The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

She said without hesitation, “I sent her nowhere, Marcus.”

“I see,” he said. He looked down at his hands. Slowly, he unbuckled the sword from around his waist. He gently folded the leather belt, laying the sword carefully over it in a chair. Then he straightened, his back to the fire. He leaned his shoulders against the mantel. He crossed his Hessians. Spears kept them so clean he could see his face reflected in them, even after a long day. He saw that he was frowning, that he looked ready to explode. He forced all expression from his face, then said, “It seems as well that my own lodgings are bereft of my belongings. I could have gone to a friend’s apartment but I decided that you were right. You and I need to talk about the future.” He saw it then, the exquisite relief that flooded her face.

She rose swiftly. “Could we dine first, Marcus? I am very hungry.”

“Certainly,” he said politely. He extended his arm to her. “Madam.”

She sent him a wary look and he saw it. It please

d him. It pleased him inordinately. For the first time since he’d come to her small cottage in Smarden a year ago, he felt himself in control. All because he’d held his fury inside. All because she no longer knew what to expect from him. He smiled down at her, saying nothing. Let her wonder what was in his mind without shouting it at her.

He seated her at one end of the table and took himself off to the other. The food was already there, between them, beneath silver domes to keep it hot.

“Badger has outdone himself,” Marcus said, closing his eyes as he slowly chewed on the chicken with orange and tarragon. “The onion is sweet, the Stilton cheese utterly perfect—pale at the rind and pale yellow and creamy inside.”

“I was just thinking that same amount of detail myself,” she said, staring at the Stilton cheese she hadn’t touched. What was he planning to do?

“Wherever did Badger find such delicious oranges?”

“At Les Halles. He spends several hours there every morning.”

“Ah, yes, le ventre de Paris—the belly of Paris for the past six hundred years.” He forked down more chicken, made ecstatic rumbling noises as he chewed, then smiled at her again. “You don’t appear to be enjoying your dinner, Duchess.”

“I ate a tremendous luncheon,” she said.

“Were you busy today? Perhaps you were shopping? Visiting friends? Visiting mistresses? Visiting your new husband’s former lodgings to remove all traces of him?”

“I didn’t do all that much today, Marcus.”

“Ah, yet again I asked more than one question which gives you the perfect chance to answer none of them. Eat your chicken, Duchess.”

“I am waiting for Badger’s London buns. They’re delicious. He says it is the quality of the lard one uses that makes the difference, he says—”

“I will have to wait,” Marcus said, sitting back in his chair and lacing his fingers over his belly. “I have quite stuffed myself.”

“You were hurt. You need food to regain your strength.”

“You want fat on my manly charms, Duchess? You don’t really care, then, for you say nothing. Well then, this dining room is quite charming, as is the rest of the house. Since you are now a very rich young lady, I fancy you didn’t even blink an eye when you were told the rental.”

“It is rather expensive, but as I told you, if you wish it, I will leave for London. If you wish to remain here, why, you are very rich yourself now, Marcus, you can well afford it.”

“Yes, I am rich now, aren’t I? It is interesting that during the ten months when I believed myself to be the real earl as opposed to the temporary earl, I never forgot the value of money and what it was like to consider purchases. I doubt I will change now. I was just thinking of the poor American Wyndhams—all for naught, the poor sods now have nothing at all.”

“They didn’t deserve to have anything,” she said. “It is all yours. It was all meant to be yours.”

“Oh no. It was meant to be Charlie’s and if not Charlie’s then Mark’s.”

“They died, Marcus, five years ago. It was no one’s fault, certainly not yours.”

“How very interesting. You blame your father.”

“Yes.”

He realized in that moment that he couldn’t bear it, none of it. The Duchess, sitting at the opposite end of the table, her face in the shadows, but her damned voice sounding like a serene Madonna’s, no, he couldn’t bear it. He rose and tossed his napkin onto his plate. “I’m going out,” he said, and strode toward the door of the dining room.

“Marcus.”

He paused, then said over his shoulder, not turning to look at her, “Yes? Am I forbidden to leave the house once I’m inside it? Will I find your bully boys on the front doorstep waiting to shackle me and drag me back inside?”