He was obviously joking. His father must be livid.
Despite his amicable words and feigned smile, tension radiated from him.
“His grace also mentioned that you would be leaving today,” he told Lord Quimbly.
Emily glanced between the two men curiously.
“Not necessarily.” Marcus’ words failed to put the other man off. “You and I have business to tend to. In light of your father’s… illness.” The curious man then acknowledged Lady Hartley and the duchess with a twitch of his head. “Perhaps without the women present, though, eh, Blakely?”
Marcus’ jaw tightened. “Very well, then.”
A servant chose that moment to open the doors and announce dinner.
Her stomach in knots, Emily had no desire to eat.
Marcus released her arm, and as was appropriate, led the duchess into the dining room.
Her stomach pitched when Lord Quimbly approached her.
She was Lady Blakely, after all. She would be expected to perform such a duty. “My lord.” Emily searched her mind for conversation. This was not one of her strengths, after all, but she had something to prove.
A common miss, a wallflower, might be overwhelmed in her current situation.
A countess would not.
“Is your estate far from here?” Ah, that was innocuous enough. “Such fine weather ought to make your journey home a pleasant one.”
At her words, he chuckled.
“Ah, my lady.” He spoke her title as though it tasted bitter in his mouth. “I cannot in all good conscience abandon my dearest of friends while he lies on his deathbed. I insist upon offering my assistance to the family at this time.” The earl stepped slowly so that the two of them fell behind. “As an outsider, one cannot expect you to understand the nuances of aristocratic alliances. Waters and I are practically brothers. We’ve made promises to one another. Upon his death, those agreements shall pass to his heir. So, you see, I shan’t be departing any time soon.”
“The duke told Lord Blakely you were leaving today,” Emily reminded him. She did not like this man. Why did he act as though it was he, and not the duke, who was lord of the manor?
“The duke is no longer in his right mind. Cholera does that.”
Emily gasped. Cholera?
But that did not make sense. Cholera was a disease mostly contracted by the poor. And when it came on, its victim usually succumbed rapidly.
She wrinkled her brow.
If the duke had cholera, the entire household might be in danger due to the miasma. She’d read several articles on the disease this past winter.
“Is that why you did not bring your wife and daughter with you for this visit, my lord?” Was he not fearful of succumbing to it himself? And if not, why?
“My wife passed two years ago.” The man spoke matter-of-factly. “And my daughter shall reside here soon enough.”
She nearly offered her sympathy but his comment about the daughter confused her.
They entered the dining room and Emily withdrew her hand from his arm. She did not like this man. Not at all.
No doubt, the feeling was mutual.
Sitting at the long table with candles flickering and too much space between the guests to converse amicably, Emily was reminded of Cecily’s first dinner party.
The first night she’d met Marcus.
He’d made her nervous, uncomfortable from that very first meeting. On more than one occasion, he’d exhibited his keen intelligence. He showed loyalty to his friends and eschewed the languid lifestyle of most peers.
She’d admired him.
At the same time, she’d hated him for his roguish behavior. Or had she?
Had she merely hated the fact that he had never turned it upon her?
Glancing down the table at him, the image of the barmaid taunted her once again.
She picked at her food, uninterested in Lady Hartley’s and the duchess’ stilted conversation. They’d done nothing to include her, so why bother?
She didn’t like this dreary person she’d become. Tomorrow, she’d try harder tomorrow.
Weariness set in. Had it only been last night that she’d stumbled on her husband whispering to another woman in his arms?
Stupid tears threatened. She needed to dwell upon something else.
Her future.
She did not wish to remain here at Candlewood Park. Marcus had told her he had his own estate nearby. She hoped to find it bright and sunny. Smaller.
Warmer.
“I’ll forgo the port, for now, Quim.” Marcus’ voice broke into her thoughts. Lord Quimbly’s face flushed the color of an eggplant each time Marcus called him that name. Of course, her husband had been doing it intentionally.
She’d stopped noticing the courses set before her, barely managing more than a bite or two of each. She felt numb.
“Emily.”
She glanced down the table. Marcus had addressed her. “Yes, my lord.” Was that really her voice? So timid and weak?
“I’d present you to Waters before the hour grows late.”
She nodded, folded her napkin carefully, and rose from her chair.
At least she would not have to meet him in front of the duchess and Lady Hartley.
And Marcus would be with her.
Whatever else he was, she believed him to be her friend. She rubbed at the smooth metal on her finger. The ring he’d had made from her spectacles.
“Nervous?” His voice drew her from her thoughts as they walked along the empty corridor. He sounded confiding, almost encouraging.
“Terrified,” she admitted.
“He ought to be the one terrified.” He winked. Such charm worked like poison. She drank it willingly, not caring about the damage it inflicted. “Trust me, I know.”
But then he turned serious. “You needn’t say a word. If he turns vile, simply imagine you’re reading one of your books. Don’t allow his words to hurt you.”
He spoke the words with too much knowing.
His relationship with his father had not been a loving one.
The valet opened the door and, with a disapproving glance, allowed them to enter.
Emily stepped toward the bed. The man lying in it appeared a ghost of the one she’d eavesdropped on earlier this spring.
He’d lost a great deal of hair. Sallow complexion. And so very thin.
A tray brought up from the kitchen sat on a nearby table, untouched.
“Your grace.” She would have this meeting over with.
The man’s eyes fluttered open, and he let out a breath. Even from a distance, the stench of illness assaulted her.
She held his gaze steadily.
“Have you brought up one of the chambermaids for me to meet, Blakely?”
Marcus took hold of her arm, as though to drag her away, but she stiffened and stepped closer. She’d come this far. She might as well finish what she had started.
“I am Emily Roberts.” She curtseyed. “The Countess of Blakely.” Perhaps if she spoke the words aloud enough, she would begin to believe them herself.
“My son has done it. He’s gone and married himself a feisty bluestocking.”
At least she’d been elevated from chambermaid. “Women have curious minds just as men do.”
The duke chuckled. “Not near the looker of that whore you took up with as a boy, but she does have a spine.”
“Was she?” Marcus jumped into the conversation without missing a beat. “Was Meggie a whore?”
Every muscle in Emily’s body tightened at his words. She knew how much it hurt for him to ask this. His father would have no reason to lie now.
“She came to me.” The duke’s voice cracked. “I had every intention of buying her off before you became too enamored, but by God, the wench came to me first. Demanded one hundred pounds. Told me she’d leave the shire if I paid up.”
“And Mr. Thistlebum?” This from Emily. She wanted Marcus to know the facts. He’d imagined the worst of his father f
or too long, placing the woman of his past on a pedestal.
“Her husband,” the duke mumbled. “A hundred pounds. Imbeciles, both of them. I’d have paid them a thousand. You were lucky to be rid of them so easily.”
Emily didn’t look at Marcus. No man liked to hear he’d been wrong about something, especially when that something had to do with a woman.
She stared down at the duke’s hands lying on the coverlet.
Dry, frail. And his nails? She peered closer. White marks, where they ought to be pink. White lines.
“So, you did not chase Meggie away.” Marcus sounded stiff. “I owe you an apology.” Emily stepped back again. Not feeling like an intruder so much as wishing herself invisible. Somehow, she believed this conversation to be momentous. He might have hated the Duke of Waters for many reasons, but the man was still his father.
“I would have, though,” the man rasped. In the wake of his words, the clock on the mantle ticked loudly, the only sound in the room.
Emily lifted her lashes to sneak a look at Marcus. His jaw clenched, eyes glassy. This might very well be one of the last times he spoke with his father. The man appeared closer to death than he did to life.
“It’s been an honor to meet you, your grace.” Emily dropped into a curtsey and backed away. She would leave Marcus alone with his father.
The duke’s response came in something of a grunt.
Marcus met her eyes and nodded.
If he came to her tonight, she would have him. At that moment, she knew she could never turn him away.
She loved him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A Lucky Guess
She did not wait long.
In fact, Emily had barely changed into her night rail when a light tap sounded at the door to her chamber and, without waiting, Marcus stepped in.
Fatigue and worry haunted his gaze.
And something else.
Desire. He wanted her tonight. He needed her.
And again, she knew. She could never send him away.
“He is dying,” Marcus said without inflection as Emily reached up to untie his cravat.
He’d come directly to her. He’d not gone to his valet first.
Indeed, the Duke of Waters appeared to be living his last hours. But cholera? Something niggled at her brain.
She would look it up later. But for now, she would focus all her attention on Marcus. “He’s a proud and stubborn man.” She didn’t contradict him.
She pulled the silk cravat free and assisted him in removing his jacket. All the while, Marcus stood motionless, allowing her to divest him of his waistcoat and then his shirt.
Emily led him to the couch. Upon sitting, he remained still but not unaffected. As each second passed, his gaze became hooded with that sleepy, sensual knowing she’d come to love. His breaths became shallow.
She dropped to the floor and went to work on his boots.
“Was it the same with her?” Emily held her breath after voicing the question. She needed to know…
“Meggie?” Marcus furrowed his brows.
Please don’t deny it. She didn’t want him to lie to her. “Last night. At the inn.”
With one boot off, she addressed the other. She didn’t want to look up at him. If she did, he’d know how much she cared. How much it had hurt her.
And he didn’t want her to care.
And then his fingers drew her chin up, not allowing her to hide. “Who? The barmaid?”
He would act innocent! “She was in your arms.”
Emily tried to look away, shaking her head, but he gripped her chin tighter. “Emily.” His voice came out choked sounding. “You were watching? But how?” And then. “She fell onto my lap.”
“I saw the look you gave her. You were flirting with her.”
Emily had hit home with this accusation. She could see it in the way he dropped his gaze from hers.
And then he shrugged ruefully. “But for a moment. It meant nothing.” But his green eyes held regret. “I…” He took a deep breath. “I hadn’t planned on any of this. On you. And for an instant… I mourned the loss of my bachelorhood.”
His words brought a stinging sensation to her eyes. She’d known this, of course.
“But in the instant I allowed myself to go back, I knew that I couldn’t. And I didn’t really want to. If you’ll remember correctly, I was at your door shortly thereafter. Only you wouldn’t allow me entry.”
“Likely her bed was warm for you.” Emily couldn’t believe she was saying these words. She wasn’t like this! She wasn’t a jealous and possessive harpy.
Marcus tugged her against him. “The bed I found was lumpy and cold. I’d be a fool to slake my needs anywhere else when I have you. Trust me?” He pressed his lips against her forehead.
She didn’t want to. This would only bring her more pain when he left.
She nodded and pressed her lips to the smooth skin along his shoulder.
“Emily.”
One word. All it took to own her heart was one word.
He kicked off his other boot and then buried his mouth on her shoulder. His teeth tugged at her prim gown, while behind her, his fingers fumbled in search of the buttons.
With one long tearing sound, cool air hit her body and the gown dropped to the floor.
“Emily.”
His lips trailed along her skin, desperately, hungrily.
She knew that he needed her tonight. This was different than before. It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t for sport. He needed her like a man in the desert needs water.
Impatient, he groped at his falls, releasing his mentula in a matter of seconds, stiff, angry, seeking.
Emily crushed her nakedness against him, relishing in the rough wool of his breeches, the heat of his skin.
And oh, dear God, yes, the silky warmth of his length.
There would be no playful teasing. No preparing one another tenderly.
In one motion, he pulled her to her feet and then lifted her against the wall. He would take her right here. Right now.
She didn’t care about the sharp corners of wooden molding digging into her back.
How could she as he buried himself inside her? How could she when he filled her completely?
Emily clung to him with her arms and legs as he pumped and thrust in frantic desperation.
She sensed his need to feel life.
His father lay dying. His past had all but been erased. Even his legacy was not what he’d believed it to be.
He’d lost a decade with his family.
Marcus adjusted his stance, and Emily began moving with him. His strength thrilled her even as she felt his muscles begin to shake.
This.
This sex. This lovemaking. It left no room for thought. No room for contemplation or analysis. There was only the feeling.
The needing.
Emily arched her back when his lips dropped to her breast. He tugged at one, pulling her into his mouth. How could pain so closely feel like ecstasy? So similar and yet, not at all.
At that moment, she did not belong to herself. She gave him all control. She trusted him. His body could take what he needed, and in so doing, meet all of her needs.
They were one.
Marcus increased his pace, angled himself so as to reach her very core, and then sent her spiraling into euphoria while finding his own release.
Muscles, trembling, he carried her to the bed and collapsed. She didn’t care that his weight pinned her to the mattress. She didn’t care that her legs were cramped.
This.
She would remember this moment forever. The moment she felt every inch a woman.
The moment she felt loved.
The two of them only slept intermittently that night, awakening with renewed need after a few hours.
The second-time Marcus made love to her slowly, touching her everywhere with not only his hands, but his lips. Murmuring words she would remember for the rest of her life.
A
nd the third time…
The third time, Emily pleasured him. Who knew what the dawn would bring? After he drifted into a deep slumber, she watched the sky outside her window change from a bottomless black to a soft indigo.
She wondered if the duke had survived the night. A maudlin thought, to be certain, but he’d seemed almost to be putrefying.
That smell.
That smell!
She bolted upright in the bed as her brain came to life. Waters wasn’t suffering from cholera, he was being poisoned.
At least she believed maybe he was being poisoned.
She needed to verify her suspicions. The library. Surely, she could locate what she needed in that glorious library. Careful not to wake Marcus, she dressed hastily in the little light filtering through the window. She’d do something with her hair later. For now, she merely needed some time alone with all those books.
Certain nobody else would be awake, she pulled on some wool socks and tiptoed down the corridor without bothering with her half boots.
She’d likely return before Marcus woke up.
That garlic smell… As she approached the library, her conviction strengthened. The white fingernail marks. The hair loss.
Arsenic.
She needed to locate more information on cholera as well as poisoning before saying anything to Marcus. She’d already created enough turmoil in his life without adding to it unnecessarily.
She’d verify her suspicions and then discuss the facts with him. She would not take matters into her own hands as she’d done before.
The door to the library had been left open and dusky sunlight filtered into the room from the long bank of windows facing the front of the estate.
First, she needed to understand how the library had been organized. It shouldn’t take her long. She’d done this often enough.
She found what she was looking for all too quickly. Can be likened to flour and sugar in appearance, odorless and tasteless… an excellent mechanism for killing rats…
“Miss Goodnight.”
The voice startled her.
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