Chapter 2

St Albans, Hertfordshire

In the light of the fire, Marcus tore open the letter. He broke past the red wax seal of the Earl of Woolworth, eager to read what the earl had to say. He rested his elbow on the fireplace, using the light of the fire to read, though his eyes scanned to the most important bits, eagerly skipping past the excessive politeness and pleasantries that were clearly the Earl of Woolworth's attempts to butter him up.

‘… we agree to your proposal wholeheartedly. My daughter, Lady Caroline, will be announced as your betrothed this coming week. She will also come to visit you at your country estate as you requested. She will arrive next Friday with her maid as a chaperone …'

The rest of the letter went on to detail more particulars about the arrangements and even more excessive flattery that Marcus did not care to hear.

As he finished reading, he screwed up the paper into a ball in the palm of his hand. The paper looked red in the firelight and gave him an idea. He tossed the crumpled ball into the blaze and watched as the fire took hold. The flames danced around the paper for a few seconds before consuming it. The pages curled and blackened, then turned to ash.

"I disgust myself," Marcus muttered aloud, though saying the words brought him little comfort.

It was necessary to marry a lady with a good dowry, he knew that, and Lady Caroline had been practically offered to him on a plate by her father, but it did not soften the worries in his heart.

He ran a hand through his cropped auburn hair, praying that Lady Caroline had agreed to this arrangement herself and that it was not at the forced hand of her father that she was accepting.

"Your Grace?" a familiar voice called to him.

Marcus looked up from the fire. Across the room came his butler, Lambton, carrying a tray with a glass of brandy.

"Ah, thank you, Lambton." Marcus forced a smile and tried to look completely at ease as Lambton carried the tray towards him and placed it down on a small table closest to him. "Please make some arrangements for two visitors, arriving this coming Friday. Lady Caroline and her maid."

"Lady Caroline?" Lambton looked up. His old and creased face spread into a smile. "Is this your betrothed, Your Grace?"

For a few seconds, Marcus didn't answer. Instead, he took the brandy from its place on the table and took a hefty gulp. He knew well enough that the staff often wished the house would be busy again. They thought of running after little ones, especially the older staff, such as Lambton and the housekeeper, Mrs Urwin.

Children …

Marcus ran a hand across his face. To have a child, he'd have to share his new wife's bed. He didn't know what she looked like, as she did not know him either. What if they were both repulsed by one another? What if the thought of sharing such intimacies made them both want to run for the hills?

There had been a time in his younger years when he had been wayward in his bedding habits. He was hardly an inexperienced man. He'd made love to women he was attracted to and women he shared a bond with. The thrills that had coursed through him on such occasions, the excitement of being between a woman's legs, had made him long for more.

Yet he now faced the possibility of marrying a woman that might not thrill him at all. Equally, he might not thrill her. What then? Were they supposed to stare at one another across a bedchamber before deciding it was hopeless?

"Yes," Marcus forced himself to say eventually. "Yes, Lady Caroline is my … betrothed." The uneasiness was plain even to him. "Thank you for the brandy, Lambton."

"My pleasure, Your Grace." Lambton bowed with a soft smile. "I have seen a carriage pull up outside. Shall I show your aunt in?"

Marcus smirked a little at his butler's words. They both knew that the only person who called so late at this house, unannounced and without invitation, was his aunt.

"Yes, please."

Lambton bowed a second time and hurried from the room.

Steeling himself, Marcus took another gulp of the brandy and turned to face the fire, watching the last remnants of the burning letter smoulder into cinders. His mind, now distracted, was thinking solely of the bed he may someday share with his wife.

If she were beautiful, if she held attractions of her own, perhaps it would be a pleasant thing. A shiver of excitement ran up his spine, and he shook himself, trying his best to dispel the feeling.

As much as he wanted to look forward to that particular part of his future as a married man, he knew very well that it could all go another way. He could have a furious lady turning up at his door, a woman who had no wish to marry him at all. If she detested him, he would never ask her to come to bed.

I am not that sort of man.

He picked up the poker from the brass instruments beside the fire and struck out at the flames. The wood and ash danced together, sparks flying that he tried his best to stoke. It was all a distraction, a desperate attempt to make him think of something else besides this impending marriage.

Had life been different, had my father not run up so many debts, maybe then I would have known what it was like to have freedom.

Had there been no debts, Marcus knew he wouldn't have offered marriage to any lady. It was just not a path he had ever pictured his life following, not until he had discovered exactly what his father's legacy of debt was after his death.

Sighing, Marcus returned the brass poker to its stand and turned away, swallowing the last gulp of brandy just in time as the door to his sitting room burst open.

Lady Sarah Silverton stood in the doorway, a picture of ruffles and excessive bows, her large and eager eyes drinking in the space before her. An elderly aunt, her face wrinkled like parchment, her grey eyes almost haunting in their power, she was always a sight to behold. Her face spread into an instant smile when her eyes found Marcus, and she bustled into the room, her small figure moving fast and struggling with the narrowness of the skirt of her gown. Marcus thought she rather trotted like a horse as she crossed the room.

"Marcus, Marcus, how are you, my dear nephew?" She hastened towards him and pulled on his arm. On reflex, he bent down, allowing her to kiss him on his cheek in greeting. "What's all this quietness hanging about you this evening? So much silence. It will not do, Marcus; it simply won't do."

"Well, I –"

"Now, Lambton tells me you are to have a visitor this Friday. Is it true?" she asked excitedly, giggling happily.

Marcus smiled at his aunt. She was often a source of laughter for him, even when he struggled to find lightness in the world. He supposed it was partly because there was something in her that reminded him of his mother, her sister, but it was also her manner. She always complained Marcus was too quiet, simultaneously ignorant of the fact that she liked to do most of the talking. Far from being irked by such a thing, Marcus loved her all the more for it.

He"d stood in so many stuffy and stiff-upper-lipped rooms full of reserved people in his life that his aunt's talkativeness was not just a breath of fresh air but like a great gusting wind.

"How wonderful!" she declared, clasping her hands together, not bothering to wait for Marcus' answer. "Is it as we discussed? Is it the Earl of Woolworth's daughter?"

"It is," Marcus managed to edge into the conversation.

"Oh, even more wonderful. I have heard such lovely things about her, Marcus." She took the empty glass from his grasp and gave it a strong sniff. "Oh, no, this will not do. No more of this, Marcus." She turned and waved an eager hand at Lambton, who had appeared in the doorway. "Lambton, dessert wine, if you please?"

"Of course, Lady Silverton." Lambton bowed and disappeared from the door.

"She is said to be a famous beauty indeed," Sarah carried on as if she hadn't made the diversion of the drinks order. She placed the brandy glass down on a table and sat down in the nearest armchair, crossing her heels neatly together. "Of course, I haven't been up to London in some time, so I have not seen her myself, but I have heard plenty of gossip. Oh, and there's this."

"Aunt, please." Marcus sat down in an armchair facing his aunt and rubbed his temple, suddenly feeling a headache coming on.

"Oh, you'll like this," she continued eagerly, having pulled out a scrap of paper from her reticule hanging at her wrist. She cleared her throat as if preparing for some great speech, then read from what Marcus quickly realized was a scandal sheet. "The beautiful Lady Caroline is, of course, much talked of by this publication. So many years on the marriage market, one must wonder if Lady Caroline will ever marry at all. With hair as black as night, she draws attention in any room, and –"

"Aunt, please." Marcus, at last, managed to halt his aunt. She jerked her chin to face him with her lips still parted as if framing the next words on the page. It was clear it had taken her a second or so to realize he was talking at all. "I am not sure I wish to hear what the scandal sheets think about Lady Caroline. I wish to meet the lady myself on Friday and will make a judgement from there about what she is like."

"Do you mean to say …" She dropped the scandal sheet, and it drifted to the floor, wandering back and forth like a tumbling autumnal leaf. "You may yet reject the betrothal?"

"No." Marcus sighed and rubbed his temple again. "I am not sure I have the luxury of that choice."

"Oh, my dear nephew." She leaned forward and patted his other hand that rested on the arm of his chair, a sympathetic and loving smile on her face. "Your father left you in something of a pickle, did he not?"

"A pickle?" he asked, sitting straight. "Aunt, I could use some stronger language than that. He left me in a shi –"

"Dessert wine, My Lady," Lambton declared from the doorway as he stepped into the room.

"Ah, wonderful, thank you, Lambton." Sarah smiled broadly as Marcus slumped back in his seat again. He imagined she was very relieved for Lambton's interruption. "Now, we must talk of the arrangements."

Marcus reached for one of the glasses, ready to continue the discussion when he suddenly realized that his aunt wasn't looking at him at all.

"Lambton, Lady Caroline must be given that fine chamber which overlooks the rose garden and the lake beyond. Oh, so beautiful it is, and roses of course, the flower of love. If we are to ignite her passion, this is the perfect chamber for her."

"Aunt …" Marcus sighed tiredly, quite certain Lady Caroline would throw any rose back at his face, making sure she caught him with the thorns first, for she undoubtedly knew he had offered marriage without ever even meeting her.

"And you must have a variety for breakfast, none of this small stuff my nephew likes to eat in the morning. You must feast and impress her," Sarah continued.

"Of course, My Lady." Lambton inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"Now, let us discuss the flowers that will be placed in her room …" As Sarah launched into a new set of detailed arrangements, Marcus began to feel his presence was no longer needed.

He hid his smile behind his wine glass, taking the smallest of sips, before he stood and turned away from the pair, now talking together animatedly as they made preparations for his soon-to-be betrothed's arrival. Marcus moved towards his writing bureau in the corner of the room. A small table, barely noticed by some, it was a place that meant much to him, for in this desk were the letters of those who truly mattered to him in this world – his dear friends.

He sat down in his chair, shutting out the sounds of his aunt and butler, as he reached for a letter he had tucked away in a drawer in the top part of the desk. He peeled it open with care, laying it flat on the desk as he peered at the handwriting.

It was the quick handwriting of his good friend, Gregory St Vincent. Yet tonight, Marcus could not feel the usual happiness that overtook him when hearing from his friend. Tonight, there was lingering sadness.

His eyes drifted down the page, tarrying on some particular lines from Gregory.

‘My situation is not so wholly bad as you believe, my friend. I know I no longer have the position I once held, and certainly not the respect, but there are worse things to happen in this world than losing one's money …'

Despite this insistence, Gregory had gone on to bemoan the rather small and poky condition of his new home. He had also lamented its darkness, the lack of staff, and his realization of just how much had changed.

‘… It's strange, is it not? How much one's condition in life depends on the money in our coffers. Even stranger when you think that such money must have been invented many years ago as a form of trade when really, it is nothing but paper and metal that we have scrawled on. We have given it a value. I must grow accustomed to my new lot in life, my friend. I will someday accept the fact that I am not the wealthy man I once was …'

Marcus found fresh paper and a quill to write a reply to his friend. For all of Gregory's fine words, he was sad indeed. It was a future that Marcus both feared and railed against. He refused to become penniless due to his father's poor acumen and investments.

"Oh, oh, and what are you doing now, dear nephew?" Sarah suddenly declared, trotting towards him like a horse again, her face flushed with excitement. "Are you writing to your betrothed?" she asked with a smile.

"No, Aunt. I must meet her first. I am writing to Gregory."

"Oh." Her smile fell away. "Poor Mr St Vincent."

Yes. Poor indeed.