October Revenge

by Farmer, Merry

A knock sounded at his door, followed by Baxter’s muffled, “My lord?”

  “Come,” Mark said.

  Baxter entered, dressed impeccably as usual, but with a sprightliness in his step that was completely out of place on the older man. “My lord, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a bath for you,” he said.

  “Thank you, Baxter.” Mark let out a breath and stood. He fetched his robe from the corner of his wardrobe, threw it over his rumpled pajamas, then followed Baxter out of the room and down the hall to the old dressing room that held the ancient, brass tub his family had used to bathe in for what must have been centuries.

  He was exaggerating, of course, but as he sank into the warm water, his bones felt as old as his father’s antique furniture. How had he gotten himself into the mess of marriage? Things were expected of married men, things he wasn’t even sure he was capable of anymore. He glanced down at himself through the tub’s water. He wasn’t even sure those parts of him worked anymore. Then again, they worked just fine when he was alone.

  His wry grin vanished as thoughts of the evening ahead weighed down on him. Maybe he could find a way out of consummating his marriage. Maybe lightning would strike him on the way to the church or he’d fall into an open grave in the churchyard after the ceremony. He should be so lucky. His entire marriage was going to be a disaster.

  And yet, hard on the heels of that thought came another one. Angelica wouldn’t let that happen. He’d known her for a fortnight, but one thing he was certain of about her was that if Angelica wanted something, she got it. And damn him if he didn’t find that trait attractive.

  Of course, when Shayles wanted something he got it too.

  That stray thought propelled him right out of the tub and into action. He rubbed himself dry with a towel, threw his robe back on, then marched back to his bedroom to change. As long as he kept himself busy, as long as he focused on the details, focused on squashing any and all emotion that reared its ugly head, he could get through the day, he could get through the night, and he could get through his life.

  Lavinia and Armand were chatting happily in the breakfast room when Mark made it downstairs, clean, shaved, and dressed in one of his finer suits. Lavinia held her son to her breast as though nothing were at all out of the ordinary about a little exposure at the table. Mark’s face heated the moment he saw her, though, and he averted his eyes.

  “Oh, good morning, Mark,” Lavinia greeted him with a sheepish grin, quickly draping a serviette over her chest and baby. “Sorry. If I’d known you were coming….” She let her words fade.

  “Gatwick,” Armand greeted him with far less civility, glaring as though Mark had come into the room and ogled his wife instead of turning away. Although there had been some softening of the awkward relationship Mark and Armand had in the past week.

  “Is Angelica not down yet?” Mark asked, scrambling for something to talk about. He couldn’t bring himself to move into the room and over to the table.

  “She was here before we were,” Lavinia said, a hint of mischief in her eyes, as though Mark and Angelica were lovers instead of two people following the instructions left in a will. “She said something about wanting to take one last look at her grandfather’s will.”

  That was all Mark needed to hear. He nodded curtly, then pivoted and marched out of the room.

  “I don’t care what you say,” he heard Armand tell Lavinia behind him. “My dear cousin is peculiar.”

  Mark tensed his jaw as he walked on, heading toward his study. Armand’s comment was the nicest thing anyone had said about him in a long time, he thought with a twinge of irony.

  Angelica was exactly where Mark guessed she would be—in his study, sitting at his desk, reading what he assumed was the letter Walton had sent a few days before, returning the will and the letter from Great-Uncle Miles’s lawyer. She flinched when she saw him, jumping to her feet so fast that the chair scraped back.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a rush. “I shouldn’t be prying, I know. But I wanted to read the part of Grandpa Miles’s will about Blackmoor Close one more time, and I saw all the other letters in the drawer with it, and I couldn’t resist, even though I should have.”

  Mark barely heard her words. He was too busy staring at her. Angelica was as divine as her name in a fashionable gown of peach and off-white. The neckline showed off her shoulders and neck and the warm tone of her skin. It highlighted her breasts to perfection and emphasized her narrow waist. Her hair was caught up in a riot of curls, though how she had managed such an elaborate style without a lady’s maid baffled him. What truly caught his attention was the shine of excitement in her eyes, as if she were looking forward to marrying him instead of simply doing it to please a dead, adopted grandfather and secure her future. The vibrancy of her eyes made the rest of her—which was already beautiful—dazzling.

  A moment later, as his heart seized in his chest and his clothes felt uncomfortably constricting, he heard her words.

  He blinked. “What were you reading?” he asked, his pulse kicking up with foreboding.

  Angelica cast an embarrassed look to the letter on the desk. “A letter from a Mr. Lloyd. A solicitor, I think.” She dragged her eyes to meet his. “Lord Shayles’s solicitor.”

  Heat and misery flooded Mark’s whole body, turning his stomach and making him dizzy. “Please do not read my private correspondence,” he said in a mumble, moving to the desk and gathering up the letter from Lloyd, along with the will and a letter from Walton.

  His movement brought him to within inches of Angelica, but she didn’t back away. She held her ground, which meant he was forced to stand close to her—close enough for an embrace. He considered it, considered pulling her into his arms and…and he didn’t know what. Only that it might feel nice to be embraced by her. He might even like to kiss her, though he doubted he’d be any good at it. He doubted he could—

  She lifted to her toes and touched her lips gently to his. It was only a moment. Hardly any pressure was involved. She stepped back as soon as she stole the kiss, deep color flooding her cheeks. Mark’s heart raced so fast he had to grip the edge of the desk to stop from falling over.

  “Sorry,” Angelica said. She nodded to the papers that were now shaking in his hand. “I really do need to learn how to mind my own business.”

  Mark was frozen. He couldn’t have moved if he wanted to. His lips tingled and his heart thudded.

  Angelica watched him, seeming to grow more uncomfortable by the moment. “You looked like you could use that kiss,” she said, color splashing her cheeks. “And since we’re about to be married….” Her sheepish expression deepened, and she clasped her hands together in front of her. “I’m sorry if I was out of line.”

  She frowned, as if surprised she’d apologized, then cleared her throat and stood straighter. “You should demand Lord Shayles return that painting to you,” she said in a forceful tone.

  Mention of the painting shook Mark from his paralysis. If she was willing to put the kiss behind them, he would as well. “I’ve asked,” he said, ashamed of how rough his voice was. “He refuses.”

  “Then you need to do more than ask,” she said. “You need to demand.”

  “I have.” He dropped the letters back on the desk. He didn’t know what he would have done with them anyhow, and holding them made his shakes painfully obvious.

  “Have you tried marching into this man’s office, raising hell, and refusing to leave without the painting?” she asked.

  A burst of warmth blossomed in his chest at the mental image of Angelica doing just that. She would look like a wild tiger lily bursting with color if she marched into the offices of Lloyd, Palmer, and Leeds with her demands. He would enjoy watching the scene unfold.

  “I’m not certain Mr. Lloyd or his associates have the authority to return the painting to me,” he said, though admitting as much made Mark feel even more inadequate than he already felt.

  Angelica studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment, ey
es narrowed, head tilted to the side. Mark wished she would stop looking at him as though numbering his internal organs. “Lavinia told me all about Lord Shayles,” she said.

  Mark prayed for the floor to open under him and for the resulting chasm to drag him down to hell. It would have been an improvement over the way he felt with her sharp eyes boring into him. “I sincerely doubt she told you even a fraction of what there is to know about the man,” he mumbled.

  “Then why don’t you tell me?” Angelica stepped forward, looping her arm through his and marching him toward the door. “On our way to the church.”

  “No,” he said. He winced at the ferocity of his tone and softened it to say, “Believe me, you do not want to sully your mind with such an unpleasant topic.”

  Angelica merely hummed in reply, hugging his arm tighter.

  They made a brief stop in the breakfast room to collect Lavinia and Armand. With each minute that ticked by, Mark pushed his emotions deeper and deeper inside himself. He stood stiffly in the hall, gazing up at his paintings and counting details—how many flowers in the Cassatt, how many branches in the Ruskin. He drowned out the snippets of conversation as Lavinia hurried to tidy up her son and Angelica exchanged pleasantries with Armand. He managed to fuzz out his thoughts entirely, disappearing inside himself, until Angelica prodded him awake with, “Off we go.”

  It was a fine, late-September day, but they all piled into one of Mark’s larger carriages for the drive to the church. Mark would have preferred to walk—if only to give himself that much more time to come to terms with the madness he was part of—and he was certain Angelica would have walked if given half the chance. But Lavinia never could have managed it, so the carriage it was.

  Mark’s chest tightened as the driver hopped down to open the gates of Blackmoor Close to let them out, then drove through. It had been months since he’d set foot in the outside world—which felt both painfully cowardly and overwhelming at the same time. He kept his thoughts to himself, relying on his blank expression to protect him. Angelica squeezed his hand, though—he hadn’t realized she’d been holding his hand at all—hinting to him that he was doing a terrible job at masking his feelings.

  The happy chatter that he wanted no part of continued as they disembarked at the small, parish church just outside of Longmoor. Mark had made arrangements with the vicar days before, so as they walked into the tiny building, everything was in place for the wedding.

  It happened so fast that Mark hardly had time to settle himself before it was over. Lavinia and Armand served as witnesses as Mark and Angelica stood in front of the vicar, exchanged vows, pledged themselves to each other, and were declared man and wife. Everyone, Angelica included, was all smiles as they signed the special license and turned it over to the vicar to do whatever vicars did to file marriage documents with the authorities. It was as bloodless as any business transaction Mark had ever been a part of—so much so that, try as he did, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unreality that formed a haze around him. It wasn’t really happening. It was all a dream. He would wake up and be back in the nightmare of Shayles’s clutches in no time, filled with darkness instead of Lavinia and Angelica laughing as the baby cooed and smacked his hands together.

  Reality finally set in when Mark and Angelica stood on the church steps in the late-morning sunlight.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss?” Lavinia asked. “You didn’t during the ceremony, so now’s the time.”

  “Are we going to kiss?” Angelica asked, eyeing Mark with far too much mirth in her eyes. But of course she would be mirthful. She’d won her prize. Her future was secured. She wouldn’t have to return to America penniless or make her living as a washerwoman, or whatever women without means did. She was a countess with an entire estate to manage.

  Without words, Mark did what he knew was expected of him. He turned to Angelica, placed a hand on her waist, and leaned in to close his lips over hers. He fought to ignore the surge of longing in his chest, the urge to pull her fully into his arms, and the temptation to rekindle the flame within him that had died so long ago.

  “There,” Lavinia said in a satisfied voice as Mark stepped away from Angelica. “Now it’s official.”

  Mark smiled apologetically at Angelica, if his expression could even be called a smile. He offered his arm once more, and they bundled back into the carriage to return to Blackmoor Close.

  “I’m glad that you can be settled now,” Mark murmured to Angelica as Lavinia and Armand fussed over their son.

  Angelica turned a smile to Mark. “And I’m glad you can keep your estate.” Her smile turned to a look of regret. “I truly am sorry I didn’t pay more attention to that part of the will.”

  Mark shrugged. “It’s water under the bridge now.”

  “Will your solicitor make certain the authorities know we’ve fulfilled the conditions of the will?” she asked on.

  “I’m certain they will.”

  Mark thought the conversation was done and turned to glance out the window as the carriage passed through the gate into Blackmoor Close once more. But Angelica went on with, “I’ve been debating whether to sell my share in Grandpa Miles’s company, now that I’m ensconced here in England, or whether to keep it in some sort of trust for our children.”

  An electric jolt shot down Mark’s spine at the sudden reminder that the ceremony was only the beginning of a marriage. “If there are children,” he said quietly, staring at Lavinia’s baby.

  “Oh, there will be children, all right,” Angelica said with a wry laugh that drew Armand’s attention.

  Mark’s face went hot. If ever there was a time to put his foot down where the marriage bed was concerned, it was now. But he could barely form a thought, much less words, with Armand glaring at him as he suddenly was. Mark remained stony and silent, wondering whether he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, as the carriage rolled up the drive.

  It should have been the happiest day of Angelica’s life. And it wasn’t as though she were unhappy. She’d secured her future with a short ceremony, a few words, and a kiss that left her wanting more. That much filled her with satisfaction. But the rest of the day was decidedly anticlimactic.

  After the ceremony, they returned to Blackmoor, where she was formally introduced to the servants as Lady Angelica Pearson, Countess of Gatwick. The title made her head spin, as did the meeting with the housekeeper, Mrs. Scott, that took up the better part of her early afternoon. While Mark entertained his cousins in the rose garden, she discussed wages and menus, schedules and staff, in a smaller kitchen garden around the back of the house.

  “Is this usually what a noblewoman does on her wedding day?” she asked Mrs. Scott when they reached the topic of the laundry.

  “No, my lady,” Mrs. Scott answered with a nervous look over her shoulder. “I asked his lordship if I could speak to you about these things before now, but he seemed determined to put it off until after the wedding.”

  “I see.”

  Angelica leaned back in her chair, a wry grin tugging at her lips. Mark was avoiding her. He’d been cagey all week, since agreeing to wed her and putting things in motion. She had the feeling that he wasn’t angry with her for the bit of the will that would have taken Blackmoor Close away from him, that he believed her when she said she hadn’t paid attention to that part of Grandpa Miles’s wishes as it hadn’t seemed to apply to her. But something had spooked Mark. It was obvious that he hadn’t wanted to marry her.

  And yet, he had.

  She waited to confront him about it until well after supper. Lavinia and Armand had gone to bed, and without so much as discussing it, Mark had retreated to his room, leaving her in her new quarters across the hall from him. She undressed, hesitated, then donned a newly-purchased nightgown before climbing into her new bed to wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  When it became clear to her that Mark wouldn’t be knocking on her door and slipping between the sheets with her to consummate th
eir marriage, she decided to take matters into her own hands.

  Bristling with determination, she climbed out of bed and marched to her door. Without bothering to put on a robe, she stepped into the hall, then across to Mark’s room. She gave him the courtesy of knocking, but walked in before he answered.

  “Who—” His reply died on his lips as she barged into the room. Mark was already in bed, his pajamas buttoned to his neck, reading a book. “What are you doing here?” he asked as his eyes went wide in alarm.

  “I believe the question should be what are you doing here?” she said as she walked boldly to the side of his bed, peeled back the covers, and hopped in with him.

  Mark recoiled, scooting to the far side of his bed as though she were diseased. It certainly wasn’t the reaction most men would have had to their wife on their wedding night. She was utterly unwilling to let it go without comment.

  “Did you forget you are married?” she asked. “That tonight is your wedding night?”

  He swallowed and set his book on the table beside the bed. “I did not forget,” he said without meeting her eyes.

  “A special license is one thing,” she went on in a tone that brooked no argument, “but it is not everything. I won’t feel secure about my place here, about the legality of being your wife, until this marriage is consummated.”

  He made no answer and still refused to look at her, though his face had flushed with color. Something was terribly wrong with him, and she was losing her patience with drawing it out of him gently.

  “Tell me, Mark,” she said in a firm tone. “Do you prefer men?”

  He looked at her then, cringing. “No. I do not. Though I do not contradict the rumor when it is raised.”

  Angelica’s brow went up. So there was a rumor about that, was there?

  “Are you impotent?” she asked on, more curious about his thoughts, his history, and his heart now than about his genitals.

  He winced. “Truthfully, I don’t know,” he said, surprising her again.

  “How can you not know?” she asked. “Either you are or you aren’t. Surely the women you’ve been with—” She stopped when his expression turned downright mortified and narrowed her eyes. “Are you a virgin?” she asked, resisting the urge to add, “At your age?”