Marcus felt not one iota of sympathy.
He moved to brush past his father, but before he could take more than a few steps, coldly spoken words halted him.
“I see you haven’t changed in the least.”
When Marcus remained silent, the older gentleman gestured toward the door. “I passed the lovely Mrs. Cromwell in the foyer. She certainly looked to have experienced a good tupping. At least you’re no macaroni, eh? You always did appreciate beauty in your birds of paradise.”
At the mention of beauty, Marcus couldn’t help but think of his first love, his Meggie. “Say what you will.” He looked forward to the day he could attend his father’s funeral.
The man he’d looked up to as a child strolled indolently toward the settee and then sat in the very spot where Mrs. Cromwell’s face had been buried minutes ago. “Have a seat, Marcus. Let’s come to a truce, shall we?”
After all these years? What was the bastard about? Marcus could never forgive what his father had done. But what could he want with him tonight? And why now?
He refused to sit, choosing instead to lean against the sideboard. “I’m listening.” For the sake of his mother and sister, he would hear the duke out.
“Quimbly hasn’t forgotten your betrothal to Lady Lila. Getting rather insistent, in fact. Come now. You’ve seen the gel, Marcus. She’ll be a magnificent duchess. Perfect English rose. Elegant, poised. As the duke someday, you stand to benefit from everything she’s ever been taught in life.” The duke dug around in his pocket and pulled out his ever-present snuff box. After offering some to Marcus, which he refused, the duke placed a pinch upon his hand and inhaled noisily before pressing his point. “It’s not as if you’ll have to change your ways. Get her with an heir, perhaps a spare or two, and you can continue swiving your way through all of England’s widows.”
“How insistent?” Marcus asked. Not that he cared about his father or intended to honor the damned agreement, but such information might be valuable, especially where Waters was concerned.
“Quimbly wants it done by the end of the Season.” His father appeared rather hopeful. Leave it to him to believe he could still control his only son.
As though he actually believed Marcus would give in to the betrothal.
Marcus crossed one leg over the other, digging his toe into the floor and then stared across the room. Why did his father care so much about what Quimbly wanted? Even more so than his own son? Likely too proud to admit his son didn’t bow to all his wishes. “Tell Quimbly he can bloody well wait until the end of time. I’m no closer to marrying her now than I was eight years ago.”
His father winced and for the first time, Marcus noticed how deeply the wrinkles had etched themselves into the duke’s forehead. During the years Marcus had been out of the country, his father had become an old man.
The duke’s shoulders slumped for only a moment before he renewed his campaign. “Why persist with your stubbornness, Marcus? It’s not as though I’ve asked much of you. I am your father, after all. The man who sired you. Are you still upset over that business with that farmer fellow, and the gel you knocked up, what was her name? Mary? Margaret? Really, you ought to be thanking me by now.”
Just when Marcus might feel a hint of softening… Good God, the man knew no bounds.
“You know damn well her name was Meggie. She carried your grandchild, for God’s sake. And her father, the man you had killed, was Mr. Thistlebum.”
At these words, his father closed his eyes in what appeared to be resignation. He leaned forward, pressing his fist into his forehead, and after a moment, rose to his full height. When he stared at Marcus this time, he did so with a cold, hard gaze. “You insist. You insist on believing the worst.” His nostrils flared. “Very well, then. You’re leaving me no choice. London can be a very unpleasant town without my approval. You are my son, but you are not yet a duke. You’d be wise to remember that. When you’ve come around, we’ll revisit this discussion. And I’m certain you will.”
Marcus waited a good ten minutes after the duke left the room before returning to the festivities. He was not dependent upon his father’s wealth. He’d made a fortune in his own right.
So how, he wondered, could this new threat affect him?
Because the man could be devious—that was why. Blast. Perhaps he should have gone to Brighton after all.
A Most Unusual House Party
“Iwas thinking I’d write your dear Aunt Gertrude,” Emily’s mother opined as the two of them sat quietly in the room they’d dubbed the drawing room. Parlor sounded far too common.
Set on the outskirts of Mayfair, the less than impressive house had been leased by her father for the duration of the Season. It was not as big as their home near Bath, but set in a respectable part of town, it allowed them to participate intonevents without driving far.
“So that she knows to expect you this summer.”
Emily glanced up hastily, and in doing so, stabbed the needle right through to her finger. “Not yet, Mother!” She sucked on the puncture before blood spilled onto the dress she was mending. “The Season’s barely begun!”
Her mother set her own embroidery aside to examine Emily critically. “I think perhaps we must be realistic.” The stern disapproval on her mother’s face was nothing new.
How could her mothernotbe disappointed? What with Emily having inherited none of her mother’s natural beauty and grace. Whereas her mother’s eyes were a deep emerald, Emily’s own were not only plain and brown but forever hidden behind her less-than-ornamental spectacles. Her mother had suggested she forgo them while in London, but Emily adamantly refused.
She needed to see, for heaven’s sake!
No, Emily had been bestowed, most unfortunately, with her father’s plain features and mousy brown hair. Add to that her diminutive stature and slim, nothing-special figure, and one had a slightly feminine version of Mr. Goodnight. Her mother mightn’t have been quite so very disappointed had she any affection whatsoever for her husband.
