“What kind of things?” He sat back down to glare at her.
“It’s all scuttlebutt, Marcus,” she said on a heavy sigh. “But things are not well at home.” She poked the air with her fork tines again. “Be careful, Marcus.”
Marcus sighed and dropped his face into his hands, scrubbing down it. “I hate it when you’re cryptic. Why don’t you just say what you’re thinking?” He couldn’t tell if Claire was referring to the fact that he’d bedded Cecelia or that something was wrong with her. “She hasn’t been ill, has she?”
“Her father hasn’t been well,” she started.
But Lord Phineas cut her off. “Claire,” he warned.
She threw her fork down. Lord Phineas was the only one who’d ever been able to take Claire to task.
“The man is grieving, Claire,” Marcus said. Surely everyone could see that.
“It’s more than that.” But Lord Phineas shot her a look, and she shut her lips tightly.
“Ask questions, Marcus. Lots of questions.” Apparently, she was done with her cryptic ramblings, because she left the room.
“I won’t stick my nose in your matters,” Lord Phineas said. “But tread lightly with Cecelia, Marcus.”
“You’ve already stuck your nose in my matters. I hate it when people say things like that but won’t explain. So, out with it.”
“You’re straddling two worlds. And giving it a valiant effort, I might add.”
“So are you.” Marcus didn’t understand this line of questioning.
“I’m not straddling anything. I’m a visitor here.”
“And I’m a visitor in your world. Is that what you’re saying?”
He took a sip of his tea. “Not at all. Your home is there. Or did you intend for it to be here?”
“It can be both.”
“Does she want home to be both places?”
“I haven’t asked her.” He would do so today. He’d live wherever she chose. Particularly now that he had his father’s blessing to do so.
“Ask lots of questions, Marcus. That’s all.” He grinned at Marcus and said, “And next time, change the damn linens so Claire won’t speculate about who’s been at the hunting lodge.” He laughed as he stood up and quit the room.
Marcus adjusted his jacket and tucked his hair behind his ears. He was dying to see Cecelia, and he didn’t want to wait another moment. If he was any happier, he would have to skip to her house like a child.
***
He knocked on the door to Claire’s house and made a move to step inside when Mr. Pritchens answered it. But Pritchens blocked his way. “Miss Hewitt is not receiving callers today, Mr. Thorne,” he said.
“What?” Certainly Cecelia wanted to see him.
“I believe you heard me.” The butler stood a little taller.
Marcus’s heart clenched in his chest. “Might I ask why?”
“Miss Hewitt is otherwise occupied.” But he didn’t look Marcus in the face when he said it.
“What happened to your jaw, Pritchens?” Marcus asked, running a finger down his own jawline.
“Rotten luck,” Pritchens said blandly.
“Sorry to hear it. Must hurt like the dickens.”