Marcus looked out his window as well. He would point out the sights to Leona but he knew little of Norfolk. He racked his brain for a topic that would interest the child.
“Has your mother told you of London?” he asked finally. Leona turned to him wide-eyed and nodded her head slowly.
“She said it was big and noisy and that the whole world is there.”
Marcus laughed and peered at Natasha, wondering if that was truly what she thought. But Natasha was looking away, out the window.
“The whole world is not in London, Leona, although it might seem like it at times. It is noisy, and big and full of every scent you can imagine, not all good. Let’s see, the city was first settled in…” He began a halting history of London. If they were at Woodbridge or the ancestral Templeton lands, his knowledge would be much deeper and detailed, but he knew enough to speak of the Romans and the Saxons, the Normans and more.
“If I might be so impertinent as to interrupt, milord,” Pell said with a delicate cough, some time into Marcus’s recitation. “Perhaps the young miss would like to hear about the menagerie.”
Marcus arched a brow, then looked more carefully at his companions. Leona still watched him, but there was a sleepy expression on her face. Beyond her, he could see that Natasha, whose face was still in profile, smirked. He had thought Leona interested in history and the like, but perhaps he had not made his story appropriate for her young ears. He thought, with a nauseated feeling, of the rector, who had fascinated Leona with his tales of Greek and Roman mythology.
“What is the menagerie?” Leona’s question was somewhat of a relief. More conscious of his words, he started again.
“It’s a gathering of animals, from all around the world. Strange animals, the like of which you would never see here in Norfolk.”
With satisfaction, he watched Leona listen raptly to his description of the collection at the Tower of London. He shot a grateful smile to his valet, who merely nodded. Marcus noticed that Mary, as well, hung on his every word.
Later, when Leona had fallen asleep, her head in Natasha’s lap, Marcus again peered through the window, pleased with the calming joy the future held. As the carriage neared Norwich, his anticipation grew. This was their wedding night––Natasha’s and his––long overdue.
…
Despite having slept the last few hours of the afternoon’s journey, Natasha was exhausted. Her emotions were strained, her nerves frayed and overburdened.
She had found a perverse amusement in watching Marcus struggle to entertain his daughter, in his having to take direction from his valet. She had held tight to that enjoyment as long as she could, trying to hold back the anxiety that licked at her like the growing flames of a fire.
She had studiously ignored Marcus throughout the evening meal, knowing that at its end was her wedding night. A travesty to consummate their union under the banner of blackmail.
Pell had seen to the readying of the inn room and the making of the bed with fresh Templeton linens. After her bath, Natasha had waved Mary away as the girl was more needed with Leona. In her plain nightclothes, Natasha laid in the bed, anxious. Weeks earlier, when she had woken up to find him in her room, she had wanted him, taken him as her choice. This night was different.
He was her husband, and that should have meant something other than anguish.
She watched him undress, layer after layer peeled away to reveal his body, more solid than it had been five years earlier. There was nothing soft about him, not his body, not his heart.
He was erect already, and the sight sent a shiver of anticipation through her. He caught her eye and their gazes locked. His expression burned with his desire for her, and she shivered again, this time in anger.
He lifted the corner of the cover and sat down, the bed shifting under his weight. He slid his legs under the cloth, turning onto his side and facing her. She watched him.
She was his wife now. His property. He would take her as he wanted.
Marcus bent over, the moving heat of him sweeping out everything else but her awareness of him. He kissed her—soft, dry lips amidst the harsher stubble of a day’s growth of beard. She lay passively beneath him. Then his insistent tongue slid against her lips. She opened her mouth against the onslaught. His hand cradled the back of her head.
His other hand slid down her body. She felt the warm pressure of his palm and his spread fingers until he stopped at the curve of her hip, gripping at the cloth. Then he shifted his body, his legs moving over and between hers.
The fabric of her nightgown was pushed up to her waist, and she felt him against her, familiar, solid, hot.
“I’ve missed you, Tasha. Haven’t you missed this? Missed us?”
His lips trailed across her cheek, her jaw, her neck.
“No.”
“Then tell me to stop,” he murmured, even as he parted her flesh with his fingers, searching for the dampness that betrayed her.
When he thrust into her, she looked away. Stilled completely and let him move over her. Cut herself off.
“You’re my husband,” she said.
He paused in his movements, half within her, his weight on his arms. She felt the hard cast of his glare upon her.
“If you don’t want me, dammit, then say it.”
She didn’t answer, and after a moment, he slowly sank back down, filling her, stretching her. If she thought of how strange it all was, to have this man she had once loved, this…beast, thrusting inside her, then she might––No! It was easier to feel nothing.
Their flesh where they met, thigh to thigh, belly to belly, grew slick with sweat.
He was hard within her, clearly he felt some pleasure, but he looked pained as he continued. She stared at his left hand, flat on the sheet beside her. The hair that dusted his skin was dark. She followed its trail, over his wrist, up his forearms to where it tapered and faded away on his upper arms. The muscles there were flexed as he held himself above her. She pulsed around him, her body betraying the sudden, sharp pang of desire.
She moved her legs restlessly, but now her body was sensitized, tingling everywhere, and the brief rubbing of her thigh against his buttocks thrilled her.
“Tell me to stop, Tasha,” he whispered just before he bent down, a dark swooping shadow swallowing up all the air. His mouth closed over the thin skin of her neck and despite herself, she arched into the wet heat of that touch.
Panic seized her. Either way, she would lose. If she told him to stop, she could no longer pretend to herself that she must do her wifely duties, that obligation was what this display was all about. If she let him continue, she would not be able to keep herself immune to the sensations. And if he didn’t already know that, he would soon.
He retreated and thrust again, and she lifted her hips. She gasped out loud at the feel of him sinking deeper, settling farther into her.
“Tasha, Tasha,” he murmured against her ear, his words muffled by her hair. “My wife, my love.”
“Oh God,” she cried out, tearing her face away, clenching her thighs as he retreated so he could not easily push back in. “Stop, stop, leave me alone!”
He pulled away from her.
Natasha turned to her side, drawing her knees up. She heard him moving about the room, his breathing heavy. She imagined him, standing by the window but watching her.
The room was so terribly full of his breath, his presence, the tension between them, and inside, she was filled with a great gaping, clawing emptiness. She could give him nothing. Neither of them had found their pleasure tonight.
The sheets smelled of lavender, and she breathed in deep, searching for calm.
Things could have been different. An image filled her mind, hazy-edged and indistinct, of a wedding night in which she wanted to hear those words, wanted to be so close to his body that nothing in the world separated them. She shivered from a breeze, shivering more as the mattress sank down beneath his weight. She curled into herself further, cringing away from the sud
den warmth of his hand on her arm. Her fantasy shattered back into the harsh reality of the night.
“It doesn’t have to be this way.” His voice was low, hoarse, and the insidious urge to soothe away his pain made her heart grow even smaller and colder. “Could we start over perhaps?”
Start over? Pretend that nothing had ever happened between them, that Leona was not a constant reminder that they did have a past, that she wasn’t here because he had threatened to take Leona away if she didn’t marry him.
She didn’t answer. The thick silence grew, and he pulled his hand away. The bed shifted and the air thinned. Scuffles and movement. Cloth rustling. When the door shut behind him, she shuddered and buried her head into the pillow.
This was her life now.
…
She’d come around. A fifth of whisky in, Marcus was convinced of it. He could still smell her, still taste her. He had the scent of woman and drink all mixed up. It was late. The taproom was empty but for him; the innkeeper had left him the bottle, a dying fire, and a commiserating look.
She would come around. Naturally, she was wary of him. He should have taken his time and wooed her, rather than impatiently forced her into marriage. But after that mess at Parrington’s, to find that she had run, that she was slipping from his life yet again––he had panicked. He had displayed none of his hard-earned wisdom. With a deep, shuddering sigh, Marcus pushed the self-recriminations away. Regardless of the circumstance, she was his now and that was fact. Before God and man, she was his. Perhaps he could woo her still.
He fell asleep before the hearth, when the liquor was gone and the spirits created their own warmth. It was only in the dim gray light of dawn that the innkeeper’s wife clucked at him sadly and ushered him up to his room.
He opened the door quietly, the world still reeling about him. He winced at each deafening creak of wood underneath his feet. She would wake up. He couldn’t bear if she awoke now, before he could get in bed and see her. He wanted her sleep-softened beneath his hands, gentled in his embrace as he fell asleep.
He slipped off his boots and lay down on the bed. Slowly, achingly slowly, as to barely move the bed, he shifted toward her. Finally he brought his hand to her shoulder, caressed the silken skin and wrapped her against his chest. He slipped his hand down to meet hers and he felt the heavy band he had placed there just hours earlier.
She stiffened. “Did you drown yourself in a barrel of scotch?”
She was awake and angry with him again.
“Shh, love. Just let me hold you now. Nothing more. Just hold you.” He didn’t wait for her to answer. The dark curtain of sleep fell before her words could.
Marcus woke shivering from the cold. The fire had died and the place where Tasha had slept retained no lingering trace of her heat. He pulled the sheets and coverlet closer around him, seeking warmth, seeking oblivion. Where the devil was his valet?
When he stood, the blood rushed from his head with a pounding force, and he painfully remembered the night before. He felt desiccated. His eyes ached. The very thought of the upcoming ride made his stomach roil.
Taking deep breaths, he washed his face and dressed. Pell arrived with a freshly washed and starched cravat as Marcus was pulling on his boots.
“Lady Templeton is downstairs having breakfast with Miss Leona,” Pell informed him. Marcus accepted the starched length of snowy-white linen and went to the mirror. He tied a simple knot, hardly glancing at himself.
“Thank you.” Marcus surveyed the room. Their trunks were barely unpacked and it would be the work of a few minutes to collect what was strewn about the room. “I would like to leave as soon as possible.”
“Yes, my lord.”
With his hand on the door, Marcus stopped and turned. “Pell,” he began, knowing he should hardly be addressing his valet this way, but feeling the need to be armed with information. “How did she…? Is my lady in good spirits this morning?”
Not a flicker of emotion crossed Pell’s face, and Marcus was absurdly grateful for that. “She was playing with the child.”
Marcus nodded, accepting the answer that hid as much as it gave, and left the room. The vestiges of excess that had stabbed at his head settled into a dull throb.
He found Natasha in the private parlor, settled on a sofa with Leona snuggled against her. His wife and his daughter.
His family.
The word hit him in the throat, choking him. He wanted to be everything his father hadn’t been. He wanted…
Two pairs of green eyes turned to face him, and the lump moved down into his chest. Natasha’s cold gaze was unforgiving, uncompromising. His own flitted to Leona, and there he found a better welcome, curiosity and anticipation.
Calmed, he took a deep breath.
“Well then, my ladies, shall we be on our way? The day is clear and the roads should be dry.”
“I’ll need twenty minutes,” Natasha said tonelessly. She stood, sweeping Leona up with her.
“Of course,” he said with alacrity. “I don’t mind watching her.”
Leona fidgeted in her mother’s arms, and after a long moment, Natasha put her down.
In the wake of Natasha’s departure, the room felt empty and cold despite the well-tended fire. Remnants of breakfast lay on the table, and he picked up a pastry idly. Leona stared at him.
“Let’s go for a walk, shall we, before being locked in the carriage?”
There were ten hours of travel this day, and the carriage, as it had been yesterday, would be cramped with people. He needed air and he needed to clear his head of the residual effects of drink.
She nodded. He held out his hand and, tentatively, she placed hers in his. Her hand was tiny but strong.
They walked out into the inn yard. He savored the brisk air, tinged with the familiar and comforting scent of horses and hay. The inn was on the London Road, on the outskirts of the village, but the street nearby bustled with early morning activity. They made their way along the cobblestoned street. He kept his stride in check, but still she practically skipped next to him, trying to keep up.
Leona dragged and he looked to see what had caught her attention. He smiled when he saw the window display with its array of dolls. He had seen what passed for a store in Little Parrington. This small shop likely looked like a garden of delights to her. Happy that at least his daughter’s desires would be easy to fulfill, he directed her to the door of the store. He could feel her excitement build. She looked up at him.
She reminded him of the spaniel he’d had as a child, the little face eternally hopeful, asking for a bone or a morsel of meat, for anything Marcus would give him. He half expected Leona to wag her tail.
He pulled the creaky wooden door open with a jangle of bells and then held it, letting Leona pass through. The smell of damp and dust assaulted them, and Leona sneezed. Marcus let go of the door and stepped in behind her, rubbing the gloved fingers of his right hand together to remove the wood chips that had splintered off.
The proprietor stumbled in from a back room, wiping a grimy hand through stringy white hair. Marcus surveyed the shop with a critical eye. The display of toys was in the left front corner, and to his eye the assortment was thin: wooden puppets and rag dolls, a layer of dust over most. It would do for now, but his daughter would have the best when they reached London. He’d buy her the damn menagerie if it would please her.
He smirked at his own ridiculous thought––such a move would beggar him many times over.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“The young lady is looking for a doll, is that not right, Leona?” She nodded slowly, eyes wide.
“Well, tell the shopkeeper what you would like.”
Leona kept staring, her eyes even larger if possible.
“Or perhaps you would prefer to look first?” Leona nodded more quickly this time, and Marcus turned back to the shopkeeper with a small smile. “There you have it. The young lady would like to browse. We shall let you know when she has made
her selection.”
Minutes later, they exited the store and Marcus was grateful to breathe in sweet, fresh air again.
More than twenty minutes had passed, so he hoisted Leona up to his chest, and to hers she clutched her new doll––which was in truth an old French fashion doll, its once fashionable clothes sadly out of date.
“May I call you papa?” she asked suddenly, her voice almost lost in the rush of winter wind.
That choked-up feeling hit him again.
“That seems appropriate,” he murmured with some difficulty, “considering I am.”
She snuggled closer against him, and he adjusted his hold for her wiggling.
“Thank you, Papa.” The small word, said in her precise little voice, hurt. Hurt beautifully though, with that elusive promise of happiness. A few minutes later, just as they reached the inn door, she said, “I’m glad you’re not dead.”
He laughed as they entered, and then his amusement was cut short. Natasha stood outside the door to the parlor, glaring at him. Behind her, Mary hovered nervously.
Marcus walked across the room and let Leona down, patting her on the head as he passed her into Mary’s care.
“My papa bought me a doll, do you see, Mama?” Leona asked, tugging on her mother’s hand. “I’m going to call her Lydia.”
“How sweet of him,” Natasha said, her words flat, emotionless. Only the flicker at the corner of her mouth revealed her derision.
“Well, shall we be off then?” Marcus asked with forced cheer. He held out his arm for Natasha, and she took it reluctantly. As reluctantly as she had let him inside her the night before.
He pushed the thoughts of last night aside, just as the first pulsing ache settled in his groin. He wanted her desperately but patience was necessary.
He rested his other hand over hers, enjoying the feel of her tucked in there, by his side. She smelled heavenly, and she felt heavenly on his arm. His wife. He couldn’t think the word often enough.
Lord of Regrets Page 10