His father closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again. “I did not make that agreement so that I could manipulate your life. Or because I had any sort of desire to interfere in your future.” He struggled to swallow again. “I had no choice.”
Marcus wanted to demand an explanation but checked himself. His father was already straining to continue. “The coffers dried up long ago. Six generations of dukes and I’m the one to bring it to ruin.” Waters opened his eyes again. “Unless you marry Lady Lila.”
Marcus stilled. Few times in his life had he experienced sincerity from his father. This seemed to be one of them. Clarity hit him square in the face. Marcus ought to have known all along. Perhaps a part of him had, and that had merely fed into his hatred.
The manipulation hadn’t been about control. It had been about greed.
And his father wasn’t the only villain.
“You sold that betrothal to him,” Marcus said baldly. “How much? How much was I worth?”
“Wasn’t you we were selling, my boy. It was the title. Quimbly wants his gel to become a duchess, and he’ll do anything to ensure it.”
The revelation ought to have occurred to him before. Why hadn’t he considered all the possible motivations for Waters to sign the betrothal contracts to begin with?
God damn, his father ought to have been honest with him from the beginning.
This had all been about money? Money and a title?
The irony of it was, Marcus had more money than he knew what to do with. He’d earned it.
Society viewed it as something of a splotch on his character.
And to add to the irony, the title was no longer up for grabs.
The title belonged to Emily.
His wife.
She was his countess now. She would be the duchess.
“I’ve married, Father.”
The words hung in the rancid-smelling room for a full minute before his father acknowledged them. “Well done, my boy. My son through and through. Well done indeed.”
The duke did not appear nearly as upset as Marcus had envisioned. “Is that why Quimbly is here? Watching over his investment?”
The duke grimaced. “I told that bastard to leave. Damn vulture. Waiting for me to die.”
“How much do you owe him?”
“Nothing if you had married his chit.” He exhaled deeply. “Ninety thousand pounds if you do not.” He lay still, struggling to catch his breath a moment before surprising Marcus by adding, “So, where’s this ninety-thousand-pound wife of yours? Knowing you, she must be quite the looker.” He chuckled at his own joke and then began wheezing.
At sounds of his master’s distress, the concerned valet rushed back inside the room.
Billings assisted his father into an upright position and offered water until the wheezing and coughing subsided.
“What do the doctors say?” Marcus asked Billings.
Billings dabbed a wet sponge onto the duke’s dried lips before answering. “Cholera. They believe it’s cholera.”
Marcus had never heard of a member of the nobility contracting the disease. His father must have been exposed somehow in London. The deterioration had been swift indeed.
And cholera spread rapidly… Surely, the doctors were wrong?
“Bring me your wife.” His father’s demand interrupted Marcus’ train of thought. “I’d like to see this woman you’ve sacrificed our legacy for.”
Good God. His father could be a bastard sometimes.
