Chapter Eight
Marlowe
“There’s no hiding it, Bookworm.” Marlowe forced himself to speak the words aloud, troublesome as they were.
“I know.”
He studied her building her resolve to walk back into the manor together.
They had spent the night together in the rain.
It had been the best night of his life. Lavishing love on her, exploring her body over and over again.
She’d been relentless in her pursuit of passion, but in the morning they had both woken to a grim reality.
Well, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t grim for him.
He already knew how he felt toward her; now he just needed her to feel the same way about him.
But the look on her face in the morning had told him everything he’d needed to know, which was that it was going to take a herculean effort to woo her into falling for him.
Especially considering that a night of reckless passion hadn’t tipped her over the edge.
“I can’t believe I’m being forced to marry you.
I’ll make a terrible duchess.” And when she said things like that, it tore into his heart.
He really had no desire to force her into anything, even though as a duke, he’d been trained his whole life to rule over, domineer, and control, he would not want to do that with Millie.
If he couldn’t have her love freely, he didn’t want to have her as a wife forcefully.
Yet here they were. His choices were bleak.
Take her as a wife against her true desires, or leave her to the wolves—also known as the ton.
“You’ll be fine,” he reassured her.
“I don’t want to be a duchess.”
That was another matter altogether. “You can be whatever kind of duchess you want to be. I’ll make a library just for you—”
“You can’t buy me with a library,” she pouted—which was an odd sight—and crossed her arms.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” she grumbled. “Almost sure.” He thought he heard it as an afterthought. Then she spoke quite clearly, “This is awful. Just awful.”
“I’m not that bad—”
“Your mother forced this upon us. This was exactly what she wanted and not what either one of us chose. I can’t believe how this has turned out.”
“There will be some pleasure in the future,” he teased, watching hopefully as a crimson wave rushed her neck.
“I suppose so…”
“Whenever you want it,” he added, but her face was already scrunched up uncomfortably, so he let it rest.
“Let’s get this over with it,” she muttered, causing a stabbing sensation in his heart. How had he fallen so hard for her so quickly? It was madness.
But like a besotted fool, he put his hand out and walked inside with her on his arm. Upon entering, the house was unnaturally quiet.
“Where is everyone?” he asked the butler.
“The breakfast room, Your Grace.” He cleared his throat. “All except your mother.”
“And my mother is where?”
“Abed.”
“What do you mean she’s in bed? Is she sick?”
“Quite sick, Your Grace. We’ve sent for the physician.”
“What?” He fumbled around the words he meant to put together into a question.
“She had a fever. We couldn’t find you, Your Grace, but we thought it best to call the physician immediately.”
He dropped Millie’s hand, mumbling a vague apology, and took the stairs two at a time.
His mother was sick? Of all people, she was the heartiest. How had this happened? When had this happened? For all of his mother’s threats and overbearing nature, he’d expected her to outlive them all. And for all her impositions, he’d never once wished anything but good favor upon her.
When he’d reached the room and entered the dark space, he called out to her quietly. But there was no answer. A maid had left some water and cloths at the side of the table, and he quickly began wringing one of the cloths out to cool her forehead.
Never in all his life had he seen his mother this frail. This lifeless. She neither spoke nor budged. And all he wanted was to hear her tell him, “Find a wife, or I will.” Or have her pass him a glass of water when she should have been passing him a whiskey.
Feeling helpless to simply watch a cloth upon her forehead, he pushed up and began opening some windows to bring in some cooler air.
Why was this happening? Why now? Why to him?
Hadn’t he just acquiesced to exactly what his mother had dreamed for him?
Shouldn’t she have been rubbing this in his face smugly?
Yes. Yes, she should have been. And he wouldn’t stop caring for her until she was back on her feet, dancing her victory over him.
“Your Grace?” a voice called to him from the door.
“What?”
“The physician is here.”
“Let him in,” Marlowe grit out, resolving to be strong in front of others. He was a duke, after all, and needn’t display so much emotion.
But as he watched powerlessly, he couldn’t help thinking that this was his fault.
If he had been home earlier, he would have noticed his mother’s health declining and would have arranged for the physician to come earlier.
Surely, it wouldn’t have come to this point if he’d just been around.
Then again, his mother had wanted him to marry, and she was now going to get her wish.
There was no escaping the gossip that would ensue.
Everyone would have noticed their prolonged absence.
He was torn.
“This doesn’t look good, Your Grace. Her body is extremely warm. If this fever doesn’t come down tonight, she might have trouble reawakening.”
“I’ll keep her cool. She will wake up.”
“I can stay and bloodlet—”
“You’ll do no such thing. She’s weak.”
The physician scowled at him. “If you’re the expert, so be it. Beef broth and lots of rest. For both of you. Don’t exhaust yourself. You’ll be no good to her if you do that.”
But Marlowe already knew there would be no rest for him until his mother was well again. There wasn’t even a question of it. Just an answer. A resolve. Everything else was forgotten for now. For better or worse.