Marcus received two letters this morning, both of them placed in front of him, not evading the inquisitive gaze of his betrothed.
“That is the confirmation from Russell in London. The license is secured, and invitations have been sent to ensure witnesses and a degree of respectability and authenticity to our…wedding,” he said, looking at the first.
Selina sat sweetly, sipping tea, seated to Marcus’ left. High cheekbones were framed by two delicate curls on either side of her face as she fluttered her lashes at him whenever he spoke. She wore a modest dress of white, borrowed from Gracie as the two women were of similar size. Marcus had arranged for a modiste to visit so that a wedding dress, followed by an entire wardrobe could be made for Selina. Not that she needed it. He glanced at her, purposefully keeping his eyes from lingering too long. She was so beautiful that even while wearing the plain garb of a servant, she looked radiant.
Some women needed fine clothes and jewels in order to shine. Marcus was sure that Selina would be beautiful in hessian. Hell, just a few nights ago, he saw that she was beautiful innothing. The thought of that night had haunted him since, and he tugged uncomfortably at his breeches to hide his arousal. He had promised to make things work between them, but deep down he knew, that could not involveeveryaspect of their marriage. Not while he was deceiving her. Though he wasn’t sure how much longer he could control his desires when she looked at him this way.
Coughing, he held out the letter for Selina’s perusal as he made to open the second.
But it made him stop with a teaspoon held in mid-stir within his teacup. His eyes skimmed the lines to text while his hand remained frozen. Selina looked up from the letter.
“Whatever is the matter?” she asked.
Marcus’ eyes went to hers and he immediately sensed his own danger. The dilemma was whether the truth would fit his lie that he was Arthur. Or would it destroy the facade he had created? A facade that had been partially responsible for his reclusive life since inheriting the Dukedom.
But life will be impossible if I cannot be honest to some degree with her. The trouble is trying to frame everything in terms of what Arthur would have known or would have told her of.
“My mother,” Marcus said, resuming the stirring of his tea.
“Your mother? She passed away, did she not?” Selina replied helpfully.
Marcus nodded, feeling a surge of relief. “That is what I believed. What my father told me.”
In a letter written on his deathbed. Until then I had believed that my mother lived and cared no more for me than my father did. What kind of mother would be content to let her son live his life in exile hundreds of miles away?
“When I inherited, I set in motion certain work to gauge the extent of my father’s…business.”
That much was true, but he was omitting to tell her that he had also sought information about Arthur and his mother. Selina nodded, picking up a slice of toast.
“I understand. Does that letter touch on this work?”
“It does. It tells me that my mother is alive and in a lunatic asylum,” Marcus said in a rush.
Selina gaped, toast in one hand, forgotten. “You are not serious.”
Marcus grimaced, throwing the letter to the table face down. “I wish it were a macabre joke but there you have it. I had thought myself abandoned but it seems that…well, perhaps it was not her fault entirely. She is not in her right mind.”
“Or that is what your father believed,” Selina suggested carefully.
Marcus looked at her. “Interesting idea. Are you suggesting that my father had my mother incarcerated?”
“I just remember some of the stories you told me of him. The thrashings, the tyranny and cruelty.”
She reached across the intervening space to clasp his hand. Marcus could never get used to the unusual bouts of intimacy he had begun experiencing daily, like the simple trace of her thumb against his skin, or a kiss on his cheek. He had never experienced such things before and did not know how to feel about them now.
“But how long might a sane person remain so in one of those places?” he replied sadly.
Selina’s eyes told him that she agreed. They brimmed with sympathy.
“Are you going to see her?” she asked.
Marcus shook his head, steepling his fingers and looking ahead intently. “No. Not right away. I do not know yet how I feel about this.”
Or about her. Whether she was in league with my father over the cruelty he showed me when exiling me. Perhaps it is her just desserts.
Selina shuddered. “What an awful fate.”
Marcus brooded; her words faint in his ears. He did not know if he could see her, did not know her role in events, and had only the vaguest of memories of her. The journal that he had found, belonging to his father, dwelled excessively on the worthiness of his two sons. He had come across much of the cruel games his father devised to test them, to pit them against each other and see who would emerge victorious. Marcus remembered the beating he had received when refusing to compete against Arthur. He still had the scars on his back to show for it.
