Cecily’s expression softened upon locking eyes with her husband.
Seeing this kind of love, seeing Cecily’s husband defer to her wishes, nearly brought another round of tears to Emily’s eyes.
Not all couples entered into marriage without love.
Feeling exposed, feeling like an imposter, Emily shivered when she noticed the withering stare Lord Quimbly pinned upon her. And then she remembered who he was. He’d been beside the woman Marcus had been betrothed to. Her father. He must be Marcus’ betrothed’s father.
Of course, the man hated her! Probably more so than Marcus’ father would.
She. Emily Goodnight… er Roberts… had usurped the man’s daughter from ever becoming a duchess.
No laughing matter, that.
Emily schooled her features to return a pleasant façade. She wouldn’t cower. She wouldn’t hide.
Meaningless conversations swirled around them as Quimbly took hold of the duchess’ arm and led them into the manor.
Marcus looked around but before he could take hold of Emily, his sister stepped forward and wound her hand around his arm.
Emily glanced around nervously, suddenly feeling quite as though she did not belong. Although not an unfamiliar emotion, she hated that she felt this way.
Would it never go away? The sense of not being good enough?
Even little Finn had his nanny.
She clasped her hands behind her back, lifted her chin, and locked her gaze on the back of Cecily’s head as she followed them all inside.
Dark and cold, the foyer’s austere décor matched the architecture perfectly. Marcus had grown up here? This was his home? Emily wrapped her arms around herself to suppress a shiver.
Cecily and Mr. Nottingham did not stay long. Lucky them! After taking an uncomfortable tea with Marcus’ family, they excused themselves to make a quick escape.
How had their plans changed so drastically?
Cecily apologized with a warm embrace and told her to write daily.
Write? She nearly laughed out loud. A foreboding washed over her that after the next few days, she just might have the makings of a novel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Hi, Dad
Something was off with Emily. Marcus couldn’t put his finger on it. He’d assumed her distance had something to do with her monthlies, and yet, she’d never acted this way with him. Not angry so much as distant. As though she’d extinguished something inside of herself.
Perhaps it had something to do with meeting Waters. Marcus wasn’t so much a fool that he didn’t remember how their marriage had come about in the first place. He’d meant to spite the old man by marrying the Mossant girl. And when that hadn’t come to fruition, he’d married Emily.
An unsuitable bluestocking. Had he even called her that? He’d made a mockery of the proposal. Dropped to one knee as though all of it had been the greatest of jokes.
Despite telling her she was good enough for Carlisle, he’d done a hell of a lot to convince her she wasn’t good enough for him.
Marcus swallowed hard. Was he the reason for that bleakness behind her gaze?
“You didn’t really marry her, did you, Marcus? Tell me it’s a joke,” Corinne beseeched him after one of the servants led Emily away to their chamber, breaking into his unsettling thoughts.
Corinne’s tone raised his hackles.
“She is my wife.” The words felt right. He’d not allow anyone to disparage Emily, let alone his own family. “You’ll do well to remember that.”
He’d not had many opportunities to speak with his sister since falling out with his father. She’d always been something of a silly, frivolous girl but kind-hearted and sympathetic. Her comment surprised him.
It shouldn’t have. Before marrying, Emily truly had been on the fringes of Society.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. She herself had suggested he marry an undesirable bride to retaliate against his father.
Undesirable.
The word bothered him.
Unsuitable perhaps. But he certainly no longer saw her that way. He’d not allow any of them to belittle Emily. Not Corinne, nor his mother.
Guilt pricked at his conscience. Had he belittled her?
He’d shown her affection on some occasions but on others, he’d treated her more like a fellow schoolmate. He’d considered her an equal intellectually, but had he ever given her the due respect of a wife? That hadn’t been part of their initial agreement, had it?
Everything had changed, though.
How was it that one tiny woman could scramble his brain somehow?
“Oh, come now, Marcus. She looks like somebody’s governess. Or companion. It’s a joke. You can admit it to me. Your way of getting back at Father. Brilliant, really. It’s a shame he’s too ill to appreciate it.”
Corinne had changed.
Except, she knew him too well. She knew how much he hated their father. She knew he’d do practically anything to extract revenge from the man who’d sired him.
A sick feeling churned in his gut.
He’d used Emily to get back at his father.
And then he’d taken her body as part of the package.
And God help him. When he’d given her the ring in the gazebo, he’d made a promise of sorts to her. Had he only intended to fulfill it at his own convenience?
Was he a man who used people then?
The same as his father? God help Emily if he was.
“How bad is it?” he asked. Corinne wouldn’t wax the truth.
“Mama’s ordered us mourning clothes. I suppose afterward you’ll come clean about this so-called marriage of yours.”
So very efficient. He wondered if his mother would grieve, in truth. His parents’ marriage had been an arranged one. No love had ever been lost between the duke and duchess.
But that they wouldn’t simply all celebrate the duke’s passing. Cagey old bastard.
An urge to face the man, to finally know the truth of the past, surged through him. Ever since Emily stunned him by announcing that Mr. Thistlebum had not been Meggie’s father… Good God, her husband! It had all occurred so long ago. Were his memories so corrupted, so clouded by the angst and lust of his younger self?
Had much changed in him?
He’d allowed himself to be manipulated by Emily. Had he allowed the same all those years ago? The thought sickened him. He’d thought himself to be in love with Meggie Thistlebum. Hell and damnation, could he trust feelings he might have for Emily?
Corrinne watched him, seeming to expect some sort of response.
She’d learn soon enough that his marriage to Emily was legitimate. His blood ran hot at an errant thought that his wife was likely the best thing to ever happen to him. He just needed to figure out how to keep it that way.
“He’s sleeping, my lord,” Billings, his father’s lifelong retainer, whispered through the opened door. “Might you return in the morning?”
But Marcus had waited too long for this.
With a shake of his head, he exerted enough pressure on the wooden door to cause the elderly valet to take a few steps back.
His father’s man stood to the side, wringing his hands, as though contemplating what he needed to do to protect the duke.
“That will be all, Billings.”
The man hesitated but, upon receiving a hard stare from Marcus, he relented and disappeared into the nearby dressing room. Marcus took a deep breath as he approached his father’s wan figure lying atop the ancient bed.
His father’s eyelids flickered.
Good God, what had happened? Waters appeared a mere shadow of the man Marcus had met with less than one month ago in the Crabtrees’ library.
The room reeked of a horrid garlicky smell.
“The prodigal son returns.” Despite the weakness in his father’s voice, the man managed to insert a heavy dose of condescension into his tone.
Marcus took the seat nearest the bed. “Come to see how my inheritance is comi
ng along.” He could give no less than he took.
His father chuckled at that. “You’ll be sorely disappointed.” He seemed to have difficulty swallowing. “Unless you marry Quimbly’s chit.”
“God, Father. Just once could we have a conversation without—”
“You haven’t a choice, boy. Listen to me for once.” His father’s interruption surprised him. Not that he demanded his attention but because of the desperate look in his eyes.
Marcus would listen. And then he would ask questions of his own.
His father closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again. “I did not make that agreement so that I could manipulate your life. Or because I had any sort of desire to interfere in your future.” He struggled to swallow again. “I had no choice.”
Marcus wanted to demand an explanation but checked himself. His father was already straining to continue. “The coffers dried up long ago. Six generations of dukes and I’m the one to bring it to ruin.” Waters opened his eyes again. “Unless you marry Lady Lila.”
Marcus stilled. Few times in his life had he experienced sincerity from his father. This seemed to be one of them. Clarity hit him square in the face. Marcus ought to have known all along. Perhaps a part of him had, and that had merely fed into his hatred.
The manipulation hadn’t been about control. It had been about greed.
And his father wasn’t the only villain.
“You sold that betrothal to him,” Marcus said baldly. “How much? How much was I worth?”
“Wasn’t you we were selling, my boy. It was the title. Quimbly wants his gel to become a duchess, and he’ll do anything to ensure it.”
The revelation ought to have occurred to him before. Why hadn’t he considered all the possible motivations for Waters to sign the betrothal contracts to begin with?
God damn, his father ought to have been honest with him from the beginning.
This had all been about money? Money and a title?
The irony of it was, Marcus had more money than he knew what to do with. He’d earned it.
Society viewed it as something of a splotch on his character.
And to add to the irony, the title was no longer up for grabs.
The title belonged to Emily.
His wife.
She was his countess now. She would be the duchess.
“I’ve married, Father.”
The words hung in the rancid-smelling room for a full minute before his father acknowledged them. “Well done, my boy. My son through and through. Well done indeed.”
The duke did not appear nearly as upset as Marcus had envisioned. “Is that why Quimbly is here? Watching over his investment?”
The duke grimaced. “I told that bastard to leave. Damn vulture. Waiting for me to die.”
“How much do you owe him?”
“Nothing if you had married his chit.” He exhaled deeply. “Ninety thousand pounds if you do not.” He lay still, struggling to catch his breath a moment before surprising Marcus by adding, “So, where’s this ninety-thousand-pound wife of yours? Knowing you, she must be quite the looker.” He chuckled at his own joke and then began wheezing.
At sounds of his master’s distress, the concerned valet rushed back inside the room.
Billings assisted his father into an upright position and offered water until the wheezing and coughing subsided.
“What do the doctors say?” Marcus asked Billings.
Billings dabbed a wet sponge onto the duke’s dried lips before answering. “Cholera. They believe it’s cholera.”
Marcus had never heard of a member of the nobility contracting the disease. His father must have been exposed somehow in London. The deterioration had been swift indeed.
And cholera spread rapidly… Surely, the doctors were wrong?
“Bring me your wife.” His father’s demand interrupted Marcus’ train of thought. “I’d like to see this woman you’ve sacrificed our legacy for.”
Good God. His father could be a bastard sometimes.
Except for this time, Marcus just might be wrong.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Lady Blakely Indeed
Emily changed into one of her newer dresses but then found herself lost as to what to do on her own. It was as though she’d been put away for the evening.
Something she’d experienced in the past, but she’d not been bothered by it before. The chamber she’d been given had been decorated in florals and pastels, obviously meant for a woman. Everything a lady could possibly need: vanity, fainting couch, and a large canopied bed raised nearly four feet from the floor. A few doors lined the wall to the left of a balconied window.
Opening one, Emily entered a rather large dressing room, outfitted with a small bed for a lady’s maid.
Drawing her hand along the gold molding, she wondered if she ought to consider hiring herself one of those. All her own. A lady to assist with dressing, her hair, and the care of her wardrobe.
All things Emily would give up easily enough.
She would have more time to read, set up a few experiments she’d been contemplating, and maintain her own garden.
Even though Marcus planned on abandoning her quickly enough, she ought to be happy to preside over her own home.
Her own home.
The concept gave her pause.
She strolled out of the dressing room and opened the next door to find a sitting room, elaborately furnished but quite dated.
And then another door.
This one opened up to a masculine chamber. Another, larger canopied bed with thick oak railings rather than the slim floral design on her own.
Separate chambers.
It’s for the best.
A chill floated through the air, despite the warm weather outside. What was it about this place? So cold. So cheerless…
Heartless.
Marcus’ childhood home felt heartless.
With one last glance at the bed, she spun around and returned to her own chamber. At least the sun slanted through the one window near the bed. And the colors of the tapestries warmed the room.
But Emily could not sit around in here indefinitely, so she did what she had done all her life.
She went looking for the library.
And oh, but she was not disappointed. Perhaps, in fact, this library might redeem the entire property.
The shelved walls reached three stories high, and in one corner of the room, shaped much like a turret, the shelves reached even higher.
Ah. Yes.
Just as she approached one of the ladders, however, the door opened, and her privacy was interrupted.
“Lord Quimbly?” She nodded deferentially. She would excuse herself. Something about this man sent goose flesh crawling over her flesh. Down her neck, her arms. And then a tremor ran through her.
Although likely well into his sixth decade, the man appeared burly and fit. A pomaded mustache curled down the creases by his mouth, nearly meeting the points of his shirt.
Well dressed. Clean.
It was his gaze that discomfited her.
“Miss Goodnight.” Although his voice was cultured, he spoke her name disdainfully.
Emily did not miss the slight. “Lady Blakely,” she corrected him without thinking.
One side of his mouth twisted into a sneer. “As you say.”
Relief swept through her when the door opened a second time.
Marcus.
He was not alone. His mother and sister followed him.
His mouth was set in a grim expression, and she guessed he must have met with his father already. Had they discussed the past? He looked tired, as though the weight of the world had been dropped on his shoulders.
The urge to share his pain was a strong one, but she could not help remembering what she’d witnessed the night before, Marcus smiling at the barmaid sitting on his lap.
Cecily and Stephen had departed, leaving her very much alone. Although she didn’t want to look to her husband for reass
urance, her gaze locked with his.
And for all of half a second, a teasing smile lurked behind his eyes.
For that one moment, they were friends again. Perhaps he was remembering what she’d done the last time she’d explored her host’s library.
He’d never lacked the ability to charm her.
Unwilling to open herself up to it again so easily, she pinched her lips together.
“How does it feel to be home, Blakely?” Quimbly queried Marcus from across the room with a mocking tone.
Marcus opened a glass door to his left and removed a carafe of some amber liquid. It would likely be scotch. Emily had been indifferent to the smoky spirit in the past but had recently grown rather fond of it. It tasted bittersweet. Much like her marriage.
The scent of it would forever remind her of her husband. Of their trip to Gretna Green.
Of sharing a chamber. Sharing a bed. Tasting it on his lips.
Marcus’ stare turned hard and unreadable when it landed on Lord Quimbly. The older man met it with an equally odd glint.
“How should I feel, Quim?”
Did he really call him that? Emily’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline but neither of the other ladies seemed to notice. Emily had read it in one of the more vulgar tomes she’d once discovered.
Lord Quimbly’s eyes narrowed. “Sorry that you’ve stayed away so long, I would imagine. In case you didn’t notice, Candlewood Park is in much need of repairs.”
Marcus lifted his chin, as though accepting a challenge of some sort. At the same time, he casually wandered across the room to Emily. “And now my countess and I can make plans for repairs and renovation. Isn’t that right, my dear?” He placed one hand on her back and with the other, lifted hers to his lips. “With my mother’s permission, my bride shall be given carte blanche.” At these words, Emily watched the duchess closely. Marcus’ mother gave nothing of her emotions away.
His sister rolled her eyes and then smirked.
The Earl of Quimbly pondered Marcus carefully. “Have you met with his grace yet?”
“Just now.” Marcus tucked her hand through his arm protectively. Was it her imagination or did he derive strength from her? She was so caught up in her emotions where he was concerned that she nearly jumped when he addressed her. “Father would like to meet you this evening, Emily. He’s eager to be introduced to the woman who lured me to the altar.”
Hell's Belle Page 24