The entire conversation had stunned Adelaide completely. She did not question him as to his change of heart, but sent the invitation round that morning. Marcus seemed genuinely disappointed when Dylan failed to appear at the dinner party. The suspense and curiosity his suggestion and consequent behavior evoked was so powerful it made her tongue itch. Even now she was not certain how she managed not to question him about it.
One thing was certain. As much as she did not want Marcus to hear about this afternoon’s disturbance and Dylan’s role in it; she didn’t intend to lie about it. If Marcus was testing her, she did not intend to fail the test.
“I’m afraid Mother has it all wrong. Men are not nearly as uncomplicated and simple as she led me to believe.” Adelaide sighed and reached for a strawberry tart. The same thing could be said of marriage.
*
The carriage barely rolled to a stop before the columned façade of Selridge House when Marcus leapt out and took the steps two at a time. He didn’t bother to slow down at the door as he knew it would open long before he reached it.
“Fosters, where is my wife? Have her guests left?” His questions, as well as his hat, gloves and coat, were tossed at the stoic servant in rapid succession.
“I believe Her Grace is still in the drawing room, Your Grace. As to her guests…”
“I am the last to leave, Selridge,” Crosby announced as he descended the stairs with a snide grin. “You very nearly missed me.”
“That would have been unfortunate, Crosby. I daresay I would have been devastated.” The man’s smug expression and sarcastic tone grated Marcus’s ears and shot all the way down to his fist, which clenched involuntarily. “We missed you last night.”
“Yes, well, I am in Town for the Season now. I daresay we shall see a great deal of each other. I meant to ask Addy if she is to attend the Fathringham’s ball tomorrow night.” He stopped on a step above Marcus and smiled at him with all the amiability of a Vauxhall barker. “We got so carried away in our reunion, I am afraid it completely slipped my mind.”
How bad would it be to beat a guest in one’s house into a bloody pulp? The steps were marble and easily cleaned. It would be simple enough to roll Crosby’s broken carcass down the steps and across the foyer to the door. The gardener had a number of hand carts for moving fertilizer and other refuse to the rubbish heap. All of these thoughts danced in Marcus’s head even as he relaxed his fist and smiled back at the arrogant young pup.
“To be sure,” he replied evenly. “As a matter of fact, my wife and I will be attending the Fathringham affair. I look forward to seeing you there.”
He hoped Crosby’s jaw cracked from holding that ridiculous smile. Marcus did have the pleasure of seeing a look of uncertainty flicker across the younger man’s face. The boy might be adept at playing these games, but there were distinct advantages to having six years or more on one’s opponent. He never felt the need to engage in these sorts of verbal sparring matches before, but the thought of Addy with this man, with any man, burned his skin with a white-hot rage. He despised this feeling. If he did not gain control of himself, of the maelstrom of emotions his dainty wife brought out in him, Marcus feared he would run mad. Something must have shown on his face. Crosby swept by him and did not stop until he reached the black and white marble of the foyer floor.
“Yes, well,” he started as he took his coat and gloves from Fosters. “Please do tell Addy to save me a dance or two. We were so involved in our conversation I completely forgot to ask. I understand she is surrounded by admirers wherever she goes.” Ever alert and aware of the tension between the two men, the expressionless butler withdrew discreetly down the hall. Crosby smiled that irritating, condescending smile once more. “Which is a good thing, as Addy loves dancing above all things. We’ll see to her needs in your stead, Your Grace. And I’ll keep her safe from any unsavory characters she might attract.” He looked pointedly at Marcus’s bad leg.
As slowly and carefully as his temper would allow, Marcus descended the stairs until he stood within inches of Dylan Crosby’s suddenly tense body.
“I assure you, Crosby,” he drawled, his tone deceptively cool and smooth. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of all of my wife’s needs. And of any unsavory characters foolish enough to try and take what’s mine.”
The distant sound of horses’ hooves on the street which ran in front of Selridge House filtered across the lawn and into the deathly silence in the foyer. Somewhere upstairs a door closed and a maid murmured a response to another’s inquiry. Amidst all of these trappings of elegance and tranquility, the two of them stood locked in the tenuous hell between civility and sheer primitive instincts. It was a place Marcus had found himself more times than he cared to remember. A violent passionate temper took a man many places, but it would always deliver him here if he had neither the strength nor the desire to stop it.
Crosby was out of his depth. The look on his face was evidence enough of that. He was just foolish enough, however, to stir the pot.
“I doubt very much if you know what all of Addy’s needs are, Selridge. I wouldn’t go making foolish promises, if I were you, until you take the effort to find out.”
The sound of his footsteps and the shush of the door as it closed ceased to echo in the cavernous entrance hall before Marcus dared move. He let out the breath he’d been holding and dropped his chin to his chest. His fists opened and closed a few times before his fingers stretched as if to rein in some runaway something.
With a heavy sigh, he turned to climb the stairs and looked up into the face of his somewhat bemused wife.
“Hello, husband,” she said a bit too pertly. “What did I miss?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Adelaide did not intend to tell Marcus exactly how long she stood at the top of the stairs. A veteran of many campaigns to elicit information from close-mouthed and extremely guilty men, she knew she could obtain more by pretending she’d not heard a word. She had, in fact, heard only the last part of Dylan and her husband’s conversation. The very last part, which was all she needed to hear. Her friend was stirring the pot and her husband was ready to dismember the man with his bare hands. At least their encounter saved her the trouble of telling Marcus about Dylan’s visit.
He barely climbed the stairs and ushered her down the hall before he started. “What was Crosby doing here alone with you?” Marcus snapped as soon as the door to the family sitting room was closed behind them. So much for a civil greeting and polite conversation between spouses.
“If you will recall, Your Grace,” Adelaide said as she settled onto the comfortable sofa beneath the lovely Turner landscape. “He was invited to dinner here last night at your request.”
“Dinner was last night in the company of some thirty-odd people, madam. I am asking you about this afternoon when I came home to find the man leaving after a visit alone with my wife.” He stood by the large marble fireplace, one elbow propped on the mantel and his other hand on his hip. If his pose and tone were meant to intimidate her, he was failing. Miserably.
“He was here this afternoon with a veritable host of people which included, until ten minutes ago, your mother. I realize he is considered an accomplished rake, but I daresay a ten-minute ravishment is beyond even his talents. It certainly wouldn’t do anything for his reputation, now would it?”
Marcus lowered his arm onto the mantel and began to drum his fingers on its polished surface. There was more to all of this than he was telling. Adelaide knew it and she was determined to discover what it was.
“This is not funny, Addy. Your reputation is not to be trifled with, especially by someone as dissipated as Wessex’s heir.” His handsome face was so stern and unreadable, but his eyes were another matter entirely. If only his devilishly appealing face would cease distracting her, she could decipher what those eyes were saying.
“Dylan is not dissipated. I assure you his tarnished image is half bluff and innuendo. Why did you ask me to invite him to dinn
er if you dislike him so?” She tilted her head and studied him carefully. This was the heart of the matter and she wanted to give his answer her full attention. “I seem to recall a direct order from you to end my friendship with him not too long ago. What changed your mind?”
Her question obviously gave him pause. She could see a selection of responses scurry across his face to be considered and then discarded. As if he suddenly felt her amused and searching gaze, he scowled and waved his free hand dismissively.
“It is not a matter of changing my mind. He is heir to a peer of the realm and his family is still highly thought of in most circles. We can’t snub him.”
Adelaide sat forward and folded her hands primly in her lap. It was either that or collapse into gales of laughter. Poor Marcus had no idea what he wanted. She suspected it was a new and strange condition in which he found himself.
“Ah,” she said. “So, it is for the sake of the good opinion of others we invited him to dinner last night.”
“Exactly.” Marcus agreed firmly. “His brother is an earl and a very great friend of Kelsale. It would not do for us to…”
Adelaide rose to her feet and came to stand on the other side of the fireplace. “Cut line, Marcus. You could care less about the good opinion of others. The Earl of Wessex is a recluse and a known eccentric. You’ve made your opinion of Dylan perfectly clear. What are you up to?”
Marcus blinked twice, then turned and strode to the chinoiserie commode tucked into a tiny alcove by the windows. He rifled through the selection of licquors atop it, splashed some brandy into a glass, and drained it in one swallow.
“The only thing I am up to is the preservation of my wife’s reputation. She seems to take little enough care for it herself.”
Did he know how pompous he sounded and how agitated he looked? The nerve in his temple was her very favorite of his features at this moment. It ticked marvelously when he was angry, as he was now.
It suddenly occurred to her, she did not expect him back from his club for hours. What could have possibly convinced him to give up the “peace and quiet” of White’s to run home and confront Dylan with murder in his eye?
Creighton.
“That duplicitous troublemaker,” she muttered.
“What? Addy, are you listening to me? We may have to acknowledge Crosby socially, but I don’t want you alone with him again. Is that clear?” He sat sprawled in the large horsehair chair before the fire. His long, muscled frame was draped over the upholstery in a parody of unconcerned superiority. She could not read his face. Those glittering, half-closed green eyes, however, she could not stop reading.
Before she could open her mouth to warn him of the folly of ordering her about, it hit her. He was jealous. He saw Dylan Crosby as a rival for her… what? Sexual favors? He knew better. Interest? Perhaps. Affection? Possibly? She needed time to think.
“Can I assume that your meddlesome friend, Creighton, is responsible for your premature return home and your performance on the stairs?” Adelaide had to misdirect him whilst she pondered this new realization. Surely jealousy meant he cared about her. It had to mean something.
“My performance?” Marcus half sat up in his chair. He must have realized how it looked and slumped back into the cushions. “How long were you eavesdropping on us, sweeting? Were you afraid I was going to hurt poor Crosby?”
She ignored his attempt at humor. The direct approach was not the proper tact to use with her husband. “Creighton is the worst gossip in England. He’s a menace, Marcus. What did he say to provoke you to act the jealous husband?” Adelaide tossed this last over her shoulder as she returned to her seat on the sofa. “It’s bad enough you spend our evenings chasing away every man who attempts to ask me to dance with your dark, murderous looks. You keep this up, and you shall be the very anecdote of a man besotted with, of all things, his wife.”
This time he did sit up. “An anecdote? Of a… You and Creighton suffer from the same delusion. I could care less with whom you dance. You’re the one who insists on playing the wallflower.” He stood and began to walk a path across the florid dark blue and gold patterns of the carpet. His limp was far less pronounced when he was angry. “I don’t know where the two of you get your ideas.”
“Undoubtedly the same place you get your ideas about Dylan and myself,” she said dryly. “Unless Creighton and I have hit upon something, that is. You do seem rather upset.”
Adelaide wondered how far she dared provoke him. She hated to use his anger in this fashion, but he really gave her little choice. She suspected her only other option was torture on the rack. Perhaps then he might admit he cared for her. As there were no dungeons under Selridge House, goading his temper was the only weapon at hand.
“I am not upset.” His growled declaration was delivered as he stopped in front of the sofa. He pushed his hair off his forehead and continued his assault on the carpets. “Why does everyone keep thinking I am upset?”
“What exactly did Creighton say, Marcus?” She gave him her most wide-eyed innocent smile. “Other than to report who attended my at-home like some gossipy old tabby?”
He stopped and fixed her with the oddest look. “Creighton seems to think I am standing in the way of your enjoyment of the Season. I told him I brought you to London to enjoy yourself. He says you aren’t and it’s my fault.”
She wished she could decipher his expression. It was one she had never seen. It was almost as if he feared Creighton’s accusations might be true.
“Nonsense,” was her firm reply.
His eyes narrowed. “I take it you did not complain to him this afternoon when he was here?”
She snorted indelicately. “As if I would tell him anything of the sort. I wouldn’t tell that man the sky was blue for fear he would make it the latest on dit.”
“He seemed quite certain.” Marcus turned and walked to the window. He glanced outside and then back at Adelaide. “Apparently, my face frightens off your dance partners.” The offending feature was schooled once more in the mask of the bored aristocrat. It meant he was anything but disinterested in her reply.
“I don’t dance,” she started.
“Exactly. And Creighton says it is my fault.” He leaned against the window frame and crossed his arms over his chest.
His constant reference to the words of the oracle heretofore known as the Earl of Creighton plucked at her nerves with the sting of a hornet. She had almost had her fill of her husband’s gadfly friend.
“I don’t dance because we are still in mourning,” she said patiently. She jumped up from the sofa and crossed the room to join him. “Everyone with any sense at all realizes it. What does he want me to do? Dance with every over-dressed dandy and fop in attendance?”
“Do you want to?” he shot back. “It is my understanding you, and Crosby, and my brother cut quite a swath through the ballrooms last Season.”
She sincerely hoped his behavior was a result of jealousy. Any other explanation was sure to make her want to plant him a facer or at least dump a pot of tea over his head.
“Your brother and Dylan were very kind to me, Marcus. It is no hardship for me to avoid the dance floor in Julius’s memory.”
A glint of sadness passed over his face, but was quickly gone. “So now you are forced to stand at the edge of the ballroom to keep your crippled husband company. Perhaps it would have been better for you if I had died and Julius had lived. He was a far better dancer.” The bitterness in his voice was like a slap in her face.
“Of all the…” She stepped to stand toe to toe with him and tilted her head back to glower up into his face. “That was cruel and unworthy of you, Marcus.” He swallowed hard but made her no reply. “I happen to like my husband’s company when he isn’t acting like a bear with a sore paw. I would love to spend more time with him, whether it is on the dance floor or not.”
“My leg, madam, makes it…”
“An easy excuse to stand in a corner and growl and bark at everyone.” She
turned and marched toward the door.
“Where are you going? We’re not finished here.” He straightened from his leaned pose and pointed to a spot just in front of him. “Get back her, Adelaide. I want to talk to you about Crosby.”
“Don’t you dare speak to me as if I were one of your dogs.” She gripped her skirts in her fingers. Her head was spinning at how quickly the conversation turned sour. His idiotic harangue made her angry, giddy, and hopeful all at once. She’d worked for weeks to crack his aloof façade, but it wasn’t falling away in quite the way she hoped. “I am going upstairs and tell Bess to make certain all of my dancing slippers are in repair. I assure you my dance card will be full for the rest of the Season.” She tendered him a mocking curtsy. “If you are quick about it you might get your name on it.”
“My wife will not be bandying her dance card about like a Newmarket betting book,” he declared. He strode to place his hand flat against the wall next to the door. “And she will not be dancing with Dylan Crosby or any other rakes or roués. You are the Duchess of Selridge and you…”
She threw up her hands. “I wish you would make up your mind. First you want me to dance. Now you don’t.” He gave her a blank stare so she continued. “There is no talking to you when you are in this sort of state. That idiot Creighton has obviously addled your wits. I could kill him for oversetting you like this, the worm.”
“I am not upset,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “I am not in a state. I survived Waterloo with my wits intact. I am perfectly capable of having a calm discussion about…” He waved his arm in search of the word. “… decorum with my wife.”
She rolled her eyes at him and crossed her arms over her bosom. It had the desired result for his gaze grew heated at the effect her pose had on her cleavage. Distraction was always a good tactic.
“We will talk about this later, Marcus. When you are in a better frame of mind to make decisions about how I am to behave.” This last statement fairly oozed sarcasm. She didn’t care.
Lost In Love (Road To Forever Series #1) Page 30