Adelaide felt the blood rush to her feet. “Dylan talked to the squire?”
“Only long enough to send him on his way.” The duchess had walked to a dainty little writing table near the window. “Perhaps Marcus is right, dear. You do look a bit peaked. You should take a nap before dinner. That long carriage ride is very tiring on those terrible roads. I hear the roads in Italy are very smooth. Built by the Romans, you know.”
“You don’t say,” Marcus said dryly. He turned to look at Adelaide. She wondered if her guilt showed, like a torn petticoat or a great letter T on her forehead. Or worse an M. Her palms were damp, as was the hair at the back of her neck. For an entire week, she had enjoyed his eyes on her, among other things. Now she wished nothing as much as his complete disinterest. Well, not complete. “You do look a bit pale, my dear. Why don’t you have a lie down whilst I prepare myself to meet with our gambling, drinking neighbor?”
Adelaide gave him what she hoped was a weak smile. It felt more like her expression after drinking one of her old nanny’s cures. She looked up to find Emily offering her a handful of letters. She’d been so self-absorbed she hadn’t seen the dear woman cross the room back to her.
“Your parents and cousins left notes of farewell for you, dear. Oh, and the one on top is from Mr. Crosby. He was insistent that I deliver into your hands personally. Such a dear young man. I understand you and he have been friends from childhood.”
“Yes.” The word came out in a tight squeak. Adelaide cleared her throat as she took the letters and placed them in her lap. “Yes, we have.” She looked at Marcus. A strange emotion lurked over his features and settled in his eyes. To anyone else he might have looked like a contented husband, but not to her. His handsome features hid something. Could he know about the dogs? And poor, possibly dead Dickie?
“Well, then.” He stood abruptly and dusted off his buckskins. “I think I shall take a turn about the gardens to clear my head. Care to join me, Addy?”
There was something about his invitation that made her think of the Spanish Inquisition. She had no idea why. One thing she did know. Whatever Dylan had written, she needed to read it immediately. “I think I will sit here a bit longer and read my letters. Then I believe I will take that nap. I am more tired than I thought.”
“Good idea,” Emily said. She bent to press her cheek to Adelaide’s. “I am so glad you have joined our family, I cannot tell you.” She stood upright and turned to Marcus. Her kiss to his cheek, delivered on her tip toes, made Adelaide smile and Marcus blush. “Only you could fall into a hole and come up with the perfect bride, you lucky boy.”
“I live to serve you, madam.” He bowed to her with a flourish.
Emily snorted and went out the door the footman held open, no doubt warned to do so by her heels clicking on the polished floors. Whilst the ticking of the clock and the occasional snap of the fire was the only sound she really heard, it was not difficult to imagine he could hear the pounding of her heart. In fact, he tilted his head and looked at her as if he heard that very thing.
It was all she could do to sit still when he stepped into the flow of her skirts and touched his finger to her chin. It would be lovely to feel cool and sophisticated, but all she felt as she looked up into his eyes was a warm, hazy sensation. It happened every time he touched her and would probably do so until the day she died.
Her lips felt dry. Apparently, they looked it. With a slow smile, Marcus covered their parched surface with his own. His mouth, however, was anything but dry. The brush of his lips across hers was as soothing as a drink of cool, clear water from a brook. She sighed helplessly and reached up to touch his cheek. He finished the kiss with a wicked flick of his tongue and the caress of his thumb across her bottom lip.
So subtle was he, she did not realize he had filched Dylan’s letter from the stack in her lap until he rose to his full height and held it up for his perusal. She didn’t think her heart could beat any faster. She was wrong.
Chapter Twenty
Marcus knew he had no right to the letter in his hand. What he didn’t know, was what had possessed him to take it from her in the first place. He only knew some heretofore unfamiliar urge came over him at the mere thought of Crosby’s private communication with Addy. There was absolutely no reason for Wessex’s notorious younger brother to maintain a friendship with a married woman. Oh, very well, there was at least one good reason. Marcus would be damned if he’d allow any man to have that sort of attachment to his wife.
“I thought you were going to take a turn about the gardens,” Addy reminded him. He blinked several times and cleared his throat in an attempt to hide his inattention. When he looked from the letter to the lavender-clad sprite who gazed up at him from the sofa, he realized she had held out her hand to retrieve what he had taken. Her soft smile and warm eyes mesmerized him. The sealed envelope was back in her hand before he realized it. Was it his imagination, or did his wife actually look relieved?
He had little time to reflect on it. Addy stood and came around the table to take his arm. He had just enough time to spy the letters tucked under a cushion on the sofa before she pulled him across the room to the parlor door. The ever-efficient footman already held it open.
“You enjoy your walk, Selridge. Take Romulus and Remus,” she said. She kissed his cheek and practically shoved him out the door. “I think I will stay here and answer those letters. I should hate for the Duchess of Selridge to gain a reputation for neglecting her correspondence.”
“Neglecting her—Addy, you just got those letters and you are on your—” The door slammed in his face. “Honeymoon.”
The poor footman stared at the door, horrified.
“Not to worry, Jacob. Our new duchess is nothing if not determined.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Jacob said hurriedly. His eyes widened as if he’d realized what he’d said. “I mean, no, Your Grace. I mean…”
Marcus placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “She has that effect on everyone, Jacob,” he assured him.
For lack of a better idea, he descended the stairs and strolled down the back hall to the terrace which opened out into the gardens. The two grey wooly beasts he’d banished from the foyer earlier leapt to their feet to join him. April was not the best time to enjoy the gardens at Winfield Abbey. Actually, he could not remember a time when he had gone into them strictly to admire their beauty.
As boys, he and Julius only passed through them to get to the stables or to the less civilized parts of the estate. There was no time in their childhood to walk simply to take in the air or to sit and contemplate whatever it was young boys contemplated. The childish memories of these carefully designed venues were pleasant, if somewhat blurred by time. His recollections of them as a young man on the verge of adulthood were not nearly so sweet.
If he closed his eyes, he could almost see the selfish, angry boy he was at twenty storm down these graveled paths in search of his father. He wished to God he had never found him, not if the argument that followed could have been avoided. Every word he’d said was crafted to hurt, to tear, and to leave their victim cut and bleeding. Marcus had often been told he had a gift, a talent for decimating his enemies with his tongue. His cronies at the time admired him for it.
It was not an admirable gift. It was a curse. Never was it more obvious than on that fateful day, the last day he had spoken to his father. The trick was to slice the person on the receiving end of this rapier-like setdown and then to leave before they had a chance to respond. Marcus’s execution was flawless. Made more so by the fact that he managed to avoid his father for the next two years. At the end of those two years, the Duke of Selridge’s response to his younger son’s insults was rendered moot. A virulent fever of less than two days’ duration took the heretofore healthy duke just hours before Marcus arrived in answer to his mother’s summons.
The aches in his leg, accompanied by a sudden weariness of spirit, lead him to stroll back toward the house. He had no wish to revisit those
things he could not change. It was his constant occupation since Waterloo.
If only I had not volunteered to lead that charge.
If only I had seen that Frenchman first.
If only he had not scarred my face.
If only I could have explained to Clementine.
If only Julius had not died.
None of that was in his control at this point. Perhaps it never had been. Some things, however, were—like his marriage to Addy. He had no intention of allowing Dylan Crosby to interfere in what he intended to be a model of all that was right and proper in a marriage.
“She will have to put an end to this friendship,” Marcus said to the happy deerhounds that shadowed his every step. “It is completely inappropriate and I will not have it.”
They wagged their tails in agreement and raced ahead to the terrace. When Marcus did not ascend the steps, but turned to walk around the house, the two dogs looked once at the terrace doors and then lumbered down the stairs to follow him.
“She will think I am being unreasonable, but she will agree,” he continued to explain. “After all, she did say she adores me.” He could not help the smile that stole across his face. “And I suppose this idea she has about winning my heart means she is not completely indifferent to me.” Remus dropped a stick at his feet. Marcus slowly stooped to pick it up, and then threw it back into the gardens. This little walk to take in the fresh air played hell with his leg.
“I know she is not indifferent to me in bed.” The mere thought of Addy, warm and tousled in her eagerness to join her body to his, aroused him to hardness at a speed that still amazed him. Both dogs sat at his feet, the stick held between them. “Yes, well, that’s as it should be, eh boys?” They dropped the stick into his outstretched hand and barked their approval.
“I cannot deny what I feel for her is infinitely finer than what I felt for her sister,” he continued. He flung the stick over the hedges of the maze which stretched from the corner of the house out into the horizon. The dogs sailed over the greenery after it. “I had the misfortune to find myself in love with Clementine and look how that turned out.” Marcus continued to walk and talk as he wandered around the corner. “No, what I feel for Addy is much better. None of this nonsense about love and hearts. Just a good healthy interest in each other’s physical attributes and a solid friendship. That’s what a marriage should be.”
He came upon the staircase that curved up from the gardens onto the balcony that ran the length of this side of the house. With a slight grunt and a little effort, he settled onto the steps. Romulus and Remus came up panting, dropped the stick and then flung themselves onto the grass at his feet. Marcus leaned back onto his elbows and stretched out his bad leg between the furry sentinels.
“She is young, our duchess,” he observed to his captive, but eager audience. “She still believes in love and hearts.” What he could not remember was when he stopped believing. Was it after Clementine callously tossed his heart and a bit of his illusions back at him on a ballroom floor? Or was it before that, at Waterloo, where love became the thing of poets and operas and obtained a substance as impermanent as smoke and life and limb?
Had he done Addy a disservice by marrying her when a wife was the last thing in the world he wanted? Perhaps he should have left her to Crosby, still young and unjaded and still capable of at least a simile of love. As swiftly as the idea entered his head, it was pushed aside by a stronger, darker one. The thought of Crosby… with Addy… in that way, burned in Marcus’s gut like the twisting of a knife. That settled it.
He would bind his young wife to him with passion and friendship, two things he understood completely. As long as he kept her happy, in the bedroom and out, his marriage would be a good one. He might be nearly ten years Crosby’s senior, but with age came a certain amount of experience and yes, skill. A swell of pride settled in his chest. Never had a woman complained of his abilities in the bedroom.
Then again, his activities with the fairer sex had taken a considerable downswing after Waterloo. Lightskirts and doxies could be paid to ignore his scars. Ladies of his acquaintance were not so easily swayed. For some reason, the thought of Addy gazing at him with anything other than acceptance, adoration, and even amusement chilled him to the bone.
He didn’t realize how maudlin he’d become until Remus’s cold nose bumped his face. How long had he been seated on these hard steps with his chin in his hand? Both dogs crowded close, as if they sensed his uncertainty. With a final pat to each one’s head, Marcus hauled himself to his feet.
“There is no reason in the world for me to worry about Addy’s friendship with Wessex’s brother. She is not the sort of woman to break her vows. If she says she will do something, she will. Right, boys?”
The gentle giants danced and twisted around him in delight. So devoted were they, his every mood was reflected in their demeanor. They were not worried in the least. Marcus had no reason to worry either. Addy was completely worthy of his trust. He did not need to know the contents of that letter. It was just a harmless farewell and best wishes between childhood friends. Nothing more.
Good Lord, he’d spent the better part of half an hour in conversation with his dogs on the virtues of a good marriage. All because of his groundless fears about a letter. It was too ridiculous. If it was so ridiculous, why had his feet wandered to the foot of these particular steps? The wide stone staircase curved up to the balcony outside the parlor, the parlor where Addy sat reading that very letter. Marcus looked back at the dogs. With a flick of his hand, he ordered them to sit.
One foot on the first step, he hesitated. His eyes scanned the carefully laid out lines of the gardens. Moments passed as the wind rustled along the paths in search of leaves to tumble. Suddenly those leaves were his thoughts, played and tossed by a force he could not name. The trust he had so earnestly resolved to give his wife, rushed out of him in a long sigh. In halted, silent steps he ascended the staircase.
It was difficult to tell what was the greater hindrance—Dylan’s abominable script or Adelaide’s quick glances up at the closed parlor door every few minutes. Perhaps had she not pushed her husband out that door and slammed it very nearly in his face, she wouldn’t feel the need to check it so often. It wasn’t as if he would burst back through it at any moment. At least, she hoped he wouldn’t.
Either way, she still found herself unable to completely comprehend everything her friend had written. Half of it frightened her to death and the other half made her mad enough to spit. Hmmm. Maybe she understood more than she thought. What she did not understand, was why in God’s name he had actually put all of this down on paper for the entire world to see.
Oh, he certainly didn’t intend the letter to fall into the wrong hands. No one ever does. However, to put what amounted to a full confession onto a piece of paper that might possibly be read by her mother-in-law or worse, her husband, made Adelaide begin to doubt if Dylan Crosby had an ounce of common sense or self-preservation in his body.
She glanced back over the first few paragraphs again. She had not misread them. The same sinking feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. A hand to her forehead found the same beads of sweat had popped out on her brow. Her skin felt cold and clammy to her own touch and her mouth tasted like she had downed an entire mug of warm milk. An hour ago.
They had been seen. The groom may have been drunk, but he saw clearly enough to tell Sir Delbert he had seen “a young toff, a funny looking lad, and a lady” leading Mister Dickie’s dogs through the apple orchard to the road. There was no question, with his slight form and short stature, Seamus Sullivan had been mistaken for the lad. What Dylan did not know, or at least did not say in his letter, was exactly how well the man had seen them, and if he would recognize them if he saw them again.
With trembling hands, she smoothed the two pages in her lap. It was the thought of losing all Marcus was to her over the past year and all he had become in the last week that frightened her most. She brushed her finge
rtips under her eyes to clear the tears that had gathered there.
“There is no sense in fretting over it now, Adelaide,” she told herself in a tone that mocked confidence, but made her feel a bit better. “What’s done is done.” She placed the letter on the tea table as she got to her feet.
Adelaide chewed an already mangled fingernail as she contemplated what it all meant. She had been so happy all week. Every day she spent with Marcus, she could feel him growing to care for her more. Of course, he had no earthly idea it was happening. His answer to every attempt she made to reach his heart was passion and more passion. Not a bad answer for the present. Her lips curved in a smile she had only recently learned.
The parlor was such a cheerful room. Decorated in shades of primrose, buttercup and sunlight, it was obviously a woman’s domain. The furnishings were all a combination of cheerful, delicate floral brocades set in the warm glow of cherrywood. The soft butter-colored walls were hung here and there with a collection of pressed flowers. Everything spoke of simple elegance and a spirit of comfort and welcome.
This was hers now. She was the Duchess of Selridge and this was the duchess’s parlor. Adelaide had paced the room at least a dozen times when that realization halted her in her tracks. She was no longer a child. She had a husband, and a title, and responsibilities. Those were all good things to have. They made her a woman to be reckoned with and she had best start behaving as such.
She picked up the letter and read through it again. If the first page frightened her, the second did much to allay her fears. Righteous anger and indignation could do that to a woman. If Dylan Crosby thought he had any right to tell her what she could and could not do and worse, the proper way to conduct her marriage, he was sadly mistaken.
Lost In Love (Road To Forever Series #1) Page 22