“I pray we think of a way,” Caroline said as fresh tears spilled from her eyes.
Chapter 2
St Albans, Hertfordshire
In the light of the fire, Marcus tore open the letter. He broke past the red wax seal of the Earl of Woolworth, eager to read what the earl had to say. He rested his elbow on the fireplace, using the light of the fire to read, though his eyes scanned to the most important bits, eagerly skipping past the excessive politeness and pleasantries that were clearly the Earl of Woolworth’s attempts to butter him up.
‘… we agree to your proposal wholeheartedly. My daughter, Lady Caroline, will be announced as your betrothed this coming week. She will also come to visit you at your country estate as you requested. She will arrive next Friday with her maid as a chaperone …’
The rest of the letter went on to detail more particulars about the arrangements and even more excessive flattery that Marcus did not care to hear.
As he finished reading, he screwed up the paper into a ball in the palm of his hand. The paper looked red in the firelight and gave him an idea. He tossed the crumpled ball into the blaze and watched as the fire took hold. The flames danced around the paper for a few seconds before consuming it. The pages curled and blackened, then turned to ash.
“I disgust myself,” Marcus muttered aloud, though saying the words brought him little comfort.
It was necessary to marry a lady with a good dowry, he knew that, and Lady Caroline had been practically offered to him on a plate by her father, but it did not soften the worries in his heart.
He ran a hand through his cropped auburn hair, praying that Lady Caroline had agreed to this arrangement herself and that it was not at the forced hand of her father that she was accepting.
“Your Grace?” a familiar voice called to him.
Marcus looked up from the fire. Across the room came his butler, Lambton, carrying a tray with a glass of brandy.
“Ah, thank you, Lambton.” Marcus forced a smile and tried to look completely at ease as Lambton carried the tray towards him and placed it down on a small table closest to him. “Please make some arrangements for two visitors, arriving this coming Friday. Lady Caroline and her maid.”
“Lady Caroline?” Lambton looked up. His old and creased face spread into a smile. “Is this your betrothed, Your Grace?”
For a few seconds, Marcus didn’t answer. Instead, he took the brandy from its place on the table and took a hefty gulp. He knew well enough that the staff often wished the house would be busy again. They thought of running after little ones, especially the older staff, such as Lambton and the housekeeper, Mrs Urwin.
Children …
Marcus ran a hand across his face. To have a child, he’d have to share his new wife’s bed. He didn’t know what she looked like, as she did not know him either. What if they were both repulsed by one another? What if the thought of sharing such intimacies made them both want to run for the hills?
There had been a time in his younger years when he had been wayward in his bedding habits. He was hardly an inexperienced man. He’d made love to women he was attracted to and women he shared a bond with. The thrills that had coursed through him on such occasions, the excitement of being between a woman’s legs, had made him long for more.
Yet he now faced the possibility of marrying a woman that might not thrill him at all. Equally, he might not thrill her. What then? Were they supposed to stare at one another across a bedchamber before deciding it was hopeless?
“Yes,” Marcus forced himself to say eventually. “Yes, Lady Caroline is my … betrothed.” The uneasiness was plain even to him. “Thank you for the brandy, Lambton.”
“My pleasure, Your Grace.” Lambton bowed with a soft smile. “I have seen a carriage pull up outside. Shall I show your aunt in?”
Marcus smirked a little at his butler’s words. They both knew that the only person who called so late at this house, unannounced and without invitation, was his aunt.
“Yes, please.”
Lambton bowed a second time and hurried from the room.
Steeling himself, Marcus took another gulp of the brandy and turned to face the fire, watching the last remnants of the burning letter smoulder into cinders. His mind, now distracted, was thinking solely of the bed he may someday share with his wife.
If she were beautiful, if she held attractions of her own, perhaps it would be a pleasant thing. A shiver of excitement ran up his spine, and he shook himself, trying his best to dispel the feeling.
As much as he wanted to look forward to that particular part of his future as a married man, he knew very well that it could all go another way. He could have a furious lady turning up at his door, a woman who had no wish to marry him at all. If she detested him, he would never ask her to come to bed.
I am not that sort of man.
He picked up the poker from the brass instruments beside the fire and struck out at the flames. The wood and ash danced together, sparks flying that he tried his best to stoke. It was all a distraction, a desperate attempt to make him think of something else besides this impending marriage.
Had life been different, had my father not run up so many debts, maybe then I would have known what it was like to have freedom.
