Perched upon the catwalk, hidden by a tall column, Emily had thought she’d find some solitude in the old library.
And when Lord Blakely had entered, she’d intended to announce her presence… but she had not.
He’d appeared… bothered, haunted. So, instead, she settled quietly into her corner and watched him down nearly half a bottle of their host’s scotch.
Oh, drat. Someone else was coming. She curled herself into a tighter ball and practically held her breath. It would be too embarrassing to be discovered now.
Even more so upon realizing she was witnessing an assignation!
Perhaps watching Marcus Roberts in such a tawdry situation would squelch this ridiculous infatuation once and for all. A tiny crack tore through her heart at the thought, but she ignored the sensation and forced her natural scientific curiosity to take over.
She almost felt sorry for Mrs. Cromwell.
Almost.
The woman promptly pulled down her bodice and then allowed Lord Blakely to bend her over the arm of the settee.
Emily cringed.
She had once discovered a picture book in her father’s library. Illustrations of nude men and women engaged in coitus… sometimes more than two. All the captions had been written in Latin. She surmised that her exposure to such literature prevented her from falling into the vapors at the sight of Mrs. Cromwell’s heaving bosom. And then again, when he gathered the lady’s skirts and lifted them nearly to her face.
She’d never expected, however, to witness such a crude exhibition.
When she realized what Lord Blakely was doing with his mentula… One of her hands fluttered to her chest.
Oh, my! Her eyes nearly popped out of her head at the sight of it.
Straining, purplish and red.
It was so much larger than those depicted in the drawings. And almost as though it had a life of its own, it bobbed against his trousers before he’d taken control of it and…
She’d never have guessed at the colors. Perhaps if she could take a closer look…
It looked almost angry.
How did they not hear her heart beating?
She wished she had a paper and pencil to document her impressions. For when he began his rhythmic thrusts, she found the sounds they made quite intriguing. Not the mutterings of Mrs. Cromwell, but the thuds and squishes produced by the act itself. Slapping noises, and an occasional sucking sound.
When she wasn’t watching the place where they were joined, Emily watched his face.
His eyes were closed, and his lips pressed together in a tight line. Occasionally, he appeared in pain or concerned. Yes, the vertical lines appearing in the center of his forehead caused him to appear distraught.
How odd.
When he increased his pace, as the widow demanded, he seemed to plow into her with even greater intensity.
And yet…
Lord Blakely did not seem nearly as engaged as Mrs. Cromwell. He didn’t verbally respond to her even once. He didn’t moan or groan in ecstasy. He merely worked himself steadily, similar to riding a horse while it galloped.
Even when he reached his novissime acutam, he murmured not a single word of appreciation or satisfaction, nary a sound.
He simply stood there straining, clutching at the woman’s hips until gathering his wits again.
“Marcus, my love. Oh, my dear. You’re as magnificent as ever.” Mrs. Cromwell continued her long narrative and review of his performance until he disengaged himself and slapped her once on the rounded protruding buttocks.
Emily searched his expression for any manner of pleasure or fulfillment.
Nothing.
He did not seem nearly as satisfied as he’d looked after drinking the scotch. In fact, disgust raced across his features.
Ought she to pity Mrs. Cromwell?
No. the woman had come to him. And she’d welcomed such carnal attentions without demanding anything in return.
And… the lady had seemed to enjoy it.
Emily wanted to stretch. Her back and knees were stiff, and she had an itch on her ankle. Oh, heaven’s though, she dared not move. Mrs. Cromwell was now reclining on the settee, watching Lord Blakely pour himself another drink.
“If you’re so unhappy at seeing the duke here in London, why don’t you come with me down to Brighton? Forget about the Season this year. I’m sure you and I could find some way to… entertain ourselves.”
The earl tossed back his drink and then set the glass down. “Ah, Vivienne. My dear. As delightful of an offer as that is, I must decline.” No explanation. Ouch. “You’ll wish to return to the ballroom—alone—your reputation.” Emily thought she would burst into tears if a man spoke to her thusly after… well. It was nothing she’d ever have to fear. She’d likely go to her grave with her virtue intact.
Mrs. Cromwell’s lips pursed as she pouted for all of ten seconds before gathering her skirts around her. “I imagine I won’t be the first woman to call you a bastard, Marcus.”
“Nor the last,” he agreed.
With as much dignity as one could possibly manage following such an indiscretion, the widow swept out of the room. The door slammed closed behind her. It didn’t matter how regally the “lady” ever acted in public again, Emily would only recall the image of the daft strumpet bent over the settee with her skirts about her face.
Oh, but her foot was itching now, too!
She must not be discovered! She’d be mortified!
Marcus couldn’t help but agree with Vivienne’s assessment of his character. Likely most women of his acquaintance had the same opinion. He hadn’t always been thus, but… Ah, well.
Perhaps he ought to have accepted Vivienne’s offer to go to Brighton. He could have visited a few of his company’s vendors, avoided the marriage traps set for him here in town… But, no, the lady would have expected more. More than he’d ever be willing to give. Furthermore, he refused to leave town merely to avoid seeing his father.
He scrubbed one hand down his face.
This encounter with Vivienne had done nothing more than leave him feeling… sordid. Any normal man would be basking in sexual satisfaction right now. He wondered at this thought. Was he no longer normal? Had this bitterness ruined even the most carnal aspect of his life?
A man’s booted footsteps echoed in the foyer outside the door. Damn, he was in no mood for company. Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. He’d avoid performing any further niceties if possible.
Perhaps another couple sought the privacy of this room. Marcus would acknowledge them, comment on the weather, and then return to the ballroom to fulfill his duties for the evening.
If he remembered correctly, he’d written his name on Miss Mossant’s dance card for one of the waltzes after the supper dance. Another “interesting” lady. If he could believe the rumors…
“Marcus.” This time, it was a masculine voice. A familiar but unwelcome one.
His fingers clenched into a fist.
“Waters,” Marcus addressed his father for the first time in five years. Since returning to England, Marcus had only caught sight of him from across the room at one event or another.
In this proximity, his father’s changed appearance surprised him.
More gray than brown peppered the duke’s hair and a sallow color tinged the skin hanging loosely on his jowls. The once larger than life Duke of Waters seemed smaller somehow.
Marcus felt not one iota of sympathy.
He moved to brush past his father, but before he could take more than a few steps, coldly spoken words halted him.
“I see you haven’t changed in the least.”
When Marcus remained silent, the older gentleman gestured toward the door. “I passed the lovely Mrs. Cromwell in the foyer. She certainly looked to have experienced a good tupping. At least you’re no macaroni, eh? You always did appreciate beauty in your birds of paradise.”
At the mention of beauty, Marcus couldn’t help but think of his first love, his Meggie. “Say what you will.” He looked forward to the day he could attend his father’s funeral.
The man he’d looked up to as a child strolled indolently toward the settee and then sat in the very spot where Mrs. Cromwell’s face had been buried minutes ago. “Have a seat, Marcus. Let’s come to a truce, shall we?”
After all these years? What was the bastard about? Marcus could never forgive what his father had done. But what could he want with him tonight? And why now?
He refused to sit, choosing instead to lean against the sideboard. “I’m listening.” For the sake of his mother and sister, he would hear the duke out.
“Quimbly hasn’t forgotten your betrothal to Lady Lila. Getting rather insistent, in fact. Come now. You’ve seen the gel, Marcus. She’ll be a magnificent duchess. Perfect English rose. Elegant, poised. As the duke someday, you stand to benefit from everything she’s ever been taught in life.” The duke dug around in his pocket and pulled out his ever-present snuff box. After offering some to Marcus, which he refused, the duke placed a pinch upon his hand and inhaled noisily before pressing his point. “It’s not as if you’ll have to change your ways. Get her with an heir, perhaps a spare or two, and you can continue swiving your way through all of England’s widows.”
“How insistent?” Marcus asked. Not that he cared about his father or intended to honor the damned agreement, but such information might be valuable, especially where Waters was concerned.
“Quimbly wants it done by the end of the Season.” His father appeared rather hopeful. Leave it to him to believe he could still control his only son.
As though he actually believed Marcus would give in to the betrothal.
Marcus crossed one leg over the other, digging his toe into the floor and then stared across the room. Why did his father care so much about what Quimbly wanted? Even more so than his own son? Likely too proud to admit his son didn’t bow to all his wishes. “Tell Quimbly he can bloody well wait until the end of time. I’m no closer to marrying her now than I was eight years ago.”
His father winced and for the first time, Marcus noticed how deeply the wrinkles had etched themselves into the duke’s forehead. During the years Marcus had been out of the country, his father had become an old man.
The duke’s shoulders slumped for only a moment before he renewed his campaign. “Why persist with your stubbornness, Marcus? It’s not as though I’ve asked much of you. I am your father, after all. The man who sired you. Are you still upset over that business with that farmer fellow, and the gel you knocked up, what was her name? Mary? Margaret? Really, you ought to be thanking me by now.”
Just when Marcus might feel a hint of softening… Good God, the man knew no bounds.
“You know damn well her name was Meggie. She carried your grandchild, for God’s sake. And her father, the man you had killed, was Mr. Thistlebum.”
At these words, his father closed his eyes in what appeared to be resignation. He leaned forward, pressing his fist into his forehead, and after a moment, rose to his full height. When he stared at Marcus this time, he did so with a cold, hard gaze. “You insist. You insist on believing the worst.” His nostrils flared. “Very well, then. You’re leaving me no choice. London can be a very unpleasant town without my approval. You are my son, but you are not yet a duke. You’d be wise to remember that. When you’ve come around, we’ll revisit this discussion. And I’m certain you will.”
Marcus waited a good ten minutes after the duke left the room before returning to the festivities. He was not dependent upon his father’s wealth. He’d made a fortune in his own right.
So how, he wondered, could this new threat affect him?
Because the man could be devious—that was why. Blast. Perhaps he should have gone to Brighton after all.