He doubted his father had been completely innocent of meddling in their disappearance, but what if his father hadn’t had them murdered? According to Prescott, the duke had not.
And why had Marcus been so quick to believe that his father had?
Meggie had told him she feared it. And Quimbly had once made the suggestion.
His father’s friend had said it jokingly over dinner and again on a hunt.
But Marcus had not forgotten.
And after Meggie disappeared, and his father had shown no remorse or sympathy…
Marcus shook his head. He’d assumed the worst.
Had Emily merely brought the truth to light?
Perhaps, but she’d also exposed his private life to Prescott and likely, the duchess as well. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Nottingham knew everything.
But Emily had apologized.
Hadn’t she?
He couldn’t remember much of what she said. Yes, he distinctly remembered her saying she was sorry.
Just before he’d taken her against that beast of an oak tree, which had been conveniently standing behind her. Reliving those frantic moments had him shifting on his barstool
His wife.
He needed to get used to the idea.
As much turmoil as he felt at the reminder, he also found some peace with her.
He scrubbed a hand across his face.
Why did he resist her?
Why could he not enjoy her for the next few months and then take himself off to India again? Wasn’t that what they’d decided upon?
She’d told him she missed him.
He took a long swallow but as the cool liquid poured down his throat, doubt pricked between his shoulder blades.
Had he been the one to make such a confession? Had he been the one to express such a romantic sentiment?
Marcus glanced around the half-filled tap room. What was the matter with him?
He’d often found solace in places nearly identical to this one. He’d drink, make conversation with men of the working class. As a merchant, a shipman himself, rarely did anyone guess him to be a member of the aristocracy. In fact, he’d spent many an early morning hour discussing the merits and failures of England’s landed gentry. Conversation evolved to greater honesty, intensity, amongst strangers as the night wore on and spirits flowed.
He’d even discovered a few interesting barmaids.
More than a few, actually.
Something inside of him had shifted.
This was why he resisted going to his wife tonight. This loss of his independence. This loss of individuality.
He gestured to the barmaid again. Drawing on years of flirtatious behavior, he winked. He wasn’t prepared, however, when she drifted across the room and settled herself on his lap.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Foolish Man
Emily took one step backward. And then another. Was she even breathing?
She should have known better. She should have stayed in her chamber. Left well enough alone.
Only, she’d wanted him.
She’d thought to step out of her chamber, perhaps catch his eye. Give him some indication as to what they could be doing if he’d return to their suite.
He’d not been alone.
This must be what it felt like to take a fist to the gut. She’d watched a few pugilists put on an expedition near Cheapside once. She and Rhoda had given their maids the slip. Gone looking for a particular bookshop and gotten off track. The sensation of all the air whooshing out of her. Yes. It reminded her of what an opponent likely experienced when the other fighter landed a blow.
At first, she couldn’t move.
Perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps the barmaid had tripped and landed accidentally on Marcus.
But Marcus did nothing to push the woman away. In fact, his arm snaked around the buxom woman’s waist and seemed to draw her closer.
He whispered something into the barmaid’s ear, and the woman laughed.
And when the woman laughed, her bosom bounced directly in Marcus’ line of vision. Inches from his eyes. And Emily just stood there, watching, almost like she had that night when he’d been with Mrs. Cromwell.
How could he?
Perhaps Emily had not understood their arrangement properly.
But she had. He’d been rather clear about his expectations of her.
Only, she’d not allowed herself to imagine what he might be doing after. She’d not considered that while she piddled around on some unknown country estate, her husband might be out swiving other women.
Intellectually, she’d known it. Yes. He’d not deceived her on this.
And the marriage itself, well, truth be told, it had been her idea. Indeed, the identity of his bride had changed but when she’d initially proposed the idea to him, she’d given him every indication that it would be strictly a marriage of convenience.
But seeing him thusly, with another woman.
Her eyes burned.
She’d not paid heed to the notion because she’d had no real knowledge of what it even meant. What that might feel like.
She’d not given him her body yet.
She’d not gone and idiotically fallen in love with the bastard.
Watching him with the barmaid was not the same as when she’d watched him with Mrs. Cromwell.
No.
No!
Because now she knew.
Love. Anger. Hatred.
Pain.
Blistering, soul-piercing, mind-shattering pain.
She somehow managed to stumble backward. Where was her chamber? She fumbled along the corridor until she could locate the door to her suite.
This was what he’d been attempting to tell her all along. This was the marriage he’d envisioned.
She closed the solid door behind her. She couldn’t allow him into her room. She couldn’t allow him to touch her tonight. She couldn’t imagine allowing him to touch her ever again.
After putting his hands on another woman.
Emily held a handkerchief over her mouth to muffle the cry she couldn’t hold back. God! It was the one he’d handed her earlier today.
When she’d begged his forgiveness.
When she’d practically begged him to make love to her.
She could not tell Cecily any of this. She felt humiliated. Mortified. Degraded. Marcus never told her that he loved her. She’d been naïve to hope his love would come.
Beyond naïve. She’d been irrational to imagine he’d feel something he’d promised her he never could. To imagine that she was good enough…
Would he push his member into a total stranger and then expect to come back and put it inside of her? Inside of his wife?
This thought stirred her to action. She locked the door and even slid a chair beneath the knob.
She never wanted to see him again. She never wanted to speak to him again. At the same time, she wept over the loss of him.
She wept for the loss of hope. Because she’d come to hope for more from him. She’d come to hope for more for herself.
Hope was for fools.
She pulled on her dressing gown and snuffed the candle.
When he knocked loudly a few minutes later, she feigned sleep. She wished she could have fallen asleep. Any nightmare would have been better than the thoughts tumbling around her brain that night.
All night.
Tormenting her. Taunting her. And finally, teaching her.
When the sky finally turned from black to purple and blue, exhausted from her thoughts, Emily finally drifted off.
She understood now. She’d not bother him again.
She’d locked him out.
Marcus had spent the night on a smaller bed. On a very thin mattress. In a considerably less spacious room than his wife.
He hadn’t slept a great deal.
He’d not considered her such a deep sleeper that she wouldn’t hear him knocking late last night.
Although, his memory failed him
as to the actual time.
He’d consumed far too much ale. And then afterward, far too much whiskey. Nothing like the offerings in Prescott’s study, but a man made do with what was available.
Any other lady and Marcus would have attributed the locked door to feminine outrage.
Perhaps it was time for her monthlies.
That was likely the case.
At least Crandall had located him this morning.
Marcus sat atop his mount, freshly shaven, well dressed with a perfectly tied cravat despite sporting a massive headache he thoroughly deserved.
Perfect day for travel.
Today he would set foot on his father’s estate again for the first time in ten years. The nostalgic yearnings surprised him. Memories of running wild as a very young boy. And then the strict regimen of lessons.
Resenting those lessons with a vengeance.
Being born the heir to a duke shortened one’s childhood considerably.
Hating his father was something he’d come to do unconsciously. Like putting on one’s shoes, or… breathing.
And if his father wasn’t the villain he’d believed him to be? Then what?
Picturing the man taunting him, on more than one occasion, Marcus wondered if Meggie’s disappearance had merely given him a convenient excuse to hate the man.
“I thought you and Lady Blakely had reconciled.” Stephen Nottingham jolted Marcus out of his musings as he rode up from behind.
“Ah,” Were they reconciled? He would have thought that they were after the apology they’d shared yesterday. “I believe we are.”
“Huh.” Stephen patted the side of his mount’s neck and then eyed him skeptically. “Damnit, Marcus. I’d appreciate it if you would remember that your wife is a dear friend to mine. When you’ve done something untoward toward Lady Blakely, I’m bound to hear of it.”
“What have you heard?” Damned blathering women.
“That’s the trouble of it. Cecily tells me only that Emily is not herself today. My wife is concerned for your wife. Damnit. I don’t appreciate my wife having to be concerned over how my oldest friend, practically my brother, treats her dearest of friends.”
Whereas any other person in the world speaking these words to him would merely inflame his anger, to hear them from Stephen…
Marcus shook his head. “I don’t know how to go about this marriage business. I never planned on marrying and now that I have, I’m discovering it’s all rather complicated.”
Stephen chortled. “Women are complicated.”
“God help me.” Marcus rolled his shoulders. “I don’t know where to begin.” He’d meant the words to come out jokingly, but instead, they rang rather pathetic.
“They notice things. Things you and I wouldn’t think about in a thousand years.” Stephen glanced over his shoulder toward the carriage, as though ascertaining his wife wasn’t going to hear his complaint. “And God help me, they feel emotions you and I would swear don’t even exist.”
Marcus couldn’t help but agree. “Emily.” He had no idea where to begin explaining the issues he had with his new wife. “I rather believe she breaks the mold where women are concerned.”
Stephen laughed ruefully again. “The truth is, they all do. Just when you think you’ve got them figured out…” Marcus glanced over in time to see something of a besotted look cross his good friend’s features. “They surprise you. And, Marcus?”
“What?”
“Those damn surprises. They’re my reason for living.”
Marcus swallowed hard. Images of Emily taunting him. Of all the silliness she’d introduced into his life. The laughter. Her own ironic flair for passion.
He could almost understand about the surprises.
“What of the unwanted ones?” Marcus felt compelled to ask.
“Worth it.” Stephen smiled ruefully. “Every damn one of ’em.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Meet the Parents
Emily had, at one time, considered Prescott’s estate, Eden’s Court, imposing. And although her awe persisted, she’d grown somewhat accustomed to the grandeur of the foyers, the elaborate dining room, and the endless gardens. Eden’s Court exuded a warmth, much the same as Sophia herself. Emily wondered if the estate had felt the same before the old duke passed away—if the older duchess had imparted her own particular warmth to the great manor. She certainly didn’t now, hiding at the dower house most of the time.
Would her own mother-in-law move to a dower house as well?
Would she hate Emily as much as her father-in-law was certain to?
As the carriage approached Candlewood Park, Emily shivered. A thick stand of trees protected the castle from all sides. Tightening her shawl about her shoulders, Emily felt as though the temperature dropped at least twenty degrees when the carriage pulled to a stop at the end of the winding drive.
Twin turrets loomed over the U-shaped steps leading up to the large oak door like soldiers guarding a fortress. The various leafy vines clinging to the walls seemingly held the castle fast to the hill. Sunshine landed on the south side of the stone walls, leaving the remainder in dark shade.
It would be easy to imagine ghosts from the past hiding amongst the shadows.
Cecily raised her brows ominously when she met Emily’s eyes.
Before either could speak, sounds of the steps being lowered preceded the carriage door opening.
A uniformed footman stepped back as Stephen Nottingham reached in to assist his wife and son. Emily noticed tentative smiles on both their parts.
“Did he fuss?” Cecily’s husband reached for little Finn and then gathered him up so Cecily could climb out more easily. Before backing out, though, he pressed his lips to the curve of her cheek.
“He was an angel.” Cecily’s entire countenance changed. She damn near glowed.
The liveried manservant then assisted both Cecily and Emily to the ground. Marcus stepped out from behind Mr. Nottingham to take Emily by the elbow.
This menacing structure had been his home as a child. What thoughts raced through his mind at this moment? He’d taken her by the arm as soon as she’d alighted. Was he protecting her or using her to safeguard himself? She nearly snorted at the thought.
It didn’t matter what he wanted. That wasn’t what their union was about. She was a shield for him against the woman he’d been betrothed to for over a decade.
And she was also, she admitted to herself, something of a weapon. She was present only so that Marcus could lash out at his father.
Marcus stood mere inches away from her. Closer than necessary.
She did her best to ignore his warmth.
Impossible.
Not impossible.
Necessary.
She needed her own shield, her own weapon. Something to protect her from what was to come.
“Are you well?” His voice rumbled behind her.
She braced herself against imagining he sounded as though he cared for her. He’d likely say the same to any woman.
Nothing special about her.
Just a wife.
“I’m fine.” Her voice came out a whisper. She cleared her throat. “I’m fine.” There. She sounded stronger this time.
The imposing doors opened, and two women emerged followed by an elderly gentleman who was not the duke. Emily immediately recognized Marcus’ sister and the Duchess of Waters. She’d seen them numerous times over the past two years but never been introduced.
Lady Hartley had the same coloring as Marcus: dark hair, deep green eyes. Proud bearing.
Although his mother held her head high, she appeared drawn and tired.
Marcus drew Emily toward them. “Emily, I’d like to present to you my mother, the Duchess of Waters, Mother, my wife, Emily, Lady Blakely.”
Emily dipped into a deep curtsey. Such a different sort of duchess than Sophia! The woman carried herself as though she’d been born to the role.
The duchess’ mouth tightened into a hard lin
e, almost causing Emily to drop her gaze. Even in one of her newer gowns, she knew she would not be considered any prize.
She’d known this all along. They would see her plain brown eyes, mousy-colored hair, and unimpressive figure.
And her spectacles. Of course, his family would not see past her dratted spectacles.
Rather than speak, the duchess dipped her head slightly.
“And my sister, Lady Hartley, Corinne, this is Lady Blakely, Emily.” Emily couldn’t remember any time when Marcus had stood beside her like this, acknowledging her position in his life.
She could almost believe herself a wife.
Only… many aristocratic marriages were no different than hers.
“His grace is resting. I’m sure you remember Lord Quimbly.” Marcus’ mother gestured toward the stooped gentleman beside her.
Quimbly. Quimbly… Where had Emily heard that name before?
Marcus stiffened beside her and barely nodded. His grip on her elbow tightened. Emily stifled the urge to comfort him.
Oddly enough, she wished she could comfort his mother as well. She’d been estranged from Marcus, too. This family had experienced too much bitterness. They needed to forgive one another.
But Emily could not succumb to Marcus’ needs right now. Instead, she stepped away from him, both physically and emotionally.
Marcus presented Mr. Nottingham, whom the family was already familiar with, and Mr. Nottingham presented Cecily.
Lady Hartley and the duchess exchanged an enigmatic glance.
Emily wondered if they knew Cecily was of the merchant class. What would they think of Emily’s own mother?
“Beatrice will show you to your chambers.” The duchess indicated a middle-aged housekeeper hovering nearby.
“Oh, we are not staying.” Cecily grimaced in apology at what must have been a pained expression on Emily’s part. “We’ll be staying—”
“We’re going to travel on to April Downs,” Mr. Nottingham interrupted his wife.
Cecily’s expression softened upon locking eyes with her husband.
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