Page 62 of His Bluestocking Bride

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Ellen paced the library floor, going from one end of the shelves to the other, her mind a tangle of unpleasant thoughts.

The letter in her hand protested when her hand tightened around it. Ellen frowned down at it, her name written in Teresa’s hand across the front. Her sister’s news was simple and happy, full of excitement for her impending confinement and new baby. The letter was also full of questions about London and Marcus. Questions Ellen didn’t wish to answer.

She tucked the letter in the band about her waist and continued her pacing.

In two days’ time, their wedding ball would be held in the family’s townhouse, and the guest list was a yard long. When looking through it, she‘d recognized a handful of names. What was she to say to a group of strangers come to celebrate her marriage to one of their own?

Marcus was well liked by many, that was easy enough to see. Everywhere he went, people greeted him by name. He knew what to say and how to act, even if he didn’t find pleasure in it, and fit with these people well. Ellen, on the other hand, stuck out. No one knew her or her family. They’d never heard of her until they learned of Marcus’s marriage. So far, people had either seemed mildly curious, completely indifferent, or openly hostile upon meeting her.

There was no time, either, to get to know anyone. After being introduced to someone at tea, they left a quarter of an hour later. Meeting a lady at a ball meant a minute and a half of conversation. How did anyone make friends in London if this was forever the way of things?

“You will get used to it,” her mother-in-law had told her when she ventured to speak of her concerns. “The more you are about in society, the more familiar faces will become. You will carve a niche for yourself in due course.”

Longing to do more than socialize, Ellen had asked about the possibility of venturing out to the menagerie, or the lending libraries, or art galleries. But each time she had mentioned the possibility, Lady Annesbury had declared it impossible. She had engaged them for various teas, morning calls, or else declared it to be their at home day. Marcus had bowed to his mother’s wishes when he was present.

Her husband had barely spoken to her for the last several days, though he was often in the same room. Marcus sat brooding, and sometimes she caught him watching her with a speculative look in his eyes.

Was he beginning to see what a terrible choice in wife she had been? Seeing her in the light of London’s spectacles could not have been less flattering.

Ellen paused in her steps and raised a hand to her forehead, attempting to hold back her painful thoughts. It was no use, she knew, to deny what he had seen. She was too quiet, too withdrawn, and too unused to society’s ways. She might make a very fine country wife, and indeed Kettering looked far less daunting now that she had London to compare it to, but how could she ever be like the ladies of the ton?

Especially when all she wanted to do was curl up in a chair with a good book or escape the madness of morning calls to attend a gallery, or the Royal Society’s building. Anything would be better than sitting and listening to women discussing the same gossip she had heard three times already.

Ellen paused and put one hand out to touch the spines of the books nearest her. Pulling one out at random, she went to sit on the couch. The moment her eyes fell onto that piece of furniture, however, all she could think on was the night she and Marcus had spent resting upon it, in each other’s arms.

Heat crept into her cheeks and she hugged the book to her chest, staring at the spot where his head had lain. Here she stood, a married woman, and that moment when she woke in his arms had been the happiest of her life. They had never spoken of it again.

She turned away and went to one of the chairs instead, opening the volume hastily. She sat in the chair and frowned down at the page, trying to make sense of what she saw. It appeared as though she’d chosen a volume of poetry. She flipped the book closed and read the spine. Reliques of Robert Burnes.

“When I upon thy bosom lean/And fondly clasp thee a’ my ain, I glory in the sacred ties/That made us ane, wha ance were twain.” Ellen scowled down at the book and slammed its covers closed again.

“Not to your liking?”

Her head snapped up and Ellen saw her husband standing in the doorway, watching her with that strange, curious look again. It was as if he’d never seen her before and tried to puzzle her out. But he had known her so well at Orchard Hill.

“I am not in the mood for poetry, I’m afraid,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. She stood and turned her back to him, going to the shelves to restore the book to its proper place.

“That’s a shame.” He came further into the room, his manner casual. “What would you like to do, Ellen?”

Ellen closed her eyes and spoke before thinking. “I would like to go home to Orchard Hill.”

Silence, long and heavy, filled the space between them. But she would not turn to look at him, would not look to see his reaction to her words. He had asked and she answered.

“Is London so terrible?” When he broke the silence his voice was softer but resigned.

Ellen shook her head and placed a hand on the shelves in front of her, gripping it for strength. “No, but I find I’m not made for it.”

His step came nearer. “That isn’t true, Ellen. It will take some getting used to, but—”

Ellen let out a laugh and whirled around, her gaze colliding with his. “I know. And I have not given London a fair chance. But you asked what I wanted and I gave you an honest answer, which is more than what I can say for nearly everyone I’ve met since coming here. How do you live like this, Marcus?”

He stared at her. “It’s how my life has always been.”

“I know.” She raised a hand to her head again, a headache coming on. “But it isn’t easy for me. I’m trapped by the invitations given and received. I’m happy to make friends, but no one here seems capable of real feeling. Everyone wishes to outdo each other. There is no genuine behavior or emotions.”

“Ellen,” he said, coming another step closer. He raised a hand as if to reach for her and then lowered it. “Ellen, would you like to come with me today? Would you like to go for a ride in the park or visit Gunter’s? Maybe we could visit the Tower.”