It's Marriage Or Ruin

by Liz Tyner

  He refused to let his mind wander, tamped away his thoughts, and went off to the fields.

  * * *

  That night, he noticed he didn’t have a glass in his room. He didn’t know why there were no glasses unless Robert had removed them on purpose. No matter. He went to the cabinet and returned to his room.

  He drank slowly, and not much, as he didn’t want to be foxed.

  A knock on his door. ‘Goodnight, Marc. Pleasant dreams.’ She didn’t enter.

  Marcus forbade himself another drop. If he did, he would stumble and her arms would ease his descent, but increase the speed.

  All their lives, his father had raised Marcus to be the bearer of the family heritage. Nathaniel hadn’t had a problem with it. When Marcus had wondered aloud about meaningless encounters, Nathaniel had been untroubled, remarking that Marcus could have all the responsibility and the conscientious women, Nathaniel would take the unconscionable ones.

  Then Marcus viewed the women Nate preferred. They laughed loudest, frolicked longest and had the joie de vivre that Lady Semple had mentioned.

  The beauties of the world always spied Nate. Nathaniel never had to seek them out, but Marcus noticed the marriage-minded ones tended to discover him first. The frivolous ones initially sighted Nathaniel.

  True, Marcus simply had to glance into the bevy fluttering near Nate, single someone out and she would dislodge herself and flutter right to him.

  Emilie had mistaken him for Nathaniel at the dance.

  When Marcus had singled Emilie out, she’d still written to Nathaniel.

  At the time, it hadn’t mattered. But now it ground like glass shards into his consciousness.

  He reflected on the women he had entertained before he married. Those women he had not chosen. The quiet, docile, gentle women who listened with grace to his every word. They’d been all but invisible to him. Emilie, he could see. But he wasn’t sure it was enough.

  He stared at the ceiling he could not even discern in the gloom and he desired—every fibre of Emilie.

  Her perfect body which he had felt once and that touch had sealed his fate. He didn’t know how he could resist her, but he kept telling himself that his hands had lied to him. She had not really felt like the first day of spring with the magic of a rainbow. She had not really felt so incredible that he could still imagine the press of her skin against his lips.

  He would make a new world for himself, even if he might be the solitary one living in it. And it would be with this roof over him.

  He would fight for it, as soon as he worked out how one armed oneself against beauty and feelings. Then he realised. Soldiers. A man could not fight a battle without soldiers.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Emilie sat on the edge of her bed, swinging her foot. Marcus had barely recognised she was alive since he had made love to her. She’d thought it would have meant more to him. He appeared to have forgotten it. He spent more hours with the stablemen than he did with her.

  She had asked her new maid, Mary, where he went and had discovered he joined the workmen in the old cottage, staying out as late as he might at a gambling hell. And Mary told her the men wagered and drank and boasted of their pursuits.

  She’d waited, alone in her room, with her flower portfolio to sketch in.

  She had delayed her journey in the mornings so she might eat with him before he worked in the fields and he had acted as if she weren’t there. Oh, he had said a few pleasant words, such as ‘Good morning’ and ‘That was a delicious meal’, but he had not even noticed her at his side more than he might a footman.

  He’d spent hours in the servants’ area making notations in a book. Robert had followed along, giving advice, and Robert had given Emilie a smug, self-satisfied, kiss-my-coattails grin.

  Emilie moved to the top of the stairs and paced in the hallway. Marcus. He could not be so blind. She touched her waist, grimacing as her hand rested over the tight fit of the corset. She’d had the maid someone had hired from the village give her an extra tug or two and she felt strapped inside the garment. Even wasps would be jealous.

  She touched her hair carefully. Extra pins and she’d let the maid spend an hour on it. If Marcus didn’t return soon she’d be having the vapours, her scalp bruised from the pins, her breasts pushed up to her neck, suffocating from dollops of perfume—for nothing. A dead, odd-shaped pincushion that smelled good.

  Marcus. What if he’d married her with the expectation that she would have the same talents as her aunt Beatrice? What if he’d only wanted her skills?

  He’d brought her to a place filled with inspiration. He’d made love to her, but restrained himself, and he’d kept further from her after their intense moments.

  He saw her as nothing more than a resident in Stormhaven. He spent time at the barn, the pens, and concerned himself with making sure the estate was perfect.

  What if his intention was to create a life that was nothing more than a reproduction of the scene inside his mind? And the figures inside it were kept at a distance to prevent them from disrupting him?

  She would have to show him that she was flesh and blood.

  The door opened. Her husband had returned for his evening meal.

  She swept down the stairs, serenity in her movements, chin high—practically forced so by her corset—and she planned her pace so she arrived at the bottom as Marcus did. She gave a twist of her hand, moved wide and saw her mistake. She lost her footing and stumbled towards him, crashing into his middle.

  The oof she heard was not her fault—her balance was off from getting stuffed into the dress. He jumped sideways, catching her, then carefully propped her up.

  ‘Emilie.’ He put her firmly on her feet and increased the distance between them. He kicked at the stair treads, testing their strength, as he put her aside. ‘I thought the crew had repaired that broken wood. I’ll have Jonas inspect it immediately.’

  ‘You don’t have to concern yourself, Lord Grayson,’ she said, speaking so softly that he might be entranced. ‘Sadly, I stumbled.’

  He studied her, then waved a hand in front of him, clearing the perfume. ‘I do not care if you have brandy early in the day. I know you saw where I hid the key. You don’t need to cover your breath with perfume, but you shouldn’t drink so much you cannot get down the stairs.’

  He shook his head. ‘Tell Robert to see that a maid brings you one of his concoctions in the morning and it will help the pain you’ll have. For now, try to sleep it off so you don’t hurt yourself.’

  One must do what one could. Her demeanour almost dripped adoration at him. ‘Lord Grayson. You are so correct. Might you help me to my bed so I can rest safely?’

  She hadn’t seen the maid watching until he motioned to the woman. ‘I still have the mud of the fields on me. Mary can see you safely to your bed.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Mary dashed into view. She’d pummelled Emilie into the clothing. The woman almost lost her fight with laughter.

  ‘Very well,’ Emilie said sharply. She turned, grabbed the banister and marched up the stairs as quickly as one could who’d been halved in the middle.

  At the top of the stairs, she passed Robert.

  ‘Lady Grayson,’ he said. ‘This mere valet will be taking himself off to bed. Should you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask one of your maids.’

  * * *

  The next morning, Marcus saddled his horse and rode before dawn. He’d taken to the roads, putting distance between himself and Emilie. The daylight hours were long, but the nights were unremitting.

  He returned to the barn, but sent Jonas to fetch him breakfast, even though nothing seemed palatable.

  He wanted Emilie as a true wife, and a united home. Not two individuals sharing a country. He wanted something few people truly experienced, judging from the world he lived in.

  If he so much as hinted t
hat their relationship must come before anything else, he could feel the resistance. You promised, she’d say. And, yes, he had promised that she could always paint. But he hated the image of himself drowning and her suggesting he wait before being rescued until she’d captured his expression.

  He made himself wait.

  * * *

  Emilie heard a noise as she stopped at the open door to Marcus’s room. She peered inside. The maid was making the bed.

  Emilie strolled in. Marcus’s best boots hung upside down on a boot rack. There was a definite hint of leather.

  The woman raised her head briefly, but bent back to her work.

  ‘He is very tidy,’ Emilie told the servant.

  ‘He is the tidiest person,’ the woman admitted. ‘Not like most high-born people—I’ve heard.’

  Emilie went to his wardrobe and opened it. She looked at the folded garments.

  She rifled her fingers among the clothing. Another scent caught her consciousness. She picked up one of his shirts and held it to her nose. She could smell Marcus as if he were in her arms.

  The maid coughed.

  ‘Lord Grayson is truly a wonderful man.’ Emilie put the shirt back in place. ‘I notice because he is my husband and I have a most critical eye because of my studies.’

  ‘Aye,’ the woman agreed. ‘He could make any woman forget herself.’

  Emilie tensed.

  The maid laughed, then continued. ‘Except me, of course. I’ve got my own man to tickle my fancy at night. He can’t sleep without tumbling me—course I don’t really mind.’

  ‘Yes.’ Emilie shut the door of the wardrobe. Such base talk from a servant. She had not been properly trained. ‘Lord Grayson is the same.’

  The woman’s face was as serene as the pool on a windless day, but the fish were laughing from under the water.

  Emilie perceived the bed and wondered how it would feel to sleep beneath those covers. Her own were lacking. Lacking Marcus. They’d been so much more inviting when Marcus was in the bed. She’d planned on many, many more nights like that, and that plan had evaporated in the morning mist.

  ‘Lord Grayson has magnificent shoulders.’ Emilie’s fingers followed the woodgrain of the wardrobe.

  ‘Yes, he does,’ the maid said, innocently.

  The woman was unfit for her job.

  Marcus had revealed his man-of-affairs in London had been unable to hire anyone willing to move on short notice, so he had found people who lived near by. He’d informed her that if she truly wanted anyone but Robert to leave, he would let them go. But the work would remain. Emilie would need to assist, as he had assigned strict duties to each servant, and he’d been unable to employ anyone else. The cook was no longer allowed to mix Emilie’s paints, but had to attend to meals.

  The maid interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘When I took water to the men yesterday, Lord Grayson was returning to the barn. He’d removed his shirt and he’s very muscular,’ the maid continued as if unaware of Emilie’s scowl. ‘Water was dripping from him,’ the woman said, rubbing her hand over her arm in an uncalled-for manner, ‘which somehow didn’t look unpleasant.’

  ‘Do you not have washing to do?’ Emilie asked.

  ‘A lot of it,’ the woman answered. ‘Paint does not scrub out quickly.’

  Emilie shrugged. ‘Well, you must get to it and I will take the men fresh water. I am sure Lord Grayson will not mind.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ the woman asked. ‘It’s refreshing for me to take the men a treat.’

  ‘You have too many duties.’ Emilie turned away. ‘And I need to see how the work is progressing. The pens are of extreme importance to me and it will give me a chance to check the livestock.’

  ‘Very well,’ the woman spoke softly.

  Emilie got the pail and ladle, filled the bucket with fresh water from the outside pump and walked to the barn, where the men were replacing the roof.

  Marcus perched on the roof with the men and she didn’t see how he kept from tumbling to the ground.

  Forcing herself to remain calm, she waited, watching his shirt outline his torso as he moved and the lines of his trousers as they hugged the muscles in his legs. But, he was perched precariously on that roof.

  Finally, he spotted her and moved to the ladder. The others followed.

  After they had got their fill of water, the men returned to their work, but Marcus remained beside her and put a hand up to shade the sun as he inspected the repairs. Emilie turned to retreat, but Marcus took hold of her arm and pulled her closer. ‘Are you here to see me?’

  ‘No. I didn’t want Mary to see you.’

  ‘Mary? The maid?’

  He brushed at her cheek, which surprised her, and anticipation rose. When Marcus beheld her, she felt unique. Enchanting.

  ‘Yes. She mentioned seeing you without your shirt.’

  ‘The afternoon was hot. We’d visited the pool to cool off and removed our shirts there,’ he said. ‘None of us expected her to be about when we returned.’

  She held the bucket at her side. ‘I think you should only be viewed by an artist.’

  ‘I agree.’ His fingers trailed her arm and his lips moved so close she thought he would kiss her, but he didn’t. ‘One in particular.’

  * * *

  Marcus schooled himself to be firm. No matter how much he wanted her for that moment, he wanted her more for a lifetime. He wanted so much and he wasn’t sure she was capable of giving love.

  He could see the hues in her cheeks, the contrasts of light and dark in her eyes.

  He couldn’t stop himself. His hands slipped to hold her waist, unmoving.

  ‘Do you miss Nathaniel?’ he asked, quietly.

  ‘No. We did speak, but not for long,’ she said, words straightforward. ‘He wouldn’t enjoy the farm.’

  ‘No. He wouldn’t.’

  She rested against him, tipping her head to his shoulder. Everything about her tantalised him, except her one true love.

  ‘Marc, I was so wrong about you.’

  ‘When?’ He braced himself.

  ‘I judged you a rake.’

  He didn’t speak. Never would he have dreamed he could stay from Emilie’s bed. The control was important to him. He wouldn’t become his father if he could resist these moments with Emilie.

  ‘I was a rake. I’m not now. Never again.’

  * * *

  Stabbing desire invaded Emilie.

  Never again.

  Never.

  Again.

  Marcus probably spent his nights in his chambers reading pious works. Goodness, he had agreed quickly enough to the marriage when she had compromised him. She remembered his trying to send her away and he had smelled of brandy. If not for the drink, she doubted he would have fallen into her arms.

  She suspected Robert had somehow tricked Marcus into the whole of it. Robert could be scheming.

  From all she had seen of Marcus, he had few wanton yearnings about him, but when they burst forth, they overwhelmed her. Their first night had been glorious. Sublime.

  ‘What’s wrong, Em?’ he asked and his knuckles brushed against her cheek.

  His arms encircled her.

  She was enveloped in his scent, his strength and could feel the beat of his heart.

  But, he didn’t press himself against her and she realised he didn’t fancy her as a woman, but as an artist. He slept alone because he wasn’t tempted by her.

  He had told her at the beginning that she could paint, and now, now she understood why. He had simply wanted to become her patron.

  She could have screamed. She had married and had become his property and he had abandoned her for labour and toil.

  She could create landscapes to her content. Her days were of her own design.

  Except she wanted to rip
the buttons from his clothes.

  She tightened her shoulders and looked at him. She put her palm flat, and ran her fingertips over his cheeks.

  ‘Marc, I fear you work too much,’ Emilie said.

  ‘It’s keeping me alive, Em.’

  She thought of her flower portfolio. She had purchased it to sketch blooms in, but instead, she’d drawn Marcus on the pages and those moments had saved her. ‘I understand.’

  * * *

  ‘Much to be done,’ he answered. More than he’d anticipated. But it was saving him, he could feel it. Each day his body strengthened and he tired, and he fought temptation by instructing the crew. He’d insisted their job hadn’t been finished until they shared a card game, and wagered the next day’s jobs. The gambling lasted long into the night, with tasks changing hands many times. He relished the same camaraderie he’d had in his clubs and no one here had questioned his orders the next day, but ran more quickly to get them accomplished.

  In London, he’d been one of the pack—here he was the leader. Jonas looked to him for guidance and Marcus provided that without hesitation, learning and commanding at the same instant.

  ‘You have men to do the work.’ Emilie wavered, uncertain.

  She no longer reminded him of the waif he’d once seen. This woman needed to be comforted. Held. Reassured.

  ‘You must let the others do their duties,’ she said, breaking the spell inside him that had weakened his resolve.

  He saw Jonas watching. Marcus called the man to his side. A soldier. Reinforcements were needed.

  ‘Yes, but I learn more about it if I am helping. It’s why I must live here. And the work is done better if I am involved. I make the decisions and understand the how and why of it.’

  And the work helped tire him and take the frustrations of need for her and pound them out with a hammer or grasp at one end of the saw. The workmen’s foreman was becoming a friend to Marcus and he understood Marcus’s need to keep busy.

  She stayed beside him. ‘My father doesn’t work much physically. Your father doesn’t.’