A sick feeling churned in his gut.
He’d used Emily to get back at his father.
And then he’d taken her body as part of the package.
And God help him. When he’d given her the ring in the gazebo, he’d made a promise of sorts to her. Had he only intended to fulfill it at his own convenience?
Was he a man who used people then?
The same as his father? God help Emily if he was.
“How bad is it?” he asked. Corinne wouldn’t wax the truth.
“Mama’s ordered us mourning clothes. I suppose afterward you’ll come clean about this so-called marriage of yours.”
So very efficient. He wondered if his mother would grieve, in truth. His parents’ marriage had been an arranged one. No love had ever been lost between the duke and duchess.
But that they wouldn’t simply all celebrate the duke’s passing. Cagey old bastard.
An urge to face the man, to finally know the truth of the past, surged through him. Ever since Emily stunned him by announcing that Mr. Thistlebum had not been Meggie’s father… Good God, her husband! It had all occurred so long ago. Were his memories so corrupted, so clouded by the angst and lust of his younger self?
Had much changed in him?
He’d allowed himself to be manipulated by Emily. Had he allowed the same all those years ago? The thought sickened him. He’d thought himself to be in love with Meggie Thistlebum. Hell and damnation, could he trust feelings he might have for Emily?
Corrinne watched him, seeming to expect some sort of response.
She’d learn soon enough that his marriage to Emily was legitimate. His blood ran hot at an errant thought that his wife was likely the best thing to ever happen to him. He just needed to figure out how to keep it that way.
“He’s sleeping, my lord,” Billings, his father’s lifelong retainer, whispered through the opened door. “Might you return in the morning?”
But Marcus had waited too long for this.
With a shake of his head, he exerted enough pressure on the wooden door to cause the elderly valet to take a few steps back.
His father’s man stood to the side, wringing his hands, as though contemplating what he needed to do to protect the duke.
“That will be all, Billings.”
The man hesitated but, upon receiving a hard stare from Marcus, he relented and disappeared into the nearby dressing room. Marcus took a deep breath as he approached his father’s wan figure lying atop the ancient bed.
His father’s eyelids flickered.
Good God, what had happened? Waters appeared a mere shadow of the man Marcus had met with less than one month ago in the Crabtrees’ library.
The room reeked of a horrid garlicky smell.
“The prodigal son returns.” Despite the weakness in his father’s voice, the man managed to insert a heavy dose of condescension into his tone.
Marcus took the seat nearest the bed. “Come to see how my inheritance is coming along.” He could give no less than he took.
His father chuckled at that. “You’ll be sorely disappointed.” He seemed to have difficulty swallowing. “Unless you marry Quimbly’s chit.”
“God, Father. Just once could we have a conversation without—”
“You haven’t a choice, boy. Listen to me for once.” His father’s interruption surprised him. Not that he demanded his attention but because of the desperate look in his eyes.
Marcus would listen. And then he would ask questions of his own.
