He shook her off as if her very touch disgusted him.
“Don’t,” he clipped out. “It’s too late.”
“T-too late?” Her voice quivered.
“Our marriage is a lie. All of it. Nothing was real.”
His cold, flat words punched harder than any fist. Shaking her head in denial, she said, “No, that’s not true. I love you. And the children—”
“I will decide what to tell them—once I decide what to do with you.”
Dread squeezed her lungs. She couldn’t breathe.
He turned and headed toward the door.
“Wait,” she croaked. “Where are you going?”
“That is none of your business.” He spoke with his back to her. “From now on, nothing I do concerns you.”
The door slammed behind him.
Alone, her strength left her. She sank to her knees, and everything she’d held back came rushing to the fore. The torrents swept over her, and for once in her life, she was lost.
Chapter Four
1817
Marcus Harrington leaned on the balcony railing and, for the first time that evening, breathed freely. The night air was cool and carried the budding scents of spring. Although lofty Mayfair rooftops crowded all around him, at least here he could see the sky, which calmed his inner restlessness. He slid a finger under his collar, loosening the life-threatening grip of his fashionable cravat. The roar of a ball in full swing seeped through the glass panes of the double doors, even though he’d closed them for privacy. He’d wanted a moment away from the mayhem. From the relentless, monotonous blur of gaiety.
Funny how he’d spent more than a decade of his life in army camps and barracks and during those last years all he’d wanted was to be back in civilization. To be away from the horrors of the battlefield. And now, two years after Waterloo, hewasback. For good. He’d sold his commission when his older brother James died, leaving him the title.
Grief panged. Marcus had seen more than his fair share of death, and, even so, witnessing James struggle with that wasting disease, an invisible opponent that had worn his strong, vital brother down to skin and bones and then even less, had been devastating. If life was fair, James ought to still be alive, still the Marquess of Blackwood, standing where Marcus was.
But life wasn’t fair.
Thus, James had been buried in the cold earth for over a year now while Marcus wore the title like an ill-fitting castoff. He’d never had his brother’s charismatic personality, hadn’t been groomed to be a lord, and the years fighting abroad had made him even less suited to be a marquess. What he’d thought would be a homecoming turned out to be yet another foray into foreign territory.
He was a military man: he had no idea how to carry on as a nobleman. He had no penchant for the activities that made up a fashionable life. As far as he was concerned, clothing was to keep one warm and covered without getting in one’s way, and gambling and drinking to excess were a waste of time and money. Doing social rounds and making idle chitchat held even less appeal, and he hadn’t the faintest clue what to do with the townhouse and coterie of servants he’d inherited.
That’s why you need a wife, my boy—to help you settle into a routine, his mama had said. Despite her grief over her eldest, she roused herself from mourning to give Marcus a lecture at every opportunity.Miss Pilkington is perfect for you. Good ton, pretty as she can stare, and an heiress to boot. You can’t do better. What are you waiting for?
He supposed his mother was right. Cora Pilkington, daughter of the evening’s hosts,wasan ideal candidate. Blonde and demure, she had perfect manners and a spotless reputation, earning her the status of a Diamond of the First Water. During their chaperoned visits, she’d proved to be charming company… if a bit overzealous in her admiration of his wartime actions. He’d proceeded with a slow, cautious courtship over the past three months, and her father, Charles Pilkington III, had made clear that an offer from Marcus would be heartily accepted.
All Marcus had to do was take that final step. Society thought the marriage afait accomplialready, and he didn’t know why he balked. He was no rake, attached to fantasies of bachelorhood. No, he wanted to be married and to start a nursery. Cora was the rational choice. And if the idea of marrying her failed to stir elation in him… well, that had to be his own failing, not hers.
His brother wouldn’t have been ruled by sentiment. A lord down to his very bones, James had always known his duty and done the right thing. If he’d concluded that Cora would make a perfect Marchioness of Blackwood, he would have married her forthwith.
As their mama would put it,No use shilly-shallying about.
Marcus resolved to talk to Miss Pilkington’s father soon.
The orchestra suddenly grew in volume, voices swelling. He turned to see the double doors opening… and then a vision appeared. A woman so beautiful that longing began to throb in his chest, a hidden wound he never knew he had. His flesh and blood wound, the scar from a sniper’s bullet, tautened on his left shoulder as awareness sizzled through him.
“Oh… hello,” she said.
By Jove, even her voice was beautiful. Sultry, like her lustrous raven tresses, yet sweet like her rose-tinted lips. Mystery and innocence wrapped in one perfect package. When she smiled, his breath lodged in his throat.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she went on. “It seems you were here first. I was just looking for some privacy, but perhaps,”—although her tone was apologetic, her eyes sparkled with humor—“I am merely depriving you of yours?”
