Marcus continued, seemingly oblivious of his stunned audience, of the damage he was inflicting, “Can you imagine her in your bed, Mr. Wicks? Do think back, sir. Say, twenty or thirty years. Surely you had lustful thoughts then. Ah, and she is so beautiful, is she not? A glorious creature to behold, not only that face of hers but that body, all tall and slender yet with breasts and hips that tantalize any man unfortunate enough to be looking at her with more than appreciation for, say, a painting in his mind.
“But can you imagine how she would greet you if you were her husband? She would stare at you calmly, so detached that it is difficult to imagine that she really has substance, aye, she would stare as if you were some sort of rodent that really had no business being even in the same room as her. She would try, however, not to look too repelled. Perhaps she would even give one of her stingy smiles—paltry things, those meager smiles of hers—to show that she was completely aware of her upcoming sacrifice. Then she would calmly march to the bed and stretch out there, on her back, unmoving, probably as cold on the outside as she is within. God, it is a repulsive thought, Mr. Wicks.”
Mr. Wicks tried, she gave him that. He cleared his throat, but there was desperation on his face, a tremor in his voice. “Listen to me, my lord, I understand this is all such a shock to you, that—”
“I would much prefer a woman to run screaming from me than to just lie there and bear all my repellent men’s acts in silence, unmoving, perhaps whimpering like a little martyr, whilst I had my vile way with her.”
Mr. Wicks cleared his throat loudly, continuing as if Marcus hadn’t spoken. “ . . . and thus, my lord, it makes you a bit resentful, a bit intemperate in your speech, perhaps a bit bitter and—”
“Bitter, Mr. Wicks? I assure you, sir, that bitter doesn’t even begin to cover what I’m feeling. Resentful? Now there’s a bloodless word I haven’t ever heard applied to myself.”
“My lord, your uncle wanted the Duchess to be your countess. He wanted his grandchildren to have her blood as well as yours. Surely you can understand that.”
“Another exaggeration, Mr. Wicks, if not a downright falsehood. My uncle doubtless believed that her exalted blood, in direct flow from his own precious body, would reduce the corruptness of my blood in any possible issue, at least dilute its monstrous effects. Ah, yes, I see from your expression that is exactly what my dear uncle believed.”
“Marcus.”
It was her voice, quiet and contained, so very soft, as if she were a nanny wanting to bring her recalcitrant charge back in control. “Marcus,” she said again when he remained silent. “Please try to understand.”
“Ah,” he said, interrupting her with a negligent wave of his hand. “I suppose you want to wed with me, Duchess? You are willing to sacrifice yourself on the altar of your father’s revenge? Forgive me, but I can’t believe that, even though I can see that you’re ready to nod. Not to speak and say yes, but nod, perhaps sigh with resignation, which is quite a feat of emotion for you, but I’m not that much of an idiot.
“But wait, perhaps I have underestimated you again. Is it that my dear uncle also served you a bit of a turn, forced your hand, so to speak, Duchess? Perhaps your inheritance is somehow connected to all this? Will you lose all your groats if you don’t marry me?”
“No,” she said.
He waited, the good Lord knew he waited for her to say more, to say anything to reduce the humiliation of this entire situation, to tell him that she wanted to marry him and it had nothing to do with what her father had done to him, well, it had, but it wasn’t important to her. He waited for her to perhaps scream at him for his vicious insults, for spewing out words surely fit only for street harlots, but she just sat there, staring down at her hands, utterly motionless, like a damned marble statue.
“She will gain fifty thousand pounds, regardless of your decision, my lord. However, if either of you refuse to wed the other by June the sixteenth of 1814, then your uncle’s family from Baltimore, Maryland, will inherit everything that isn’t entailed.”
“I see. So the Duchess does have something to lose, quite a lot of something, I would say. What is a paltry fifty thousand pounds compared to being the mistress of an immense and old estate? Yes, wedding with me might be a consideration. Now, if my uncle’s family inherits after June sixteenth, after I’ve gutted the vast Wyndham estate in only a very minor way—just the entailed property—certainly not all that important except for Chase Park, ah, then I’ll be obliged to ask Auntie Wyndham for money to make repairs on anything else that needs to be done on my meager share of things?”
“No, my lord. Forgive me if I was unclear. I would be the one.”
“May I know the amount of my allowance?”
“I believe it to be in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds a quarter.”
“Two hundred pounds!” Marcus threw back his head and laughed. Deep, black laughter that bubbled up, that made his shoulders shake, that made her hurt so much for him that she wanted to scream, to plead with him to trust her, to know that she would make everything all right for him, but of course, she said nothing, she didn’t know what to say. She had no practice, no knowledge of what to say.
“Did you hear that, Duchess? Two hundred pounds! This is very close to what I earned per year in the army. Good God, I would be bloody rich, a nabob with a title.” And he laughed and laughed until his eyes teared. “All I would have to do is hold out my hand to Mr. Wicks here. That and hold my head up in society, hell, more important, I would have to look at myself in the mirror.
“Perhaps I could stand outside his office, join a line of beggars, and look properly humble and subservient whilst my hand was out, my expression set in modest line, my eyes downcast, so that he would give me my allowance and perhaps not accompany the guineas with a lecture on how not to be wasteful. I would wear those woolen mittens with the fingers cut out so that I could better snag the groats he tosses to me. I wouldn’t want to lose any of my grand allowance, now would I?”
“Actually, my lord, your allowance would be an automatic thing, the funds sent directly to you each quarter.”
“Ah, so Mr. Crittaker would see my allowance and see to its disposition. Good God, I forgot about Crittaker. Is he still to be my secretary? Surely one as poor as I has no need of a gentleman’s secretary. Well, Mr. Wicks?”
“Your uncle was very fond of Mr. Crittaker, my lord. His wages are to be taken care of for so long as he wishes to remain with you here at Chase Park.”
“To be taken care of,” Marcus repeated slowly. “What an interesting sound that all has. Like your mother was taken care of, Duchess. How you were perhaps taken care of in that cozy little cottage of yours in Smarden. I see then that it is just if I wish to do anything, change anything, that I would find my place in the beggar’s line.”
She waited, her hands now fisted in her lap. She stared at them, at the white knuckles, and forced them to open, to calm, for if she didn’t, her belly would certainly cramp into awful pain and she would be ill.
Then he said, his voice raw from all his laughter, “Well, Duchess, are you willing to carry through with this damnable charade? Will you wed me and become my countess? Are you ready to save me from this endless ignominy? Are you ready to suffer me in your bed and bear countless little boy babies who just might look like me rather than you? Did my uncle leave a provision for that, Mr. Wicks? Any
male child that looked like me would be disinherited? God, that’s a revolting thought, isn’t it? What if they had my temper, my fits of emotion, my hairy body? What if they resembled me rather than you, Duchess, the most soulless creature I’ve ever met?”
She opened her mouth, yes, now she would tell him, but he suddenly yelled, “No! I don’t want to hear your mewling protests, all very calmly stated, I’m sure. Actually, Duchess, I wouldn’t wed you if you held the last loaf of bread in all of England and I was starving. What man would want to bed such a cold-blooded bitch, despite her newfound legitimacy, despite her groats? Not I, madam, not I. I’m not as scheming as your father. Actually, Mr. Wicks, I have just decided that the earldom will become extinct upon my death. I wonder if my bloody uncle ever considered that eventuality.”