“It’s worse than that.” Through the haze of anger and alcohol, Marcus nonetheless found that he couldn’t betray the truth of Pandora’s past. He couldn’t betrayher—that was rich. The fact that he still felt protective of her only made him more furious. “I won’t get into the details of it, but she wed me under false pretenses. And everything since—our lives, our home, ourchildren.” His voice hoarsened as he thought of his sons. Dear God, how were they going to be affected by all of this? “All of it was conceived from a lie.”
“Fruit of the poisonous tree?”
He gave a rough nod. Taking the bottle Carlisle silently handed him, he refilled his glass and tossed back the drink. He had a glimpse of the chaos, the churning devastation beneath the waves of rage, and he… he couldn’t go there. Couldn’t contemplate the reality that his marriage—his entirelife as he knew it—was no more than a falsehood. A mirage of such joy that agony speared him at the thought of losing it.
But he couldn’t lose it, could he?
Because he’d never had it in the first place.
He downed the liquid, the burn nothing compared to his inner inferno.
“What are you going to do?” Carlisle said.
In answer, Marcus sloshed more liquor into his glass.
“Are you planning on taking legal action?” his friend prodded.
His jaw clenched. On his ride over, crazed thoughts had whipped through his mind, and they’d included legal remedies that were within his right to pursue. Seeing as Pandora had wed him under fraudulent pretenses, he could seek an annulment… but any offspring of an annulled marriage would become illegitimate. His sons would lose their status and their inheritance. Under no circumstances would he do that to them.
That left divorce. This option was only marginally better. The scandal that would ensue would taint all of his family—including the boys—forever.
In the best scenario, they’d all become fodder for gossip, a laughingstock; in the worst, his family would become social pariahs. And for what? So that he could get retribution? His pound of flesh? His temples pounded with the truth: therewasno remedy for what Pandora had done to him.
She’d ripped his heart out, drawn and quartered his very soul.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He swigged the rest of his spirits.
“From where I’m sitting, you have two options. End your marriage—or learn to live with it.” Carlisle paused, cocking his head. “Did she tell you why she did it?”
“Why she did what?”
“Lied to you.”
“I didn’t ask,” he snapped. “It was enough that she did—fortwelve bloody years.”
Carlisle raised his brows. “Point taken. In my experience, however, having full possession of the facts aids the rendering of any decision. Up to you, of course. You’re welcome to mull over matters here as long as you like.”
Marcus jerked his chin in sullen thanks.
“I’ve just remembered. I’ve got a deck of cards lying about somewhere. How about a game?”
“Capital.” Anything was better than continuing the conversation.
As Carlisle hunted for the elusive deck, Marcus rubbed his temples, willing the pounding to stop. Somehow he’d have to find a way to lock down his emotions—his rage in particular—so that he could think clearly about the future. It struck him that never before in his life had he had difficulty making calm, rational decisions. During the war, he’d been known for having a cool head and ice in his veins during the most catastrophic of situations.
Hell, twice in his life he’d come within Death’s crosshairs. In Toulouse, during the capture and securing of critical enemy ground, a sniper’s bullet had sliced through his left shoulder. Had the enemy’s aim been true, he’d be dead. Same thing near Quatre Bras, only that time the shot had whizzed right by his ear.
Both times he’d been mere inches from losing his life… and when those moments had passed and he’d found himself still breathing, he’d picked himself up and soldiered on. It was what he did—who he was.
Never before had he lost that will to carry on. To confront reality and do what had to be done. Anguish festered around the pain.Damn you, Penny. Damn you for that as well.
Carlisle dragged his chair over and set a tattered pack on the side table.
“Do you want to deal or shall I?” the Scot said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Marcus said dully.
Thanks to his wife’s perfidy, nothing did. Not any longer.
