“I have no idea what you mean, Mother. I am the Duke of Selridge. I must marry.”
“Yet, you failed to tell me what you had in mind when you asked me to invite the Formsby-Smythes to Yorkshire.” Beneath those lovely features lurked the tenacity of a terrier. Marcus had to be very careful.
“I was not aware I needed your consent to court a bride.” He knew this to be a bit harsh, but it was always best to maintain the upper hand when dealing with Emily Winfield.
“Was there a courtship, dear? I appear to have missed it. As, I’m afraid, did Miss Formsby-Smythe. What are you up to, Marcus?”
“Why should I be up to anything?” He stood and began a halting circuit around the room. His leg had suffered more than a bit of strain in the fall, but he would never admit it. “This is a simple marriage proposal, nothing more nefarious than that.”
He paused in front of the sofa where she sat. Her eyes narrowed. “You discussed this with her father at Julius’s funeral, didn’t you? You’ve had this planned for months. It is about Julius, isn’t it?”
“Isn’t everything since he died?” Marcus hated the taste of those words on his tongue.
“He would want you to be happy, Marcus. After all you have been through you deserve that much at the very least. Will Adelaide make you happy?”
Happiness was an illusion, a fleeting thing at best, and well she should know it. In less than ten years she had lost the husband she had loved for thirty years and a son she had adored. How could she believe in it still, after so much loss?
“You should be far more concerned for her happiness, Mother. You saw her at Julius’s funeral. She is the only woman, save you, who was there.”
“She insisted.”
“I can believe that. She is a very insistent woman.”
“Indeed.”
“She wept as though her heart would break. She was more than fond of him.”
“Perhaps.”
“Who is to say what might have happened had he lived in spite of his…” Words failed him. This was not a subject one discussed with one’s mother. “I cannot bring him back, but I can honor what might have been his intentions.” He ceased his pacing and settled into the chair across from her.
“You think Julius and Adelaide had an understanding?” His mother leaned back into the sofa cushions and smoothed her black velvet skirts around her. He sensed it was an attempt on her part to gather her thoughts. Some suppressed emotion stole across her face like a shadow across the moon.
“It was all over Town. There were bets on the books at White’s.”
“White’s? Then it must be true.”
Marcus snorted. He reached for his mother’s hand. “She must never know how he was.”
“Are you certain she doesn’t know?”
“She is not well acquainted with the ways of the world. Julius would not have confided in her.”
“Did he confide in you?”
Marcus barely contained a gasp. His last words to Julius sliced through him with the serene savagery honed by daily repetition. There were things his mother need not know as well.
“I knew. He did not confide in me, which is why I am certain he didn’t confide in her.”
“So, you will marry her to honor this understanding between her and your brother. Do your duty.”
“Isn’t it time?” He considered the pattern of the carpet. She squeezed his hand and when he raised his head he saw the question in her eyes.
“I have not led a good life. I’ve been selfish and cruel. Father and Julius would still be here if not for…” He exhaled in a long, slow push. “I’ll do right by them, late as it is. I’ll do right by the title and by this young woman.”
“Even if it kills you.”
“Marriage won’t kill me, Mother. The bride might.”
“You did not ask me how I knew, Marcus.”
“How you knew what, Mother?”
“That you knew about Julius. After all I am not the sort to tell tales out of school, so to speak.” Her sudden change of subject was not unusual, but her eager tone sounded an alarm. Now who was plotting?
“How did you know I knew, Mother?” He asked the question as if it had just occurred to him. “You would not blurt it out if you thought I was ignorant of the matter.”
“I do not blurt, Marcus Aurelius,” she admonished, the dignified matriarch once again. “I never really thought about it until the reading of Julius’s will.”
“His will?”
“Yes, dearest. His will,” she explained patiently. “You did not cavil for a moment at the bequest made to Jeffries. Most valets only receive a monetary bequest, even if they have served for over fifteen years. After all, he is only forty-five years old, quite young enough to seek another position. I cannot remember ever hearing of a valet receiving an annuity and a house.”
“And a dog,” Marcus added. “Don’t forget the dog.”
“Of course, I could never forget Augustus. Julius adored him so. He will be such a comfort to Jeffries.”
Augustus? The thing looked like a cross between a pugilist and a Highland coo.
Marcus gave his mother’s hand one last pat. The Selridge signet ring glinted against the tanned skin of his finger. He turned it round and round a few times. “I must confess it gave me pause.” His face grew warm with a blush that brought a smile to his mother’s face. “I knew he was involved with someone. I never dreamed it was Jeffries.”
“Nor did I, to be sure,” she agreed. “Jeffries visits the crypt every day, you know. I think it is why he agreed to accept the cottage at Winfield Park. To be near Julius. He is so devoted. And so terribly sad. Oh dear, now I’ve gone and done it.”
Marcus saw it coming. She struggled to overcome them, but the tears finally overtook her.
“That dreadful Henrietta has taken my handkerchief. Oh bother.”
Marcus rose and went to her, searching his pockets as he did. He settled onto the sofa beside her and put his arm around her even as he handed her a neat linen square.
“There, there, Mother,” he murmured as he kissed her temple. “If ever a woman was entitled to tears, it is you.”
“That much is true,” she sniffled. “One son is dead, and the other is determined to chase away any chance of my having grandchildren to spoil. Which is my God given right, as you well know.”
“I was not aware of that, Mother. Where exactly is it written?”
“Ungrateful beast,” she huffed even as she slapped his leg. Then she grew thoughtful. Never a good thing for him. “Knowing about your brother and Jeffries, what makes you think Julius and Adelaide had an understanding? We both know he could never really love her, not like another man could.”
“He would not have been the first peer to marry to hide his nature.” This conversation had become entirely too uncomfortable to suit him. He had made up his mind and nothing, especially not his well-intentioned mother, would stand in his way. “Whatever was between them, Adelaide has to marry me now. This thing has gone too far for it to end otherwise. She will simply have to settle for the lesser man.” Marcus rose and returned to the fireside to retrieve his cup from the hearth.
He stared into the flames. The lesser man. He knew all about that after Waterloo. There are all sorts of wounds one carries in life. Some can be hidden, whilst others cannot. Worse, the memory of those last angry words he’d spoken to his father, and then later to Julius, taught him better than anything he had suffered on the battlefield, the truth of who was the lesser man. His resentment of his brother had festered until it destroyed the two men he admired most. The least he could do was take care of the woman who shared his admiration for his brother.
“Well, would it not, dearest?”
Apparently, his mother had been having the conversation without him. “Would it not what?”
“Would it not be a pity if there were no grieving love to visit your grave with such devotion?”
“Miss Formsby-Smythe is all too willing to visit
my grave now, Mother. After she personally puts me in it.” He returned to the tea table and placed his cup on the tray.
“One can hardly blame her for that, dearest.”
Marcus did not believe his ears. “May I remind you, you are my mother? You are supposed to be on my side.”
“Yes, that is my cross to bear, but you do make it difficult at times, my love. Especially when you are woolgathering and thereby miss my suggestion.”
“What suggestion would that be?” Marcus asked as he plucked an almond biscuit from the plate on the mahogany tea table before the sofa.
“That you ask Adelaide if she had any sort of understanding with your brother. Better to do so than to sacrifice yourself unnecessarily.”
“Marrying Adelaide would hardly be a sacrifice, Mother. She has a quick mind and a very lovely …” He quickly tried to erase the memory of Addy’s luscious curves in his arms. It was a fine memory, but mothers had a way of seeing those sorts of things in a son’s mind. He was certain of it. “Suffice it to say, she’ll do. And I’ll just go upstairs and explain it to her. She’ll soon see the logic of this match.”
“And if she doesn’t? What then, my dear?”
“I could always throw myself back down into the cave, madam. As long as I am there alone, it should be quite peaceful.” He gave a half-hearted laugh and settled back into the chair across from her. Did he look as out of his depth as he felt?
“You have had a time of it, haven’t you?” she asked tenderly. Obviously, he did.
“I fear I shall survive it all, whether I want to or not.”
They lapsed into silence for a few minutes.
“Would it be so bad to court her properly, Marcus? You like this girl. Surely that’s a start.”
“Of course I like her. Like is not the problem.”
“Then what is it?”
He rubbed his now aching leg and shifted it into a more comfortable position. It was a delaying tactic. His mother, no doubt, knew that. Finally, he sat back and closed his eyes. “She deserves better. Someone closer to her own age. Someone less set in his ways. Someone who isn’t—”
“Do be careful what you say, Marcus. I won’t have you insulting my son.”
He ran his hands through his hair. He knew she had more to say.
“Adelaide is nearly one and twenty years old. She is not a child. Why don’t you let her decide what she deserves, dearest? I realize it is unheard of these days. Allowing a woman to decide what she needs will no doubt get you drummed out of White’s and any number of other bastions to male superiority.”
Older than he thought, but still. “I doubt if she has any idea what she wants. I didn’t at her age.”
“You were an idiot at her age, but we still let you decide what you wanted from life. I daresay she will make the right decision.”
His failure to see the Frenchman who blindsided him at Waterloo had cost him his face and the use of his leg. His brother’s death without leaving an heir had cost Marcus his career and his freedom. An accident of nature had thrown him into a hole with Adelaide Formsby-Smythe. He’d spent one wonderful night with her and it had changed everything. What would be the cost of that? He dared not think on it.
“Very well, Mother. I shall go upstairs and offer Miss Formsby-Smythe my hand properly on bended knee,” he announced with a bravado he did not feel. “With any luck, she will not cut it off and beat me to death with it.” He plucked another biscuit from the plate.
“After the way you behaved earlier, it is certainly no less than you deserve.”
“Thank you, Mother. You are such a comfort to me.”
“I do what I can, dearest,” she said brightly. “There is one consolation.”
“I cannot wait to hear it.” He popped the biscuit into his mouth.
“If she does kill you, I will put you in the crypt next to Julius and Jeffries can devote himself to both of you.”
“Good God.”
His mother smiled and blew him a kiss.
Shutting the door behind him, Marcus leaned against it for a moment of quiet contemplation. Or perhaps it was sheer terror. At this point it was difficult to tell. Having told his mother he would win Addy’s consent, he hadn’t the first clue how to do it. Perhaps he should consult Jeffries. His mother took the man to be a paragon of romantic devotion. Marcus snorted. The man was a valet, not a miracle worker.
He dragged the mangled letter from his waistcoat pocket. Marcus had no choice in the matter now. He had to convince Addy to marry him. Not marrying him was a tempest in a teapot compared to the scandal this letter would produce. And the writer promised to land Miss Adelaide Formsby-Smythe right in the middle of it. At least married to him she’d be protected should he be unable to discover who the blackmailer was.
He scrubbed his hands over his face and growled in frustration. He would keep Addy safe from the blackmailer. Who would keep her safe from him?
Chapter Four
The acts of revenge Adelaide’s brothers visited upon her when she was a little girl, more often than not, resulted in a sobbing Adelaide and four very concerned brothers. Their concern was never so much for the wailing little girl, as it was for what awaited them should their father discover what they had done. As a result, her brothers had developed two very distinct methods of easing the hurt they had inflicted. One of these two methods always worked. Or Adelaide was far too forgiving as a child.
As she had absolutely no intention of ever forgiving Marcus Winfield, Adelaide tried her brothers’ methods. An hour later she discovered their flaw. They were not nearly as effective when the hurt was not a scraped knee or a broken doll. A broken heart was made of sterner stuff. Then again, perhaps Adelaide had made the most awful of discoveries. She was well and truly no longer a child.
For injuries of an emotional nature, like a broken doll, each brother in turn had searched frantically for something pretty, shiny or lovely with which to distract her.
“Look at the pretty tulips, Addy.”
“A robin’s egg, Addy. Look how blue it is.”
“A conger, Addy,” Will, her eldest brother, had said, holding a huge horse chestnut for her to see. “It’s a beauty. Don’t you want it?”
“Come on, Addy. Let’s go find the ducks. You love the ducks.”
At present, Adelaide was ensconced in what must be the loveliest room she had ever seen. Since her dramatic exit from the parlor she had inspected every detail of the cheerfully decorated bedchamber and adjoining sitting room.
The carpets were a very thick Aubusson—forest green with lovely yellow patterns woven throughout the design. The wallpaper was a buttery yellow silk with raised figures of roses. Adelaide loved yellow roses. The furnishings of cherry wood glowed so brightly one could almost smell the cherries. There was a beautiful pastoral painting on one wall and several lovely studies of birds on another. From the delicate porcelain pieces on the mantel to the garden-fresh flower arrangement on the bedside table the entire room was a thing of beauty. A little girl’s dream come true. So much for that method.
Injuries of a physical nature, such as a scraped knee or a knot on the head the size of a lemon, required a more “manly” solution.
“Let’s go for a walk, Addy. Come on. Walk around a bit. It’ll stop hurting in a minute. That’s a girl.”
Perhaps movement was just the thing. Her pain was more like a knot on the head, after all. However, it wasn’t in her head. As she paced furiously back and forth from the wardrobe to the open trunk and portmanteaus, Adelaide tried with all her might not to dwell upon how much Marcus’s completely impersonal pronouncement hurt. And how very wrong she was about him all along.
Of course, she did not want him to be forced to marry her. Which was really rather ironic, considering the first, last, and only thing she ever wanted from the moment she met him was to marry him. That wasn’t exactly right either. What she truly wanted was for him to want to marry her—Adelaide, because no other woman would do, because he loved h
er.
She realized now her secret dreams had been just that—dreams. Lovely for a young girl, not terribly practical for a young woman. Her parents and brothers were always urging her to be more practical. That is exactly what she would be. Practical Adelaide with no childish wishes and a future of her own making in front of her. One did not need a husband for what she wanted to accomplish in life. Indeed, a husband would be nothing but a hindrance.
So, she would go home and leave Marcus Winfield to his hundreds of kisses from hundreds of women and never look back. After all, Dylan was depending on her. The thought of Dylan Crosby, her dearest friend from childhood, brought a wistful smile to her face. Make that a wicked gleam to her eye. One word to him about the duke’s callous treatment of her and dear Dylan would race in from Sussex and draw the man’s cork, duke or not. Her own brothers were the stuff of a young girl’s nightmares. Dylan, however, was the brother every girl hoped to have. Just as Marcus Winfield had been the husband of…
“Oh really, Adelaide.” she said aloud. “Just stop.”
With a handful of unmentionables draped over her arm she stared at the half-packed bags in disgust.
“Count yourself lucky and get on with it. He would probably make a tedious, tyrannical husband. Then where would you be?”
The porcelain shepherdess on the mantel made no reply. Good Lord, now she was talking to herself. The man was driving her mad. Well, no more.
“He will never know what he missed,” she declared, tossing the undergarments in the direction of the portmanteaus on the bed. “And I could certainly never continue my work with Dylan as the Duchess of Selridge.”
What a sensible and decisive thing to say. Then why did her eyes throb and burn with tears she held back with sheer tenacity alone? Why did he act so loving and alive during their ordeal in the cave and like a pompous arse only a few hours after they were rescued? How dare he make marrying her sound like a visit to Tattersall’s? How dare he not know or care that he’d hurt her so? How dare he—
“Addy, can I come in?”
How dare he have the nerve to be knocking on her door?
Lost In Love (Road To Forever Series #1) Page 5
