the large staircase, Frederick glanced left and right, waiting for the rest of his family to appear. All remained quiet though.

  “I asked them to give you some time,” his mother said, once again knowing exactly where his thoughts had strayed. “Do not believe that they did not wish to see you,” she assured him, a tender smile curling up her lips. “However, I thought you might want some time to yourself first.” Her hand gently squeezed his arm. “I can call them if you wish.”

  Frederick shook his head. “Not yet.”

  She nodded and escorted him to the room that had been his for as long as he could remember. There she stopped, took his large hands in her small ones, looked deep into his eyes and then gave him a tender kiss on the forehead. “I’m so glad you are home,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears.

  “As am I, Mother,” he said, hoping she could not read the lie in his eyes.

  A smile came to her face, and she once more squeezed his hands before turning to go. “I’ll have water brought up,” she repeated as though reluctant to leave him.

  “Thank you, Mother,” he said and entered his room, desperate to be alone with his thoughts.

  ***

  Soaking in the tub, Frederick closed his eyes, enjoying the soothing warmth that engulfed his tense limbs. The water felt wonderful like a thick blanket wrapping him in its safety, and yet, it could not wash away the pain that lived in his heart.

  With a deep sigh, he grabbed the soap and rubbed it along his tired limbs. The dust from the road washed away quickly, the scars, however, remained. Staring at the stab wound in his left shoulder, Frederick remembered the day he had received it.

  The bayonet had come out of nowhere. He hadn’t even seen his opponent until it had been too late, and the cold steel had already dug its way into his body. A searing pain had brought him to his knees, and black spots had begun to dance before his eyes.

  Slumping onto the blood-soaked earth, he had been certain his end was near.

  The terror of the battlefield echoed in his ears as cries and shouts mixed with the heavy firing of canons and the lighter and faster firing of muskets. The stench of dying men, their hopeless-ness and fear mingling with the sweet smell of rain and the copper aroma of blood, still clung to his nostrils. No matter what he did or where he was, Frederick was forever doomed to relive these memories. They sought him out again and again as though his torment sustained them.

  Like the bayonet, Kenneth, his childhood friend, had appeared as though rising from the earth itself.

  Before the French soldier could finish Frederick, Kenneth bolted forward, his face twisted in an angry snarl as he came to his friend’s aid. Not hesitating for a moment, he had flung himself at the enemy soldier. They had exchanged a few blows; however, Kenneth had disarmed the man swiftly, who had then stared up at him, a dumbfounded expression on his face as Kenneth sunk his bayonet into his chest.

  Relief had flooded Frederick’s heart upon seeing his friend succeed, knowing he would never have been able to live with himself if any harm had come to Kenneth because of him.

  Still, he had returned to England alone.

  With a deep sigh, he rose from the depth of the water, feeling the chill in the air on his wet skin. He dressed slowly, dreading the inevitable.

  As he stood before the mirror, his eyes travelled over his appearance. How often had he looked into this mirror? A million times and more? Now, however, what he saw scared him. Some-how the dark in his heart had spread into every fibre of his being. He was not the man he once had been.

  Now, his black hair seemed even darker as did his eyes, which were like looking into an abyss. They held nothing soft or tender but pierced their opposite with an icy stare. His strong chest and muscled arms ended in large hands that could rip a man to pieces. Hands that had taken more lives than he could remember. Hands that had not been able to save the one life he had cherished. Even above his own.

  Looking at himself in the mirror, all Frederick saw was a monster.

  Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath and left his room. Would the others notice? He wondered. How could they not?

  As he approached the drawing room, happy chatter reached his ears, and his muscles tensed. Involuntarily, he reached for his pistol, shaking his head as he realised the insanity of that action.

  Clearing his throat, he walked into the room.

  Instantly, it fell silent.

  All eyes turned to him, and Frederick’s hands balled into fists as he forced himself to remain rooted to the spot. His legs quivered with the effort it took him not to bolt from the room.

  Coward! His mind screamed.

  Seated on the settee, his mother smiled at him, her eyes warm and full of affection. The sight almost turned Frederick’s stomach upside down.

  Then his gaze shifted to his big brother as he stood by the mantle, his head turned to the door, one hand gently cupping his wife’s cheek. A big grin broke out on his face as he beheld Frederick, and dropping his hand, he strode forward. “Little brother, home at last!”

  “Leopold,” Frederick said, slightly bowing his head.

  His brother frowned. “Don’t be so formal,” he laughed before he drew Frederick into his arms, affectionately slapping him on the back. “It is good to see you.”

  Feeling rather awkward, Frederick returned his brother’s embrace half-heartedly. In a far corner of his mind, he seemed to remember that such a sign of affection had come to him easily once. Now, however, it felt unnatural, and his muscles were unable to relax, tense almost to the point of breaking.

  Standing back, Leopold smiled at him, his soft brown eyes searching his brother’s face. “You must tell me everything.”

  Frederick cringed inwardly. “Later,” he mumbled, evading his brother’s eyes.

  “Certainly.” Shaking his head as though suddenly remembering the other family members in the room, Leopold stepped back, grinning from ear to ear. He held out his hand, and his wife stepped forward, a smile on her beautiful features as she slipped her hand into his.

  “Welcome home, Frederick,” Maryann said, a gentle smile curling up her lips as she placed a soft hand on his hard arm, planting a tender kiss on his cheek. “We are so relieved to have you back with us.”

  “Thank you,” Frederick mumbled, not sure what else to say. He drew in a deep breath as Leopold as well as Maryann remained by his side, their closeness unnerving him more than the feeling of detachedness that he couldn’t seem to shake. He grew increasingly uncomfortable and wished for nothing more but the safe retreat to his room.

  “Supper will be served shortly,” his mother announced as she rose from the settee, her eyes on him. “Would you care for a walk?”

  The ghost of a smile crossed Frederick’s features. “I would like that. Thank you, Mother.”

  “Sounds like a marvellous idea,” Leopold agreed, offering his arm to his wife. As he led her out the door, Frederick’s heart sank. What he wouldn’t do for a little peace and quiet?

  His mother softly slipped her arm through his and drew him forward. “You must be patient with them,” she whispered. “They have been very worried about you especially since…”

  “Father’s death?”

  His mother nodded before looking up at him, and he could see the hint of tears clinging to her eyelashes. “They wish to be happy again, and you coming home is the greatest gift we could have hoped for especially in such a dark hour.”

  Frederick swallowed, his gaze fixed on the setting sun as they walked down the small gravel path to the garden labyrinth that bordered the manor to the west.

  Leopold and Maryann walked a few feet ahead of them, her arm through his, his hand gently cupping hers. Now and then, his brother would lean over and whisper something in her ear, and her eyes would turn to him, gazing up into his with a deep love shining in them.

  At his side
, his mother remained silent, and Frederick took a deep breath, enjoying the late afternoon air as it filled his lungs. Delicate fragrances danced on the slight breeze, and he felt the beginnings of a headache subside. As his muscles began to relax, he closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, cherishing the quiet stillness that engulfed him and soothed his aching heart.

  However, with supper, he found himself in hell once again.

  Seated around the large dining room table, the family engaged in friendly conversation. Be-sides his mother, Leopold and Maryann, their six-year-old daughter Mathilda sat at the table, eyeing him with open curiosity.

  Frederick wanted to squirm.

  Occasionally, they addressed him as though feeling the need to include him in their conversation. Frederick, however, would have preferred to be left alone, and so he answered with mind-numbing indifference. Most of the time, he had no idea what they were talking about, and yet, he could not bring himself to care.

  As the evening progressed, the conversation shifted from societal events and the estate’s business to the war, and Frederick felt the blood pulse in his veins. As time passed and no one sought his opinion of the matter, Frederick began to relax until Leopold turned to him, inconspicuous interest in his eyes, and asked, “We have heard that Napoleon uses a new, lighter kind of canon. Do they truly work more efficiently?”

  For a long minute, Frederick stared at his brother. More efficiently? He thought. In what way? Tearing men’s bodies apart?

  He glanced at his little niece, munching on her roast beef. What was he to say? Ought he to explain how a cannon ball tore apart a human body, scattering its parts over a great distance, soaking the earth with litres of blood?