He’d not live in his wife’s pocket!
Marcus lifted a hand to request another pint. As the barmaid eagerly drew one from behind the bar, he vaguely noticed the view of generous bosom she displayed along with an inviting glance.
He winked and then paid her but quickly turned his attention to the head of foam floating at the top of his glass.
Something he’d been thinking scratched at his conscience. But for his wife’s bollocks, he’d no doubt never have learned the truth. Of Meggie’s betrayal. Of the fact that he’d not sired a child. He’d have gone on wondering if he had a son or daughter somewhere in the world, starving, freezing, perhaps living in a foundling home.
He doubted his father had been completely innocent of meddling in their disappearance, but what if his father hadn’t had them murdered? According to Prescott, the duke had not.
And why had Marcus been so quick to believe that his father had?
Meggie had told him she feared it. And Quimbly had once made the suggestion.
His father’s friend had said it jokingly over dinner and again on a hunt.
But Marcus had not forgotten.
And after Meggie disappeared, and his father had shown no remorse or sympathy…
Marcus shook his head. He’d assumed the worst.
Had Emily merely brought the truth to light?
Perhaps, but she’d also exposed his private life to Prescott and likely, the duchess as well. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Nottingham knew everything.
But Emily had apologized.
Hadn’t she?
He couldn’t remember much of what she said. Yes, he distinctly remembered her saying she was sorry.
Just before he’d taken her against that beast of an oak tree, which had been conveniently standing behind her. Reliving those frantic moments had him shifting on his barstool
His wife.
He needed to get used to the idea.
As much turmoil as he felt at the reminder, he also found some peace with her.
He scrubbed a hand across his face.
Why did he resist her?
Why could he not enjoy her for the next few months and then take himself off to India again? Wasn’t that what they’d decided upon?
She’d told him she missed him.
He took a long swallow but as the cool liquid poured down his throat, doubt pricked between his shoulder blades.
Had he been the one to make such a confession? Hadhebeen the one to express such a romantic sentiment?
Marcus glanced around the half-filled tap room. What was the matter with him?
He’d often found solace in places nearly identical to this one. He’d drink, make conversation with men of the working class. As a merchant, a shipman himself, rarely did anyone guess him to be a member of the aristocracy. In fact, he’d spent many an early morning hour discussing the merits and failures of England’s landed gentry. Conversation evolved to greater honesty, intensity, amongst strangers as the night wore on and spirits flowed.
He’d even discovered a few interesting barmaids.
More than a few, actually.
