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Marcus got up abruptly, walked away across the room to the window and jerked back the curtain. His own face stared back, reflected in the glass. Wanted her for ever, as his wife. God. What was happening to him? He stared blindly at the dark world outside. It was like discovering something totally new about himself. He supposed it was something new, this feeling. It was certainly overwhelming.
He watched the scene behind him reflected as though in a mirror. His father frowning at the problem Hal’s move had set him. Hal using his hands to describe something to his sisters that was making them laugh. His mother’s smile. And Nell, quiet, contained, full of unexpected depths and passion. Nell, who had turned to liquid fire under his hands in that cold folly, whose skin smelled of roses and whose mouth tasted of cherries.
What did it matter that she had fallen on hard times, that she was having to earn her own living, that she had no family around her? He was Viscount Stanegate, heir to an earldom. He could do what he wanted. Just for once, he could do absolutely what he wanted. There would be gossip; he would have to deal with that, as much for her sake as for the family.
She must be from a gentry family, at the very least, he supposed. He would have his people look into it. There would be some respectable relative, however distant, who would be glad to oblige the Carlows by lending her countenance.
Now all he had to do was to find the right moment, the right words. The seriousness of what he was contemplating was beginning to sink in. He was in love, and his world was no longer on its right axis, and perhaps never would be again. He was no longer in control of his emotions or his destiny.
That slim figure across the room was going to change everything. Everything he believed about himself, he realized, would be challenged and transformed. And yet, he had never felt more right in himself, more certain of who he was and what was important.
Marcus looked around the candlelit room that held everyone who mattered to him, a room set in the heart of the house and the estate that was rooted in his very being. If he had not stopped, up there in the folly tower, Nell could now be carrying the next generation to love this place, beneath her heart.
How long had he felt like this about her and not realized? How was he going to keep her safe?
Chapter Fifteen
‘Checkmate.’ Lord Narborough sat back and Nell laughed.
‘Oh dear, I fear I am never going to get the hang of this game, even with Mr Carlow’s assistance. Congratulations, my lord.’
‘He’s never beaten me yet,’ the earl said smugly. ‘So you learn from me, Miss Latham, not Hal.’
Still chuckling at Hal’s snort of affronted pride, Nell glanced round for Marcus. He was watching her, unsmiling, almost
grim. That frown was back and his eyes were darker than she had ever seen them. Darker than when he had accused her of trying to frighten his father to death. Darker even than they had been as he had lain over her, their breath mingling in the cold air, and he rejected her.
The bitter argument was still unresolved. He still desired her, still wished to make her his mistress, even though he knew he should not. And she, wanton that she was, still wanted him. If he had offered a carte blanche again, then she would have accepted it, Nell admitted to herself. It was the only way to have a part of him for her own, his body if not his heart.
But that hard, hot stare seemed to brand her as she sat there. What had she done so very wrong that he should look at her like that? Laughed and found pleasure in his father’s company? Flirted a very little with his charming brother?
Dog in the manger, Nell thought. You do not want me, but no one else can even be my friend.
‘Nell, will you come and talk about the party Hal wants us to hold?’ Verity called.
‘I—I am a little tired, Verity. Would you mind very much if we spoke of it tomorrow?’ Verity’s face fell and Nell had a strong suspicion that she would do what she often did and come round in her nightgown and wrapper to curl up at the foot of the bed for what she called a chat, but was usually a lengthy interrogation about the life of a milliner, which appeared to fascinate her.
Nell gathered up her things, made her goodnights and finally turned to face Marcus. He was still standing by the window, still watching her with what she could only interpret as dislike.
Two could play at that game. Nell lifted her chin and returned a stare of freezing disdain as she swept out of the door. Outside, she leaned back against it, shaken. He had seemed so gentle, almost teasing her over the chess game—until Hal had come over to join them. Perhaps he did not want her corrupting his brother.
‘Miss Latham?’
‘Oh. Watson. A moment’s abstraction.’ She smiled at the butler and went swiftly up the stairs. With Miriam dismissed, she turned the key in the lock; she really did not feel she could cope with Verity tonight.
Nell folded away the last of her father’s letters and tied the ribbon. There was nothing more there to add to what she already knew, nothing in her mother’s diary either, just despair and the death of hope.
She locked the writing slope and set it back on the table. The clock on the mantle showed five minutes to midnight. Time to sleep, if she could.
The tap on the door stopped her as she began to climb into bed. ‘Verity, I’m sorry, but I am too sleepy to talk,’ she called.
The tap came again, the handle turned. Nell sighed and went to the door. ‘Verity—’
‘It is Marcus. I need to talk to you.’
‘At this hour? In my room? I very much doubt talking is what you have in mind,’ she said, snatching her hand back from the door handle. ‘Go away.’
‘Nell, for Heaven’s sake, stop sulking and let me in.’
