Lord Blakely did not seem nearly as engaged as Mrs. Cromwell. He didn’t verbally respond to her even once. He didn’t moan or groan in ecstasy. He merely worked himself steadily, similar to riding a horse while it galloped.
Even when he reached hisnovissime acutam,he murmured not a single word of appreciation or satisfaction, nary a sound.
He simply stood there straining, clutching at the woman’s hips until gathering his wits again.
“Marcus, my love. Oh, my dear. You’re as magnificent as ever.” Mrs. Cromwell continued her long narrative and review of his performance until he disengaged himself and slapped her once on the rounded protruding buttocks.
Emily searched his expression for any manner of pleasure or fulfillment.
Nothing.
He did not seem nearly as satisfied as he’d looked after drinking the scotch. In fact, disgust raced across his features.
Ought she to pity Mrs. Cromwell?
No. the woman had come to him. And she’d welcomed such carnal attentions without demanding anything in return.
And… the lady had seemed to enjoy it.
Emily wanted to stretch. Her back and knees were stiff, and she had an itch on her ankle. Oh, heaven’s though, she dared not move. Mrs. Cromwell was now reclining on the settee, watching Lord Blakely pour himself another drink.
“If you’re so unhappy at seeing the duke here in London, why don’t you come with me down to Brighton? Forget about the Season this year. I’m sure you and I could find some way to… entertain ourselves.”
The earl tossed back his drink and then set the glass down. “Ah, Vivienne. My dear. As delightful of an offer as that is, I must decline.”No explanation. Ouch. “You’ll wish to return to the ballroom—alone—your reputation.” Emily thought she would burst into tears if a man spoke to her thusly after… well. It was nothing she’d ever have to fear. She’d likely go to her grave with her virtue intact.
Mrs. Cromwell’s lips pursed as she pouted for all of ten seconds before gathering her skirts around her. “I imagine I won’t be the first woman to call you a bastard, Marcus.”
“Nor the last,” he agreed.
With as much dignity as one could possibly manage following such an indiscretion, the widow swept out of the room. The door slammed closed behind her. It didn’t matter how regally the “lady” ever acted in public again, Emily would only recall the image of the daft strumpet bent over the settee with her skirts about her face.
Oh, but her foot was itching now, too!
She must not be discovered! She’d be mortified!
Marcus couldn’t help but agree with Vivienne’s assessment of his character. Likely most women of his acquaintance had the same opinion. He hadn’t always been thus, but… Ah, well.
Perhaps he ought to have accepted Vivienne’s offer to go to Brighton. He could have visited a few of his company’s vendors, avoided the marriage traps set for him here in town… But, no, the lady would have expected more. More than he’d ever be willing to give. Furthermore, he refused to leave town merely to avoid seeing his father.
He scrubbed one hand down his face.
This encounter with Vivienne had done nothing more than leave him feeling… sordid. Any normal man would be basking in sexual satisfaction right now. He wondered at this thought. Was he no longer normal? Had this bitterness ruined even the most carnal aspect of his life?
A man’s booted footsteps echoed in the foyer outside the door. Damn, he was in no mood for company. Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. He’d avoid performing any further niceties if possible.
Perhaps another couple sought the privacy of this room. Marcus would acknowledge them, comment on the weather, and then return to the ballroom to fulfill his duties for the evening.
If he remembered correctly, he’d written his name on Miss Mossant’s dance card for one of the waltzes after the supper dance. Another “interesting” lady. If he could believe the rumors…
“Marcus.” This time, it was a masculine voice. A familiar but unwelcome one.
His fingers clenched into a fist.
“Waters,” Marcus addressed his father for the first time in five years. Since returning to England, Marcus had only caught sight of him from across the room at one event or another.
In this proximity, his father’s changed appearance surprised him.
More gray than brown peppered the duke’s hair and a sallow color tinged the skin hanging loosely on his jowls. The once larger than life Duke of Waters seemed smaller somehow.
