“How very progressive of you,” Nicole said with a snort.
“You know I’ve never been one to discount women.”
Nicole’s stomach clenched. “Really? You could have fooled me. I recall you being none too pleased about my unconventional position with the runners.”
Mark clenched his jaw. “I was none too pleased about your involvement with the runners because—”
“Let’s not argue.” Nicole snapped her head to the side to glare out the window. Nothing good could come from this conversation. She uttered a small sigh. “We’re going to be in close quarters for several days in a row. I agree. Regina would make an excellent duchess. Though I also believe you’ll make a fine duke.” She tentatively met his gaze.
“I’m not meant to be a duke.” His tone was strong and certain.
Nicole pressed her lips together. “Sometimes life calls upon us to be the things we never thought we were meant to be.”
Mark’s gaze caught and held hers again for a fraught moment.
She shook her head and continued, “I still think you should find a way to tell Tottenham before your uncle does.”
Mark nodded. “I will, but not right away. I need tofind the perfect way to couch it. Not to mention explain why I’ve never revealed it before.”
“Yes, that is sticky.”
Mark picked up the paper again and unfolded it. “In the meantime, you and I must remain the image of the loving couple.”
Nicole swallowed a lump that had formed in her dry throat. She needed to voice a thing she had been thinking for days. A thing that made her stomach churn. “You know, if you accept the marquisate, you might not need me. If Lord Tottenham knows you’re part of the illustrious Colchester family, it may help your candidacy.”
“Nonsense.” Mark didn’t look up from the paper.
“You and I both know that’s not nonsense.” She wanted to snatch the damn paper from his hands and toss it from the coach.
Mark looked up at her. “Then it’s a damn good thing for you that the last thing I want to do is claim my heritage. Besides, you’re wrong. Your being with mewillhelp. Tottenham wants a family man. I still need you, Nicole.” Their gazes met again.
She took a deep breath. “I still need you too.”
She said no more. Mark returned his attention to the paper, while their words lingered in the silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
When Colchester Manor came into view, Mark clenched his jaw. The huge estate was an undeniably magnificent property with expansive, sweeping lawns, parks of trees, and a meadow filled with wildflowers that overlooked a lake. The property went on for acres and acres and was one of the finest in the land. Mark had only been here twice as a child; both times, his mother had brought him without his father. His father had never been welcomed here.
The place had always seemed ridiculous to Mark. Too big, too imposing, too opulent, too much of everything. It made him uncomfortable to see the eyes of his ancestors staring at him from the walls, forever captured in heavy oil paintings. He’d never felt at home here.
His grandfather had peered down at him as if he were a bug, glaring at him with menacing dark eyes and a face rife with disapproval. The cook had been nice tohim. She’d given him a biscuit and patted him on the head. That was his most pleasant memory here. The other memories were… less pleasant.
The second time they’d visited, his mother had asked him to play upstairs in the old nursery while she spoke with her father. Mark was a lad of nearly eight and had grown easily bored, a condition that plagued him his entire life. He’d left the nursery and wandered about the enormous house, opening doors and peeping into the keyholes of locked rooms. He’d finally made his way to the ground floor, where he’d meandered around until he heard his mother’s voice coming from his grandfather’s study. Mark’s fingers were on the door handle and he was about to enter the room to ask his mother when they’d be leaving, when his grandfather’s angry words struck his ears.
“He’s clearly half Italian,” Grandfather barked.
“My husband is Italian, Father, or do you forget that too?” Mother’s voice was sharp and defensive, unlike Mark had ever heard it.
“He’s not your husband,” Grandfather countered.
“You’re mad. Of course he’s my husband. We’re married and I love him,” Mother retorted.
“Bah. Love has little to do with marriage.” Frustration sounded in his grandfather’s voice. “I will never know why you have failed to comprehend that.”
“No, Father, love haseverythingto do with marriage.” His mother’s voice was still angry, but there was an undercurrent of determination that Mark would never forget. “Love is the most important part of marriage. I’ll never understand why you refuse to believe that.”
“It’s not too late. You can seek a divorce. We can havethe marriage annulled,” his grandfather countered. “Besides, you’re only married in the Catholic church. It’s not even arealmarriage.”
