It's Marriage Or Ruin

by Liz Tyner

  As soon as they were enough distance from the others, his father stopped and spoke to him.

  ‘You could have chosen anyone, son. Anyone,’ the older man said. ‘I know she is appealing and, I admit, I’m impressed with her awareness of the traits of males, but her father is a cleric. True, her mother was the old Duke of Kinsale’s eldest child and she does have that. But the girl has been raised a cleric’s daughter.’

  ‘She is from a good family.’

  ‘So-so.’ His father fluttered a hand in front of him and both continued on the path. ‘Blast it. You could have done better.’

  ‘I did well enough.’

  Both paced along, their hands locked behind their backs.

  ‘No, she is definitely not of good enough family. A backwoods cleric’s daughter.’ He inspected the sky. ‘And even if she is a duke’s granddaughter and the current Duke of Kinsale’s niece, might I remind you, not every stallion and prize mare produce good offspring.’

  ‘She will be fine, Father, and if not, I will deal with it.’ Marcus knew he would be dealing with it.

  ‘She sounded as if she does know what to expect from life. That her eyes are open.’

  ‘My eyes were half-shut as I said my vows.’ Marcus heard the truth as he said it. ‘I need to open them now so that she and I might truly learn what we are made of. So, I ask you if I might move to Stormhaven where my grandfather was born?’ The weight of his marriage loomed heavy in his mind.

  He had married on the spur of the moment, the future shrouded to him. It had taken a few minutes of vows and the veil was removed. But he had not been able to risk losing her to anyone else.

  ‘That house? It is nothing but a few sticks.’ His father stopped and faced him, exasperation evident. ‘I could not let my lowest servant live there. That low-life piece-of-tripe valet of yours will not stand for living in such a place. You will have to leave him behind.’

  ‘I will let him stay at the town house if he so wishes. But I plan to go to my grandparents’ old home. I might leave as soon as possible, but I have not discussed it with Emilie.’

  ‘No woman would live in a dung heap such as that.’

  ‘Workmen could make it liveable. It might take years, but I’m up to the task.’

  ‘Son. Have you taken leave of your senses?’ His father held Marcus’s arm so he couldn’t turn away.

  ‘Yes, when I saw a woman at a soirée and I had marriage on my mind, and I could not shake it lose.’

  ‘Forgive me. Forgive me. I shouldn’t have done it. I should not have pushed you so hard. I will not do the same with Nathaniel.’ He changed course. ‘On the other hand... Nathaniel. He should be pushed.’

  One thing his father would never learn was how to reverse a decision. How to consider the wishes of others, as well as his own. He’d been taught to put himself first from birth and it was beyond him to do otherwise.

  Then Marcus hesitated. Had he not been raised the same as his father?

  He contemplated Avondale.

  ‘If I stay here, I will lie with her, I will produce children. I will gamble without caring whether I win or lose as neither affects me. I will spend evenings and nights at gaming clubs. I will find new women to amuse me. That is all the substance I will have.’

  ‘I do not see much wrong with that lifestyle. Many men are happy with it. I am one of them.’

  ‘I want my life to change.’ He perused the gardens, hoping he might some day have pride in ones he had planned. ‘The past few years have been a blur of revelry that mean nothing to me in the morning. I would like to build more than gambling memories and not lie with women who have their hand in my pocket when they smile at me.’

  His father glowered at the grass. ‘Obviously you haven’t been choosing the right ladies. A woman worth her coin makes sure you never feel her hand when it is in your pocket.’

  ‘It is there, nonetheless.’

  His father stopped and raised a brow. ‘It is better that the hand be in your pocket than at your throat. Those are the choices a man has when he is deciding between a wife and a mistress.’

  ‘Mother is not like that.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean your bride is a retiring miss.’

  ‘Emilie may care for watercolours and drawing and oils, but at least she cares for something. It is not my title or the finances. First, she chose Nathaniel.’

  His father put his hand to his forehead. ‘I cannot believe you said that.’

  ‘If she were blinded by a title or funds, she would have chosen me.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if a woman is after you for funds or title. You will always have those things. They aren’t going away. You have nothing to lose.’

  They reached the end of the garden. His father turned, but Marcus reached out a hand to stop him from going back to the breakfast.

  ‘With respect to you, those are important things. They are my heritage. But they are simply heritage. Nothing I can claim as my own creation. An act of birth, nothing more.’

  ‘You would prefer a birth in the stews?’ his father groused.

  ‘No. I wish to test my mettle. I wish to be alive. I wish to see what it would be like to create something. To build something. To have earned my place on earth.’

  ‘We can’t all be Wellington. Even Wellington didn’t start out with all the glory. He once was the Honourable Arthur Wellesley, an earl’s son, not the firstborn might I remind you. Nor even the second. You can involve yourself in politics if you want substance. You have a chance to progress into it—it’s there for the taking.’

  ‘Before I can make decisions that will influence others’ lives, I have to understand what matters. Right now the recommendations I can make to others would detail drinks, theatre and gambling hells.’

  ‘Those are useful experiences. Those are living experiences. You were educated at Oxford. I don’t understand what all the bother is about.’ He paused. ‘Did that valet of yours give you these ideas?’

  ‘No. I have not said such a thing to him as he would possibly leave my employ.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Father.’

  ‘It is that woman, then. She’s addled you. She has no sense of the challenges an heir bears and no anticipation of the trials you’ll encounter.’

  ‘Emilie has no knowledge of this. I wanted to give her freedom to pursue her passion. Something I do not have and could not give myself. But I could easily give it to her. We’ve spent few occasions together.’ He studied his father’s reaction. ‘Very few. No true intimacies. None.’

  ‘Blast it.’ His father sighed. ‘Do you mean that she isn’t going to have a child?’

  ‘She isn’t.’

  ‘That was my reasoning,’ his father said, ‘that she had ensnared you with her femininity.’ He scowled. ‘Marcus, if she has ensnared you in some other way, you are in a mess.’

  ‘I give her the freedom that I cannot give myself.’

  ‘The money to repair your grandfather’s lands will cost more than many nights at the gambling table and more than a woman can take from your pocket.’

  ‘You want an heir. Emilie is not with child. I do not have to lie in her bed if I stay here. No heir for you.’

  ‘And I might prance through the twilight wearing a toga.’ His father laughed and patted him on the back. ‘Are you trying to bargain with me, my son?’

  ‘I am merely musing aloud.’

  ‘When did you begin with these country plans?’ his father asked. He examined Marcus.

  He told a half-truth. ‘Not long ago.’ While he’d waited for the cleric, he’d watched her fidget. Some part of her seemed caged. Trapped in herself and in a world that did not fit who she was.

  While she’d paced the room, she’d picked up a vase and studied it, browsed at a picture on the wall, meandered through the room again, examined
one side of the frame, then picked at a speck of dust on a chair arm, then continued, arms crossed.

  The older women had grumbled, asking her to be still, but Lady Semple had taken Emilie’s side, hugged her and said her farewells. Lady Semple did not want to be present when the others arrived, particularly his father.

  When he’d watched Emilie’s restlessness and felt his own, he’d decided it would be best for both him and Emilie to go to the countryside. And if not best for the both of them, then she could stay behind and splatter colours about to her heart’s content.

  ‘She didn’t beguile you with a siren’s tricks?’

  ‘No. She likely tossed her book of siren’s tricks into a fire.’ All Emilie wanted was a paintbrush, not a husband. ‘If her parents hadn’t forced her hand, she would never have agreed to the marriage. Which makes me more irritated than I would have believed.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You could say our families brought us together. A disarranged marriage.’

  ‘Parents.’ His father squinted at Marcus, lips grim. ‘They keep ruining the lives of their children.’

  Marcus chuckled. ‘I would agree.’

  ‘Marcus, if you were not the image of me and if your mother were not the woman she is, I would swear you are not my son. What if, underneath the exterior of this artist, you discover a heartless woman who grows more detestable as the days pass? Not everyone has your mother’s tolerance and, remarkable woman that she is, I can hardly endure her.’

  ‘Tolerance,’ Marcus said. ‘Mother obtained it by sheer force of her strength.’

  His father didn’t answer.

  ‘Do you mind that I’m not planning to follow your path?’ Marcus watched his father.

  ‘No.’ He laughed. ‘But you will have to prove that to me.’

  ‘I will.’ Marcus let the silence grow between them, his own quietness making the words more emphatic.

  He would prove to his father that he could travel a different path from the one laid out for him.

  As a child, Marcus had often not seen his father for weeks that stretched into months when he had known his father was in London. He had once seen him with a strange woman on his arm and he’d heard so many rumours they’d bored him. His father said fidelity was limiting himself to one mistress. And Marcus suspected that, on occasion, Avondale fell short of that goal.

  ‘What of Stormhaven?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘Take it. All that I have is yours. And anything I can do for you, you have but to send me a message,’ he vowed. ‘But I will not plough.’

  ‘I would not ask you to, Father, as I would like straight furrows.’

  His father laughed again and, for the first time Marcus could remember, his father hugged him.

  Then they turned and went back to the breakfast, and he heard Lady Beatrice’s laugh.

  ‘I don’t understand why she chose Lady Beatrice to discover us,’ Marcus said. ‘Except the woman speaks with everyone and can get a message across the country faster than anyone else.’

  ‘That girl is her niece. Emilie is Lady Beatrice’s niece.’

  Beatrice had done the portrait of his mother. But he’d not really made the connection until now. After all, the artist was married to the Duke of Edgeworth’s brother.

  And Emilie was the Duke of Kinsale’s relation. ‘But Emilie is related to Kinsale.’

  ‘Lady Beatrice is the old Kinsale’s youngest daughter. I thought you knew that,’ his father said.

  ‘I know of her as Edgeworth’s sister-in-law. The woman who painted the infamous picture of her husband.’

  ‘Your mother chose Lady Beatrice as her portraitist because I had Thomas Lawrence for mine. That set your mother against Mr Lawrence. And, she put the finished paintings on different sides of the room.’

  ‘I noticed.’ That fact hadn’t escaped him.

  ‘Emilie sounds like her aunt from my view,’ Avondale continued. ‘Edgeworth does love his brother and accepts Lady Beatrice into the family, but she’s Beatrice. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for her husband when he saw that engraving of himself in the newspaper. Naked. Except for a leaf or some sort. I heard it wasn’t in the original. I recommend you don’t take off your clothes near Emilie in the light of day.’

  * * *

  Marcus bade farewell to his father and the guests and, giving Emilie no chance to argue, gave the driver directions to his town house and helped her into the carriage.

  She sat across from him, fanning herself. ‘It has been such a busy day, and well, night. It is like a week all wrapped up into one day. I am certainly amazed at your constitution, Marcus.’

  ‘Don’t ever paint me naked, Emilie.’

  ‘You have an admirable form and should be proud.’

  ‘No, Emilie. No.’

  ‘But my aunt has a proud painting of her husband. Everyone’s seen it. It was the talk of London for months. Did it somehow pass you by?’

  ‘A copy of the engraving was tacked to the wall at the club until the Duke saw it and ripped it to shreds.’ He took in her reaction and didn’t see the shock he anticipated. ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘Not the engraving. The one that is framed at my aunt’s residence. She put a handkerchief over the most private area and showed it to Mother and me.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘It is an astounding piece, but I do not believe it has the depth of your mother’s portrait.’

  The carriage interior was silent.

  ‘You are already planning to restrict my art.’ She peeled her gloves away.

  ‘Can I be the one happy this time, Emilie, and there will be no naked likenesses of me?’

  ‘I give you my solemn word that I will not paint you entirely naked.’

  He would take what he could get.

  The carriage rolled to a stop and he helped her disembark. He extended an arm to indicate she precede him into his town house.

  Inside, Robert took Marcus’s hat.

  She spoke to Robert. ‘I shall be having a few things delivered over the next few days. Please get me at each delivery.’

  Robert stopped and slowly rotated to Marcus. ‘This is—has been—a bachelor establishment. I am a valet. We have no butler.’

  ‘Just let me know when each delivery arrives.’ Emilie continued up the stairs.

  Robert acted the part of having a sword and falling upon it.

  Well, the first hours of a marriage were an adjustment.

  Chapter Eleven

  Marcus sat in his study and Robert put the novel he had read on to the shelf.

  ‘I did appreciate your inviting me to the wedding breakfast, but did not attend as they depress me so,’ Robert said. He pulled at his waistcoat, ran a hand to brush his hair back and checked his teeth in the mirror.

  ‘I am married.’ Marcus stared at the ring on his finger, next to the family ring that his father had given him.

  ‘I am aware.’

  ‘The ring is tight.’

  ‘You have been married how long?’ Robert turned, examining his profile now in the looking glass. ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘It has been splendid.’ Marcus could not mistake the unease in his stomach. He scowled at the brandy bottle in front of him. ‘Did you know she’s Beatrice the Beast’s niece?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Robert looked down his nose. ‘That is your attraction to her. You searched out someone who’d dismay your father.’

  ‘No.’

  Robert huffed. ‘And I am a virgin.’ He rummaged through the bookcase, moving things aside, pretending to straighten them, but checking behind each item. ‘May you partake of the most deliriously happy wedding night, as the joy will not endure. I have never wed and I am constantly reminded of the evils of marriage. Particularly when my sister informs me of hers,’ Robert said, pulling out a bottle. ‘Found it.’ Then he ambled away. In a few moments he returned.

&
nbsp; ‘The new addition to your family has rung for dinner to be taken to your room. Would you like a tray there as well?’ Robert turned to him. ‘And what have you done with the good cigars?’

  Marcus ignored his last question and answered the first.

  ‘I told her we should sleep tonight as we want the experience to be the best possible. I will be in Nate’s room. He’s staying at Mother’s for a few days.’

  Robert paused. ‘Are you certain this is the way you should start out?’

  ‘No.’

  Robert didn’t move.

  ‘Would you be willing to move with me to the country?’ Marcus asked.

  Robert shook his body, as if shaking off a feeling of doom. ‘I could.’

  ‘We will not have suitable accommodations.’

  ‘You could move somewhere lacking suitable accommodations?’ Robert didn’t close his mouth after he spoke. He stumbled, grasping for something to keep him upright.

  ‘Robert, could you not play-act that you are a valet?’

  ‘Possibly not. It is more fun to play-act that I am at least a duke. I do not aspire to be King. I know my limitations.’

  ‘Do you mind, Your Grace, to play a game of patience with me?’

  ‘Sir, on your wedding night?’

  ‘I am not in the mood for billiards. And I fear my true gambling is limited to matters that require no funds.’

  ‘How am I to play patience with you?’ Robert asked. ‘It is a game to be played alone.’

  ‘You drink my wine for me. Smoke my cigars. You may as well play a game of cards for me.’

  ‘I enjoy the wine and cigars. Patience, eh.’ He grimaced, reached for the cards and moved to sit near the game table, putting the bottle near his hand. ‘But I will play your games so you may complete your wedding night.’ Robert began dealing, holding the cards extended so he could peer at them.

  ‘I do not expect to complete my wedding night, either.’ Marcus reached to take the bottle. ‘And for some reason, I keep comparing this to the days of my little dog long gone. That started out well, but didn’t end on a good note.’ He exhaled. ‘A good dog Gus was. At first.’