Natasha felt the beginnings of a headache at the corner of her temple. While she had been sleeping the morning away, her––she could hardly bear to think the word––husband had been spending time with their daughter.
“Do you like it here, then?” She forced the words out.
“Papa is wonderful!” Leona nearly bounced in her seat. Then she stilled, her body caught at awkward angles, one arm out. The excitement in her eyes bled away. “Why do you hate him?”
A cold sweat covered Natasha’s back. She shot a glance over to Mary, who stared conscientiously at the wall, as if she could help but hear what Leona was saying.
“Mary, would you please leave us?”
After the girl left in a hurried whisper of stiff cloth, Natasha picked up the book from the cushions. She opened the leather cover, catching the fragrance of decade-old paper and tracing the scripted letters that made up the title.
Once she had thought Marcus wonderful, too. Before he betrayed her. Before he blackmailed her. Before… “It’s really a long story, love. And I don’t think you are old enough to understand. Perhaps someday I’ll explain.”
Leona sucked her lower lip under the top one, her mind clearly working on some question.
“Will I have a brother or a sister?”
The abrupt change of conversation sent the headache raging into full force, and suddenly Natasha wanted to be away from the one child she did have. Oh God, she didn’t want to have to think about another being she shared with that man.
But he was her husband.
She was his wife.
And he would need an heir.
Natasha swallowed the nausea down and stood, smoothing her skirts.
“Has your Grandmother Templeton told you about the surprise today?”
Leona nodded, jumping up as well.
“Yes, well, we’ll need to get ready for the dressmaker then. Perhaps she can make us match? Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
Natasha held out her hand and Leona took it. The soft little hand was a shock for a moment. At least one thing was getting better.
…
Marcus was in a fine mood despite the fresh blast of winter chill. He had accomplished nearly everything he had set out to do: see his solicitor to restructure his will and provide fully for both Natasha and Leona, see his man of business regarding redecorating the nursery at Woodbridge, and put out an advertisement for a nanny and governess. Someone erudite, with knowledge of the classics, and barring that, he would hire a tutor.
He stopped for luncheon at his club. The rooms were near full, as if the Season had already begun, and excitement crackled in the air. The talk was mostly of Boney and the likelihood of a peace treaty at Chatillon. Marcus remembered his grandfather’s conversation and wondered just what the old man had brewing.
Marcus knew few of these men who filed into the dining room, laughing, patting each other on the backs, breaking the serious talk for a moment to speak of wine and family and gossip. It was as if in five years, the London crop had turned over, and only the older set remained a constant. Of course, it was still only March, and likely his compatriots, having not inherited their seats or not having any other need to arrive before April at the earliest, were still rusticating in the country. Just when Marcus had resigned himself to a round of introductions and idle chitchat, he spied John Underwood, the foremost companion of his youth.
“Why, Marcus,” John exclaimed, crossing the throng of men sorting themselves out at the long table. “I haven’t seen you in years.”
Years was true. A quick survey of his old friend was testament to how long it had been. At twenty-two and newly released onto town, John had damn well been close to a dandy, dressed in colorful silks, inordinately proud of the full head of hair the fashions allowed him to show off. Now that hair was thinned, gone almost but for a ring that settled about his ears and joined the carefully shaped side-whiskers. And the colorful costumes had been traded in for the more sobering shade of black. The man almost looked like he belonged in the courts of law.
“Six, hasn’t it been?”
“Yes, about, since Pater called me back home to do my duty. Which I’ve done admirably, I might add, though he isn’t around to see it anymore: heir, two more as well, and another babe on the way. What about you, my friend? Succumbed to the marriage trap yet? I haven’t heard about it…”
“The announcement will be in the papers this week,” Marcus said with a small cough. “Shall we sit?”
“Congratulations!” John thumped him on the back, as he followed him to a set of adjacent chairs. “Is the date set?”
“What are we congratulating Templeton on?” another man asked. Marcus coughed again, waving his hand in the air and accepting the quickly given water goblet from a servant.
He used the moment to sort through his options. He hadn’t settled on when or how he would introduce Natasha to the world. And then he remembered that Underwood had met Natasha all those many years ago, one night at Vauxhall, another night at Sadler’s Wells.
“Actually, the ceremony was Thursday last,” Marcus admitted.
“Oh!” Silence followed Underwood’s exclamation. Marcus stared at the elegant spread of utensils in front of him as he waited for his erstwhile friend to process it all.
“A rush affair, then?” Underwood asked in a quieter tone. But discretion was hardly useful with the other men listening.
At one time he and Underwood had been always together, but Marcus couldn’t remember what their conversation had been. There had been wine, much wine, and port and sherry and malt liquors and every other spirit he could imagine, including the damned gin, and perhaps all of that had lubricated life.
The only real moment of clarity he had from those early days––the afternoons spent trying to resuscitate his father’s estates and the nights spent trying to augment that with modest wins at the gaming tables––was the first moment he had seen Natasha. Then, of course, every single moment with Natasha after that had been brightly illuminated in the darkness of his father’s shadow, his grandfather’s incessant control. Natasha, who despite her youth and her sheltered life, despite never having left London, had known of things most men only learned of on their grand tour. Her wit had been quick and her laughter infectious, and perhaps those five months had only been five days for time had passed like the wind.
“Not fast enough,” Marcus answered finally, clenching his jaw. Here was the choice: mention now that Natasha Polinoff, whom Underwood knew had once been his mistress, was his bride, or merely let the man find out, if he ever did. He unclenched his jaw, forced a grin, and lifted his wineglass. “I assure you, never did a man submit as gratefully and eagerly to marriage as I have done.”
There was a round of laughter, as he had known there would be, and the inevitable protests and speeches against marriage and wives. Shortly, conversation turned away from Marcus and toward other society gossip. Underwood was distracted by a conversation with the man to his right, a man Marcus did not know. For a moment, Marcus had nothing to do but focus on the plate of beefsteak before him. Just as well, because the only other conversational topic on which Marcus was versed at this time was the manufacture of soap and the import of exotic ingredients, and trade was nearly as scandalous as the origin of his relationship with his wife.
After luncheon, Marcus made his last stop with a great deal less enthusiasm. This act would have been a pleasure in the morning, but that afternoon it had the added tinge of guilt, of the need to atone for a wrong done. With the uneasy idea that Underwood’s familiarity might cause problems in the future, he made his last stop of the day at Rundell, Bridge, and Rundell on Ludgate Hill. At Woodbridge, Natasha would have use of the Templeton jewels, but in London, as she had sold most of her jewelry over the years, she had nothing. It was time to replenish her box. He settled on a choker of pearls. Then, with no idea whether a child should wear jewelry or not, for Leona Marcus purchased a thin gold strand with a single pearl pendant.
> An hour later, he stepped out of his carriage and looked up at the facade of the townhouse that had once been his father’s, and in truth had been his maternal grandfather’s. The guilt and the sense of wrongness fled. It was a new day, a new era.
The front door was open before he even reached the top step, Logan bowing and welcoming him home. The house seemed filled with energy and noise as well. His butler informed him that the dressmaker was there, in his wife’s sitting room, with the elder Lady Templeton and the young miss.
Marcus thanked him, ascended the stairs, struck by the desire to take them two at a time—a need he gave into on the last few as the noises of female laughter grew louder. He entered his room first and was met by Pell, who looked as if he had been waiting all day for his employer to return and need his services.
“They’ve been in there for three hours now,” Pell informed him as Marcus placed his package from the jewelers on the console and handed the man his soiled gloves.
Just then a loud, “No, no, no!” pierced the barrier of the walls and Marcus, thinking the voice strange, chalked it up to the dressmaker. A high, childish giggle followed the exclamation.
“And has Leona been in there all the while?” It seemed extraordinary to him that a child of four might be interested in sartorial pursuits for such an exaggerated length of time, but then, Marcus had to admit, he did not know what usually interested a girl child, especially one as quick-witted as his daughter.
“I am not entirely certain, milord. I retired to Mrs. Marsdale’s sitting room to avoid the din.”
“Ah.” On that sufficient note, Marcus once more picked up the parcel, undoing the ribbon so that he could separate it into its two elegantly wrapped gifts. The door between his bedroom and his wife’s bedroom––the very thought of its existence irked him––was opened with the slightest twist of his hand. He pushed it forward, knowing the space would be empty, but was surprised at the fragrant assault on his senses of a room that smelled feminine and lived in after so many years vacant. His eyes were drawn almost immediately to the doorway at the other end, leading to the much-smaller, well-lit interior of Natasha’s sitting room. Through the rectangular frame, it seemed crowded with people. In the center of it all, half-obscured by the open door and standing atop a box of some kind, was Natasha. Over her plain muslin shift, a swath of turquoise-blue silk draped across her shoulders, held up by the arms of a woman he assumed to be the dressmaker even though the majority of her was not visible.
“And in this as well.” He heard his mother’s voice, clearly. “Only look at yourself, dear.” Natasha’s head turned, and then Marcus knew she saw him, for she shifted until he was no longer in the periphery of her gaze, but its primary focus.
“Marcus.” He read his name on her lips more than heard the sound.
“Oh, yes. I am certain he’ll love this color on you,” his mother continued.
“I think,” Marcus said, projecting his voice as he crossed the room, “that what my wife means is, I am here.”
“Papa!” Leona appeared running around the corner. She threw herself at his legs, and he lowered his body to meet her hug. The sensation was so new, so surprisingly precious, that he blinked back sudden tears at the strength of the small arms that now clung around his neck.
“How goes your day, my girl?” he asked, lifting her, clutching his two presents in his hand pressed against her back. “Are you all outfitted with pretty frocks now?”
“Not yet,” she whispered, one hand moving to clutch at his ear as if she could make him hear her better. “She has to sew them first.”
“Ah, of course,” he returned in his own near whisper. He crossed the threshold into the dressing room, which in the normal course of events might be considered large but now felt overwhelmed with people. Despite the cold season, the window had been cracked open to let in a flow of air.
Natasha was still watching him, only she had turned back to the mirrored glass and now caught his gaze in its reflection, holding the turquoise silk more solidly in front of her body as if it would protect her. It didn’t prevent him from noticing the way her shift clung to her backside. He moved his gaze to his mother, whose raised brow made it obvious she hadn’t missed what he had been ogling.
“Marcus, since you are here, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Burgh. She is an excellent dressmaker. I had several dresses made up while you were away and her taste is exquisite.”
Letting Leona down to the ground, Marcus faced Mrs. Burgh, who stared at him with undisguised interest and disapproval, as if a man shouldn’t walk in on his wife’s fittings. Two other women, likely her assistants, crowded behind her.
“A pleasure, Mrs. Burgh,” he said, offering a perfunctory bow, his fingers clenched around the boxes in his hand. Perhaps this was not the time to distribute such gifts, with his mother and strangers in the room. “I shall leave you all to your work here. I merely wished to…” He caught Natasha’s gaze in the mirror once more and words failed him. He could hardly admit he was a lovesick man eager to see his wife after a morning away––that one hour apart was too much, but four was painful and five, a cruel space of time. “My mother was quite right, Natasha. I find that color very appealing on you.” His wife blushed, and he found that color appealing as well.
He backed out of the room with another general bow to its occupants and then swiveled on his heel. He was halfway back to his bedroom when he heard the soft clip of footsteps and then his mother’s voice.
“One moment of your time, Marcus.”
Agreeably, he stopped. She reached him and took his arm.
“Let us continue apace. I’d like to discuss a few ideas.” He walked forward, doing as she said. “What’s that in your hand?” Marcus winced. “Rundells!” Her laugh was a quick, mocking exclamation. “Do be careful. You’ve given up the majority of your inheritance for this woman. You don’t want to waste what you do have.”
“You need have no fear,” Marcus said, his good humor fading. “And I gave up that inheritance five years ago.”
“It is of no consequence,” his mother said dismissively, letting go of his arm and stepping deeper into his bedroom. She stopped, looked about as if she had never been in there before. He supposed it had been years since she had––since his father had been alive and they had lived in London together. Before six of his seven half siblings.
“Well, thank you, Mother, for welcoming Natasha.” He placed the packages on the console again. “And Leona.”
“It is a bit of a scandal,” she admitted, “but we do what we must. Perhaps no one will ever know. I, for one, will not be saying a word of the past. Though there will be questions once, and if, it is known you are the girl’s father.” Before Marcus could speak, she continued, “I think a dinner party, perhaps? To introduce the new Lady Templeton to the family at least?”
“There isn’t really any of the family in town,” Marcus said, forbearing to mention that he had little hope of keeping the scandalous history secret. “And we shan’t be inviting grandfather.”
“No?” she stared at him, utterly flummoxed, and he relished it.
“No.”
“I see.” His mother looked to the wall, clearly thinking. “Well, then, perhaps more informal. In any event, do you have the direction of her parents? I wish to invite them to tea or to dinner. Which do you believe would be best?”
“I sent a letter this morning,” Marcus admitted, even then slightly nauseated at the mere thought of Natasha’s father and their last interview. But Marcus had put cowardice away five years ago, and Natasha needed to be reunited with her family.
“Excellent.” His mother looked surprised again. And still somewhat questioning.
“For dinner,” he added. “Tomorrow night. However, I have not yet had their response.”
“Your wife seems to be of the impression that they will not come, that she has been disowned fully.”
Suddenly Marcus’s collar felt too tight, his cravat too done up, and all of th
e offending cloth choked him. He thrust the guilt aside. It was the past and he could not change it.
“Circumstances are different now,” he said.
His mother nodded. “Yes, a ring and a title changes everything.”
Chapter Seventeen
In the large oval glass, Natasha watched Marcus’s progress across the bedroom––her bedroom––and shivered. The draft from the open window was much more prominent now.
“This one as well then,” Mrs. Burgh noted.
At that extraneous piece of commentary, she turned her attention back to the turquoise length of cloth upon which both her new mother-in-law and her husband had agreed and relinquished it into the waiting hands of one of the seamstresses. Standing in only her shift once more, she nearly dared her husband to look back. But he had crossed through the wide double doors back into his room, his mother beside him.
She shivered again and stepped down from the pedestal, accepting her dressing robe from the other seamstress. She spied her daughter, perched on the round upholstered ottoman, clutching the pretty length of pink ribbon Mrs. Burgh had earlier tied in the young girl’s hair. Leona looked ready for a nap.
“Are we finished?” Natasha asked the dressmaker.
“Unless Lady Templeton has any more orders,” Mrs. Burgh replied, looking up from her notes. “I believe we have covered all the necessities and the frivolities as well.”
Natasha laughed. “I’ll just be a few minutes. Come along, Leona. Let’s get you to the nursery.”
She watched her daughter hop down from her seat. “I’m not sleepy,” she protested. Despite Leona’s words, it wasn’t long before she was asleep in her bed, long lashes fluttering in dreams.
When Natasha returned to her room, Mrs. Burgh and her assistants had finished packing, and the footmen were in the process of carrying all the packages and bolts of cloth down to the waiting carriage. Her mother-in-law was nowhere about, so she thanked the dressmaker. When she could finally close the door behind them, Natasha lay down on her bed and let herself sink into the soft mattress. While her world had changed completely in the last few days, it was not overly difficult to adjust to a life of increased leisure. With an indulgent stretch, she reached up to pull the bell cord. The greatest pleasure was the ability to order up a hot bath without having to boil and heft the steaming buckets of water herself.
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