by Liz Tyner
‘You are trying to get out of going yourself.’
‘Yes. Marc should have to go with you. The two of you need to spend daylight hours together as it enhances the night-time hours.’ Robert stopped the glass halfway to his lips and turned to her. ‘Trust me. Just trust me on this. You’ll never see the heavens the same as you would if Marc were with you. You must insist upon it. Look lovingly at him. Brush against him. Your skills in flirtation are non-existent. Work on them. Get him to go with you. Surely you can discover some womanliness somewhere in you. Or borrow some. Don’t expect to find any from the maids here.’ He finished the glass.
‘Oh, and one thing you must know about Marcus. Don’t mention the puppy he lost as a child. He hasn’t recovered from the loss.’
‘Tragic,’ she said. ‘To hold something dear and lose it.’
Marcus filled his lungs. She had no idea. And Robert—Robert had taken on the role of a matchmaking mama.
‘He is so beautiful that I can forgive him for ignoring me. He should be allowed the licence only to be admired.’
Robert sputtered and choked, and she moved sideways to make sound thumps at his back.
Beautiful? Marcus’s attention locked on to the word. Emilie had just called him—not handsome—but beautiful.
Several times in his past women had chattered on about how handsome he was and it hadn’t meant anything to him.
Emilie, his wife, had said he should have the right to be admired. She saw him differently than anyone else ever had.
‘Stop, Lady Grayson,’ Robert snapped as she continued to thump his back, recapturing Marcus’s attention. He moved from her ministrations. ‘If I am dead, it will be hard for you to drag my body along through the forest with you and I am sure you would have to do that. Even in death, you would not let me escape.’
‘Of course not. I am so pleased we are friends now, Robert.’
‘Lady Grayson, you are becoming the daughter I never had and would abandon. But blood is thicker than brandy,’ he muttered. ‘Thankfully so. Because I like brandy. Wine is good, too. Don’t forget. And I like puddings. Cook has been dreadful about that.’ He stretched and pushed himself to his feet.
‘Thank you for enjoying the stars with me, Robert.’ She stood, then twirled around, gazing above.
He grumbled, ‘Do not mistake my loyalty to spirits as admiration for the heavens.’
‘Robert, you must help me further my connection to his family. I have met Marcus’s mother, but have only spoken with his father during the breakfast. I suspect he didn’t think me appropriate for Marcus. I might invite him here so he can truly get to know me.’
‘You’d best be careful of that. His father pushes Marcus and doesn’t see the true value of him.’ Robert considered. ‘But now since Marcus is working about the place and wed, his father might respect that.’
‘Should I invite his sister or Nathaniel?’
‘No. I think you should concentrate on yourself and Marcus. Why didn’t you suggest he stargaze with you tonight?’
‘When Marc is near, my brain gets jumbled. I can’t see past him to paint, or enjoy nature.’ She sighed.
Marcus understood how a painting would feel in a museum if it were secretly alive and waiting to be admired and the visitors walked right past it to shout out in awe at the marvellous sculpture of a tree.
‘He prefers to spend more time with the renovations than me.’
‘He might be sorting himself out. This is as new to him as it is to you.’
‘But it’s his ancestral home.’
‘It’s your home, too, Lady Grayson.’
‘It’s all strange.’
‘And he’s your husband.’
‘It doesn’t feel like I’ve married. It really doesn’t.’
They strolled closer to the walls and Marcus returned to his room, suddenly chilled by the night.
Emilie didn’t feel like herself near him, but she’d said no such thing about his brother.
In the middle of the night, for a simple conversation, she had sought out Robert before her husband.
And she didn’t feel married. His father had once said the same thing to him.
* * *
The next afternoon, he was close to the barn when he saw the two returning from the woods, loaded down with an easel, a lunch basket and the day’s supplies.
He heard Robert clear his throat.
She changed her path, progressing towards Marcus.
‘We had a fine session today, even though Robert was so slow his shadow kept outrunning him. Lord Grayson, do you want to go with us tomorrow?’ Emilie asked. ‘The butterflies are in full force and the wildflowers are entrancing.’
‘Yes, Lord Grayson.’ Robert propped the easel on to the ground. ‘I have never seen so many glorious butterflies. The woods are thick with them. Flora and fauna abound. The stream is refreshing. Well shaded.’
‘A picnic?’ Emilie asked. ‘A picnic would be delightful. Robert could stay behind in your place to help the workers.’
Robert sputtered, gaping at Emilie. ‘Or I could supervise the household staff from the comfort of a chair.’
‘No. Thank you for the offer.’ Marcus turned away, picked up the nail he’d dropped, and returned to his hammer. The two took the hint.
As far as performances went, it wasn’t bad. He tapped the hammer on to the nail head enough to hold it in place and completely set the nail with one pound.
He stared at the iron against the wood.
He had strength he didn’t know he had.
Taking another nail, he set it, then, with a swift blow, he finished the pound.
He had a family, like it or not.
Surveying the estate, he picked another nail.
He looked at the structure of Stormhaven. He needed to expend as much effort on the inside as he did the outside. He had the strength.
* * *
Emilie watched her husband from the window. ‘I fear Marc may have taken a taste of your brandy. I am certain the bottles were not exactly as they were the night before. He’s ill.’
‘I have no sympathy for him. He had a number of my brandy bottles at the side of his bed this morning and one was uncorked,’ Robert grumbled. ‘I will not work for a man who drinks to excess.’
Emilie took her flower portfolio and opened it. On the second page, she stopped to study the drawing she had completed of Marcus’s hands and sighed. They were holding a lady’s glove.
She touched the paper and the feeling of Marcus’s skin overwhelmed her, but immediately it faded. The page lay flat. Without pulse.
Then she leafed through the other pages and closed the book, taking it to her room.
Marcus’s bedroom door was closed, but she peeped inside and took a quick meander, enjoying the masculine feel of the space. Oh, the room was precious—scented with shaving soap and leather boots and all the best parts of a man. She imagined Marcus’s profile again and fanned herself. She would get nothing on to paper if she kept daydreaming about him.
She drew her breath in.
Well, she could draw. She exhaled. The flower portfolio saved her. In it, she could devote herself to creating. She could sketch herself contented, or as close as she could be without Marcus in her arms.
* * *
That night, Marcus imagined he could still hear her sweet voice as she bargained with her enemy and his friend over his private details. And, dear Robert, the man who had been a part of his days more than his father, was leading her along like a puppy on a string.
He went to his frock coat and took the key from the pocket. Reaching beneath the bed, he moved out the box and unlocked it, putting the key inside.
He took the letters and began to read them, one by one. A few letters from his mother, one from his father expounding on the heir’s duties, a few from Nathanie
l that he now wanted to rip up and the ones Robert had written to him when he was at university.
Shoving them back into the box, he remembered burning the other letter that had changed the course of his life.
The one from Emilie to his brother.
Ah, he should have kept that one. He used the heel of his boot to kick the container back under the bed.
Even with ire in his heart, he was not immune to her. The anger went no lower than the waistband of his trousers, and below that everything else disappeared but the burning he had for her. What had she done to him? How could he be so mad for a woman who would use him without mercy?
Chapter Seventeen
‘Emilie, I don’t want to concern you, but I fear Robert may have found the key to the brandy?’
‘Really?’ She gulped and rubbed the neck of her dress. ‘Don’t be angry with him, Marc. I am sure he meant no harm.’
‘I am not the least upset, Emilie. Robert is long in my heart and deep in my confidence. If he felt he should have a swallow or two, how could I mind?’ Particularly if the cabinet now contained bottles filled with water or tea. Cook enjoyed concocting potions. Beetroot juice added colour. He imagined Robert’s astonishment when he discovered that fact.
‘Marc.’ She touched his arm and then hugged him. He gave in to the moment, relishing the exuberance he could feel.
He forced himself away. Away from the innocence and zest of Emilie. She’d been sheltered by her parents. Something he didn’t think he’d ever experienced. His earliest memories were of his parents’ fights, instructions of duties and rules for ways to behave in society, and efforts to grow quickly enough so he could escape.
After the wedding party where he’d seen Emilie, he’d determined he would be included with the adults and, that night, he had taken Nathaniel and they had slipped out into the streets.
Two hours later, Robert had found them inside a tavern, but he’d watched from a distance. Marcus never knew when Robert withdrew. The carriage waited, empty, at the door, when Nathaniel and Marcus departed and the groom jumped down to help them.
Marcus’s life had changed, he’d been propelled into adulthood.
Now he wanted substance and stability.
‘I have a surprise planned for you.’ Emilie scarcely controlled her anticipation.
‘You do?’ he asked, quietly. ‘And what sweetness have you prepared for me?’
‘You will like it,’ she whispered.
‘I am sure I will.’ The sense of foreboding wasn’t new to him.
‘Your father may come to visit. At least he has been invited. I’ve sent a cousin of Mary’s with a letter requesting him to journey here.’
‘He will be unlikely to arrive. Carriage trips pain him.’
‘Robert said not to do so. But I’ve told Robert we are to have guests and he must be on his best behaviour.’
‘He agreed?’
She nodded. ‘I had to promise that he could select the meals as he thinks I’m giving Cook too little supervision.’
‘What did the letter say to Avondale?’ he asked.
‘That you are the best son a father could ask for, and that you have followed in his footsteps and he should be proud. And I invited him to please come soon as we have missed our family. He sent a note back with the messenger saying he will be here tomorrow.’
‘Could we not have waited a few weeks, or months more?’ he asked softly, then, before she could reply, he continued with another question. ‘Who else did you invite?’ Instantly his mind went to Nathaniel, her first choice.
‘Don’t concern yourself. I will be the best daughter by marriage that your father has ever seen. I will make certain all the servants are on their best behaviour. I will do you proud.’
‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘And who else did you invite?’
She stood proud. ‘Mother.’ Then she pursed her lips. ‘I considered that carefully and had the messenger wait for the second message.’
He’d not acquainted himself with her parents and the thought concerned him. He should have written to them to reassure them that their daughter was well and being taken care of. When her mother arrived, he would beg her forgiveness.
Marcus would have preferred to have communicated that by post, but Emilie needed her family. He wasn’t so certain about needing his own father.
He knew he had made few efforts to do the one thing his father wanted most—produce an heir. Perhaps that would not be discussed. And, perhaps the visit would go smoothly and perhaps Emilie would not talk with Robert under the stars.
Marcus contemplated the visit. His daily affairs would be secret unless his father talked to Robert, who would tell him that Marcus had not been travelling down the hall at night. Or, Emilie, who would say she didn’t understand why people had to spread such lies about Marcus being a rake.
‘Emilie. In the future, you must consult me before inviting my father.’
‘But it’s your family. And your father will take the tale of how wonderful we are doing back to London and it will ease everyone’s mind.’
‘Did you invite Nathaniel?’
‘No. But I can.’
‘Do you miss him?’
‘Of course not.’ She twirled her fingers. ‘He has a gift for creativity and he doesn’t even care. I like him well enough but he has squandered his gift.’
Emilie appeared so innocent.
He remembered the innocent eyes of his father as he stood faking astonishment at his wife’s accusations that he was publicly humiliating her. How could she dare say he was infatuated with any woman? And the discussion had progressed downward over the years until Avondale had told his wife that love was for fools. His mother had agreed, and had told his father that applied double to anyone who cared for him.
The denials always sounded loudest when his father was the guiltiest.
Emilie inclined closer, the rosewater scent of her surrounding Marc. ‘But I did invite your father and am planning a wonderful dinner. Robert has told me the man doesn’t give you the respect due and I will convince him that you are an industrious son whom he should be proud of.’
She clasped her hands together. ‘He should be proud of you, Marcus. You’re an exemplary son. You are restoring a family home. And you will carry on the Westbrook traditions.’
‘I won’t carry on as he did.’
Emilie’s stricken appearance alerted him that he’d used more force in his words than he’d meant.
He could not tell her. He could not tell her of the ever-so-polite hatred between his parents. Of the ways they had sniped and snipped at each other, and how they had insisted on sending the children to the nursery so they could speak privately, but his mother’s shrill words condemning his father carried through the walls. Then Avondale would leave and not return for months, once past Christmas and on to the next.
His mother had incensed his father by inserting Robert in as a tutor when the first one had been sacked, but after Robert had saved her son, she refused to consider anyone else.
His father had lifted the flag of surrender, which had surprised Marcus.
He’d really not presumed his father to care that much.
He needed to tell Emilie about his parents, but she remained a stranger to him. He had no one to blame but himself. And her passion that must always come first.
Much like Avondale’s mistresses did with him.
* * *
He was outside when his father’s carriage rolled into the yard. He strode to meet him.
He watched the older man exit and glance at the roofs.
His father’s jaw was set and he took his time contemplating the surroundings.
‘A lot of work is still to be done,’ Marcus admitted.
‘Yes’ he agreed, ‘but I can see the work has begun on the old dung heap. Stormhaven is in better rep
air. Have all the windows been replaced as needed?’
‘Yes.’ Marcus examined the exterior, noticing the work that remained. ‘The men removed a fox from the house before we got here. I have not told Robert as he would be unwilling to sleep here, nor have I told Emilie because she might have suggested we were amiss for not keeping the pet.’
‘Sounds as if you have it all under control.’ Avondale didn’t move, still examining the house.
‘I would hardly claim that.’
‘Did you direct the note Emilie sent?’ His father’s voice was low. ‘I was concerned as she stressed how much you missed me. I told you this country experiment would not work. It is not healthy.’
Marcus laughed. ‘It has not proven fatal, yet.’
‘You do have some mettle to you.’ His father pulled his timepiece from his pocket and examined it. ‘Got that from me.’
They walked to the entrance and the door opened instantly, with Robert standing aside. He wore proper livery and bowed to Marcus’s father. ‘Your hat, sir?’
Marcus saw his father back away and glance again at Robert. Robert didn’t seem to notice. Marcus had no idea where Robert had obtained the clothing.
His father gave Robert the hat and they walked to the sitting room.
Emilie entered, wearing a stunning blue gown that swirled at her feet. Her hair was twisted up, waves of it flowing down into even more curls.
Marcus had never really cared for art and never would, but Emilie surpassed anything he’d ever seen on a stage, in a painting or in a museum.
His throat constricted.
Then she directed her attention to his father. When she greeted Avondale, but hardly spared a glimpse at him, a tiny part of Marcus collapsed inside himself, but he shoved any resentment away.
His father returned the welcome and kissed above her hand.
Emilie spoke, her voice cultured. ‘I am so honoured that you could visit us. I have been so happy waiting on your arrival.’
His father nodded. ‘I am pleased to be invited.’
She twirled as she moved to tuck her hand around Marcus’s elbow. Her perfume had even changed. She no longer wore rosewater, but something that reminded him of an exotic location and dances with flowing silks.
