Marcus froze. Winifred sensed the exact moment panic set in.
You can do this.It was a joke, not a critique.
He lifted a glass to his lips, a tactic she had shown him during their sessions, allowing him a few more seconds to respond. Then his cutlery began to bounce.
“Our cook is remarkable,” she said loudly. “I will pass along your praise, Mrs. Benton. The ginger cream is my favorite.” She dipped her spoon in a bowl that contained a rich dessert flavored with strawberries and redcurrant jelly, then brought the dessert to her mouth. The entire time, she watched Marcus out of the corner of her eye. Judging from the way he subtly repositioned the silverware next to his plate, he was through the worst of the attack.
The rest of the meal proceeded without incident, and soon they were standing in the entryway alone, aside from a bored-looking footman.
“That went well,” Winifred said.
Marcus scoffed. “I would not call it a rousing success.” There were bags under his eyes and his face was sweaty. “I have not had such a stressful evening in decades. At least I was able to exit the wedding celebration early.”
She put her hands on her hips. “I remember.”
He grinned. “Thank you. For tonight. I appreciate it.”
“You do not need to pretend. I know you hated every minute.”
He put his palm over his heart. “You wound me. I merelydislikedevery minute.”
She matched his grin and remembered how Felicity had warned her that there was more to him than he presented. Her cousin could not have known how right she had been. Winifred had married him because she’d wanted the freedom to pursue her research. She hadn’t expected him to slip between her ribs and wrap aroundher heart like a soft blanket. It was with that in mind that she twined her arms around his neck.
He stiffened and maneuvered out of her grasp. “Not tonight.”
She let him go, even as she felt her heart breaking. He’d asked for time, but that could be a delaying tactic. She didn’t want to believe he had a mistress, but all the evidence pointed to the conclusion she’d arrived at the previous night.
Marcus was in love with someone else.
Chapter Nineteen
November 29th, 1867, Scotland
Marcus awoke feelingas if he’d been thrown off a mountain and tumbled all the way down. Every muscle in his body ached, and his mouth tasted like he’d swallowed a handful of sand. He’d dreamed of Winifred, that he’d swept her in his arms and kissed her instead of letting his fear push her away. For more than three weeks, she’d found ways to avoid him, by sleeping through most of the night and taking her meals in her room. He’d tried to ask what was wrong, but the words never came out right. The problem was he’d spent so many years keeping his siblings at a distance to maintain the hierarchy in the nest that he didn’t know how to manage the intensity of emotion Winifred elicited in him. The easiest thing to do was bury it deep in his mind, so that was what he did.
He ran his hand through his hair and felt something wet. When he looked at his fingers, they were bloody. He flipped the blankets off his nude body and gasped. From his nipples to his knees, he was covered in angry, red welts. He struggled out of bed and tugged the rope to summon his valet. When Smith showed up five agonizing minutes later, he carried a tray holding a silver flask, which he placed on the floor before backing up several steps.
It was the right thing to do. Despite Marcus’s vow not to bite him, his mouth watered as he imagined the pulsing veins in Smith’s throat. It would be so easy to overpower him. Then Marcus could sink his fangs deep and drink until his strength returned. Biting anywhere would do, although the most pleasurable way to drain a victim wasthe femoral artery. His gaze dropped to his valet’s trouser-clad thighs before he closed his eyes and forced the unwanted thoughts away.
“My lord?” Smith asked as he edged toward the exit.
“Leave,” Marcus said. “I cannot… My control is not what it should be.”
Smith quickly obeyed.
Marcus grabbed the flask, unscrewed the lid, and sipped the lukewarm liquid inside. The pungent flavor told him it was deer, but the slightly spicy aftertaste stopped him from drinking further. He didn’t know how, but it was tainted. The hunters had bested him again. He’d intended to spend the night investigating how they had gained access to his aviary, but now the thought of getting out of bed was almost too much to bear. Nor could he risk seeing Winifred. It was far too dangerous. He wasn’t strong enough to resist the allure of her smile, her kindness, her intoxicating scent.
He buried his head in his pillow. Winifred seemed convinced that his problem was in his mind, but his new symptoms disproved that theory. The fact that he’d yet to determine the cause of the contamination in his animals did not help. That brought him back to his invention. The only difference between the blood he’d pulled several weeks ago versus recently was the topmost section he’d observed after agitation. If it contained the toxin, perhaps all he had to do was remove it. That would require adjustments to his machine to reach higher speeds and create cleaner divisions. Otherwise, the toxin might leech into the other components and render his effort futile.
He struggled to his feet and over to the secret door that led to a corridor he could use to reach his workshop with no one seeing him. Cordon would be furious if he discovered he’d worked while in such poor shape, but he could not give up.
The following few hours passed in a haze of frustration as he disassembled his invention, adjusted the gears, then slotted it back together. When the machine was finally ready to operate, his joints popped andcrackled with every movement and the wounds on his arms oozed a foul-smelling liquid. They healed quickly enough, only to form new welts, as if his flesh were a simmering pot of water.
He carefully divided the rest of the blood from the flask Smith had brought him into vials, slotted them into the block of wood, then clasped the handle and turned. It was tremendously difficult, but he continued for as long as he was able, then waited for the machine to stop and opened the lid with trembling fingers.
A crimson mess awaited him. He’d spun too fast, and the fragile vials had cracked. He fell to his knees and buried his head in his hands. Another failure. He would have to ask Smith to draw from his cattle, even if it would make his condition worse.
He shoved his mechanism over, sending it crashing to the ground. Liquid oozed out of the top and pooled on the floor. He didn’t care. He lurched his shaking body out of his workshop and down the steps. When he reached the third floor, he ran face-first into his valet.
