Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
I t didn't take very long at all for the other shoe to drop with Andrew.
Percy was lounging in the library during the hour schedule for rest prior to the advent of the evening's entertainment. For the last night of the party, a ball was scheduled, with an even wider range of local people invited. The house would be full to the rafters within the next few hours.
Percy was about to find his way back to his room, on the off chance that Marina decided to visit him there again while the house was at rest, when Andrew entered, looking even stiffer than usual.
"Ah, there you are, cousin," he said, coming into the room. He approached where Percy was sitting in his favorite comfortable old armchair—the one his mother hated for its worn appearance—and clasped his hands behind his back formally. With an inward sigh, Percy pushed himself to a more upright, more proper seated position. There was something about Andrew's formality that always seemed…snide, somehow.
"Were you looking for me?" Percy asked.
Andrew gave a solemn nod. "I'm afraid so. I felt it behooved me, as your elder cousin, to warn you about a situation in which I fear you are entangling yourself."
Percy felt his annoyance already begin to rise. It was always like this with Andrew for whatever reason. Calling himself Percy's elder cousin, for example, as if Percy were not also a man fully grown. Andrew was never quite rude, was never quite unkind. Yet he always gave off the impression that he would be, if he thought he could get away with it.
"What situation is that?" Percy asked. His disquiet mounted as Andrew retreated a few steps to close the door to the library before taking the chair across from Percy and continuing to speak.
"I am talking, of course," said Andrew, "about Lady Marina. She has revealed to you that she and I have been courting, I assume?"
Percy could not stop his blink of surprise. Marina had not told him that. Hearing it now, from his cousin, stung; why hadn't Marina told him about this, given all that they had shared? Hadn't they gone beyond the physical attraction that simmered between them and delved into matters of emotion? Even if their liaison had no future, shouldn't she have revealed her connection to his cousin?
Andrew correctly took Percy's silence as disagreement.
"Ah," he said, a world of meaning in that single syllable. "I see that she did not."
Percy gave into the pique that roiled inside him.
"I fail to see why I should be concerned about whom you are or are not courting, Andrew," he said, letting his tone become poisonous and dismissive. "I'm not your mother, nor your nursemaid."
Andrew's expression twitched with anger for the barest second before he put his placid mask back in place. When he spoke, his tone betrayed no upset.
"Please, Percy. Give me more credit than that. You've been out walking with the girl a few times this week, and that imbecile cousin of hers won't stop looking at the two of you like he's just uncovered buried treasure. It's obvious she's after you." He gave Percy a sardonic look.
It was annoyance heaped upon annoyance. It was all Percy could do not to reveal how deeply he wished to throttle his smug cousin. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Andrew."
Andrew sighed.
"Fine, fine, protect the chit. But you might wish to know that I overheard Packley telling Lady Marina just this morning that she needed to do 'whatever it takes' to secure your hand." Andrew's mouth turned down in a moue of distaste. "I won't repeat his precise language; it's not fit for any decent ears, let alone a lady's. The man is repugnant," he added. That was one matter upon which Andrew and Percy could agree.
Percy leaned back in his chair with a sigh.
"What do you expect me to do about this, Andrew? What is the purpose of coming here and telling me this?"
Andrew raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"You don't have to do anything, cousin. I merely thought that you might wish to know that there is a plot afoot and that you are at the center of it. Not," he said in a conciliatory afterthought, "that I blame Lady Marina, mind you. She's a fine girl in a tough position. I don't regret my courtship of her at all. But Packley." Andrew shook his head. "He's clearly pressuring her in a manner that she'd be hard-pressed to resist, especially with the promise of a duke on the line."
Percy frowned at Andrew's characterization of the situation—but his cousin wasn't wrong, was he, about Marina's position? She was being pressured by her odious cousin. And it wasn't Marina's fault, that was true, as well. The only thing he had wrong was his assumption that Marina was also hiding Packley's plan from Percy, that she hadn't disclosed the whole thing right away.
With an inward sigh of regret, Percy had to conclude that maybe Andrew actually did have good intentions. He was still annoying, that much was obvious, but perhaps that was just a flaw in his personality, not necessarily a sign of some deeper nefarious purpose.
"I appreciate your consideration, Andrew," Percy said. Christ, that had been hard to get out. "But I assure you, I am quite equal to the task of avoiding a marital trap. I'm a duke who still has a full head of hair," he added wryly. "You can hardly imagine this is the first time some matchmaker has tried to lure me to the altar."
Another unidentifiable flash traveled across Andrew's expression. "Of course," said Andrew. "Though, cousin, surely you see—it's hardly you I'm concerned about."
Percy's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"
Andrew leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee. "Well, as you say, cousin—you'll be fine. You'll avoid the marital trap. You're a duke, virtually untouchable in Society. But Lady Marina?" Andrew shrugged a shoulder.
"What are you talking about?" Percy said again, a little more urgency in his voice this time. He wasn't yet entirely sure what Andrew was hinting at, but the idea of risk to Marina struck him with a feverish bolt of alarm.
Andrew sat back. "The…atmosphere between the two of you has been noted. Talk is beginning to circulate. If you've no intention of marrying her—and you've circulated it far and wide that you are not seeking a bride—there will be questions about what she did to lose your regard." Andrew frowned sympathetically, then continued, as if this weren't already bad enough. "At best, it will be assumed that there is something wrong with her; at worst, she'll be labelled a Jezebel, soiled goods, unmarriable."
"That's preposterous," grit out Percy. It was appalling, the very notion that anyone would reject Marina, who had survived her parents' neglect and her cousin's bullying, all while remaining so bright and clever and funny and vivacious and kind and—
"I'm not saying it's right ," Andrew said. "I'm saying it is what will happen. It's the way things are, unfortunately. Dukes who consort with young ladies become legends—or rakes, if they do it too many times. But rakes need only to show the slightest reform to make a good match, provided they've the title and blunt, as you do. Young ladies who consort with dukes are labelled whores." Percy jolted in his seat and Andrew held up hand. "Again, I am not calling Lady Marina such a thing—I would never. As I said, I am pursuing her myself. But I felt I ought to say something, in case you had not considered the potential ramifications to her reputation."
A thousand thoughts and feelings rioted in Percy's mind. Disgust over being part of a world that treated women so poorly—all women, not just Marina. Shame that Andrew had been the one to point this out, that Percy had not thought of it himself. Jealousy over the idea that Andrew said he was still pursuing Marina, that perhaps he could offer he the thing she needed, the one thing that Percy could not give.
And, louder than all the other feelings, a sinking sense of dread, the horrible creeping realization of what it was he had to do.
Because what kind of man was Percy, if he took what he wanted at the expense of those he cared about? If he took what he wanted from Marina simply because he wanted her—and Lord, how he wanted her—he'd be no better than his father. And that was the one thing Percy had promised himself that he would never be.
"Thank you, Andrew," Percy said at last, realizing the silence in the room had gone on too long. "You've given me much to think about." He paused, then forced himself to say it. "I appreciate you looking out for Lady Marina. You're a good man." A man who could give Marina what she needed—who possibly would do so. And then Percy would get to spend the rest of his life seeing her on his cousin's arm, giving him lovely, bright-eyed children. She'd be there, right in front of him, and yet eternally out of reach.
Andrew stood and clapped Percy on the shoulder. It was annoyingly paternalistic, that gesture, from a man who was less than a decade his senior, but Percy was too consumed with sickness over having to say goodbye to Marina to get properly worked up over the overstep.
"You are as well, cousin," said Andrew. "I know you'll do the right thing." And then he left, the library door closing quietly behind him.
Percy slumped back in the chair, no longer quite so comfortable, and let his miserable thoughts consume him.
It was terribly reckless, Marina knew, but she was seeking out Percy. In all honesty, she lacked the courage to go to his bedchamber again. It was one thing to sneak up there knowing she might be suspected of an amorous encounter, and another thing entirely to know that she was sneaking up there with the direct intent of having an amorous encounter.
Marina fervently hoped he wasn't waiting for her there. She was about to look in his study, mentally composing an excuse as to why she might be in that part of the house—perhaps she wished to write a letter, and was looking for some paper, that was plausible—in case she ran into a servant or some other gentleman using the space.
Marina was so consumed with scripting her potential lie that she very nearly bumped into Viscount Gloustoshire as he came around a corner.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so sorry—do excuse me, my lord."
"Steady there," said the viscount, reaching out a hand to stay her. Marina stepped out of his reach before he could make contact. He still offered her a friendly smile. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
"I, ah—" Despite her preparation, Marina still found herself an unaccomplished liar. Perhaps she needed practice. "I would like to write a letter but find myself without paper. I thought I could perhaps find some in the study."
To her surprise—she rather thought she'd sounded convincing—Viscount Gloustoshire frowned. "You're looking for my cousin, aren't you?" he asked, voice low.
Marina jolted. "What?" she asked. "No, certainly not. No, I'm looking for paper, like I said. Why are you—" She stopped herself.
Well, that had not been convincing in the least. She made to step around the viscount before she could make her blunder any worse, but to her intense shock, he sidestepped as well, blocking her path.
"Lady Marina," he said. "You are making a mistake."
Deny it , her mind shrieked.
"My lord," she said. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. I'll just be going now—"
The viscount cut her off. "Don't lie ," he said. His expression tightened until the smile was more of a grimace. Marina took an unconscious step backwards, but the viscount followed her. "You're just like him—you both think you're being subtle, when it's quite obvious to everyone here that you and my cousin the duke have been consorting."
"We haven't—" Marina tried protesting again, but the viscount kept speaking. His expression was growing cross now, perhaps even into the realm of true anger, but somehow it was the veneer of civility atop that irritation that alarmed Marina the most. She'd have been more comfortable if he'd revealed his true feelings, she thought, instead of insisting on this mask.
"You have," he said shortly. "Deny it, I don't care, but you have. I know it. Everyone knows it. You're hardly being subtle about it. But what you fail to realize, my lady, is the depth to which you are digging your own grave." He stepped forward again. Marina retreated in turn.
Viscount Gloustoshire was not done. "What do you think—that he's going to marry you? My cousin has made it perfectly clear that he has no intention of marrying. Perhaps you think that if you seduce him sufficiently, if you compromise yourself for him, that he will find in himself some gentlemanly instinct. Do you think he'll make you a duchess? Your cousin the earl obviously thinks so, but Packley is a fool. You are not and I don't know why you're acting like one."
"My lord," Marina stammered out, but the viscount stopped her with a sharp shake of his head and another step forward. He wasn't out of control—by contrast, he seemed almost too tightly controlled, drawn with a kind of anger that turned him to stone. Marina retreated a final time; her back was against the wall now.
"Know this, Lady Marina. This will not end well for you. Percy will tire of you, as he has tired of ladies before you, and as he will tire of ladies after you." The viscount's tone was stingingly dismissive, but Marina refused to let her hurt show.
That would be as good as a confirmation of the very relationship she was trying to deny. And besides—hadn't she known from the start where things stood? Hadn't Percy told her from the beginning that he had no intention of marrying? She'd gone into this—this affair with her eyes wide open.
But now, with Viscount Gloustoshire looming above her, her back quite literally against the wall, it hit Marina with the weight of bricks just how dreadful the other side of this pleasurable interlude was going to be.
The viscount still wasn't finished.
"He'll cast you aside. Your reputation will be in tatters. And perhaps you've found it amusing to play the flirt this week, degrading yourself for my cousin while ignoring the only serious suitor you have. But when he's done with you, whenever this silly little rebellion is out of your system, I will be there. You will have no other choice. You will be mine." This last sentence was said with all the emphasis of a threat. It wasn't like Martin's threats, blustery and pleased with his own power. This was more final, an assertion of fact. He was not asking Marina; he was telling her.
A wave of helplessness crashed over Marina. It felt new, but it wasn't, not really. She'd always been stuck in this pattern, stuck fighting against forces—against men —with so much more power than she'd ever had. If she'd felt powerful when she was with Percy, that was all a joke. A farce.
A lie.
Viscount Gloustoshire took a step back, giving Marina room to breathe. He put a smile back on his face, the friendly one he'd greeted her with, only it didn't seem so friendly anymore. No, now Marina could see the sinister edge hiding beneath, the one that said that his cool composure was only hiding the roiling rage that hid beneath.
"I see I've given you much to think about," he said smoothly as Marina looked up at him, eyes wide, at a complete loss for what to even begin to say to all that. "Very well. I am not in a rush. I shall see you at dinner."
And then, as if they'd just had a pleasant chat about the weather or the upcoming social calendar, he gave her a polite little bow and walked away, cool as could be.
Marina stood there for several long moments, hands balled into fists and pressed into her skirts, attempting to calm herself. They were horrible, all those things the viscount had said. But they weren't wrong .
It took Marina quite some time to get herself moving again.
Dinner was torture. They dined more formally this evening—the dowager duchess had pulled out all her entertaining stops for the final night of the house party. The local gentry had, once again, all been invited, but this time from an even wider area; anyone who lived too far to travel home after the ball concluded had been invited to spend the night in one of the estate's many guest rooms. Percy, as duke, was at the head of the table. Marina, unmarried daughter of an earl, was considerably further down, though not nearly as far as the vicar and his wife, who waved to her merrily during the third course.
Marina wished she could summon even an ounce of their enthusiasm.
Instead, she spent the meal trying to catch Percy's eye while trying even harder not to seem as though she were trying to catch Percy's eye. It was convoluted enough, even in her own head, that she could feel a migraine forming. But Percy needed to know what his cousin had said. She'd gotten this far on telling him the truth, even the ugly bits of it.
She wasn't about to change tactics now, not when things were destined to end anyway. Every time she risked a glance his direction, however, she found him deep in conversation with his mother or the Duke of Culton, or, once, almost comically absorbed by his dinner.
When dinner concluded— finally —they separated by sex, ladies to the drawing room for sherry and gossip, men to the library for brandy and cigars. Never before had Marina realized just how protracted things became when one strictly adhered to the rules of Society. Again, she tried not to fidget, tried her utmost to seem calm and collected.
"Are you quite all right?" Lucy asked her at one point.
"Of course," Marina replied automatically. Every interaction tonight had felt automatic, the bulk of her attention fixed on the inexorably slow passage of time, but Marina did feel bad about it where Lucy was concerned. She tried to force a convincing smile on her face. "I think I'm just worn from all this excitement," she said. "Who knew parties could be so tiring!"
Lucy had made a noise of assent and had diverted the conversation to the events she anticipated attending in London over the coming weeks, but Marina had the distinct sense that her friend was not entirely convinced.
After all that, there was still the dancing. Marina hoped that Percy would ask for a slot on her dance card—hadn't their dance the other night been nothing short of magical? —but he didn't. In fact, she couldn't even get herself sufficiently in his orbit to inform him in a quick whisper that she needed to speak with him.
After the previous few days, in which he'd pursued her—after last night! —it was utterly baffling and not a little hurtful. Marina tried to remind herself that he was the duke, the host of this party, and no doubt had things to attend to.
Like Lucy, however, Marina was not entirely convinced of this, either.
By the end of the ball, Marina's nerves were frazzled by the conflicting efforts of searching for Percy, trying to pull him aside to speak with him, and trying to avoid appearing like she was doing either of these things. At the same time, she was trying to steer clear of Martin and Viscount Gloustoshire—without trying to appear as if she was doing that, either.
She failed in the last of these, as it happened; the viscount approached her while she was chatting with the dowager duchess, all genteel charm as if he hadn't threatened her earlier in the day, and asked her for a waltz. Marina couldn't think of a good reason to refuse. As the viscount signed his name next to the last waltz of the evening, Marina thought she spotted a slight frown on the dowager duchess' face, but by the time Marina turned to look at her more fully, the older woman's expression was untroubled.
When the evening finally ended, and Marina had, assisted by a maid, removed her ballgown and let down her elaborate coiffure, she was exhausted. The large, comfortable bed of her guest chamber beckoned her. But she still had to speak with Percy, and they were leaving in the morning. Tonight might be her last chance to tell him about his cousin's appalling behavior.
With a heavy sigh and a longing glance at the perfectly fluffed pillows, she drew on her dressing gown. Perhaps, when she saw Percy, however, there would be kissing, she thought in an attempt to cheer herself. It wasn't entirely unsuccessful, but the looming promise of her departure, of the end of their affair, and the return to her dreary reality dampened her excitement.
Marina crept through the house and knocked quietly when she arrived at Percy's door. For several long, tense moments she stood, hearing nothing in the way of movement inside. While she supposed it wasn't guaranteed that he was inside—he could be sitting up late with a drink in his study, for example—it seemed highly probable. It was, after all, very late, and the household was abed, even the servants. More likely that he'd fallen asleep. Marina hated to wake him, but she really needed to talk to him.
She knocked again, a little bit louder. This time, the door opened in short order, revealing Percy. His cravat was off, and his shirt unbuttoned, revealing a tempting slice of chest. He was still wearing his trousers, however. And he didn't look sleepy or rumpled; he looked…stern. Evidently, he hadn't been abed. So why hadn't he answered her knock?
"What are you doing here, Lady Marina?" he asked. Marina frowned at the use of her title. He didn't move back from the door, nor did he open it any wider.
"I need to speak with you," she said, eyes darting down the dark hallway. "Can I come in?"
The corners of Percy's mouth turned down and Marina's creeping feeling that something was wrong intensified, became certain. Though he'd seen her much more intimately the night before—had touched her much more intimately—she suddenly felt naked in her night rail and dressing gown.
"I don't think that's a good idea," he said. His voice was low, but firm.
Still, Marina couldn't help but gape at him a little. "I need to speak with you," she repeated. "I have to tell you—"
"Marina," he interrupted. At least he wasn't using her title anymore. "Perhaps you misunderstood. Perhaps I should have been clearer. But our liaison was always intended to last the duration of the party. Tonight's ball was the concluding event. You should go."
Marina reeled back, as if he'd slapped her. His tone was so dismissive, so dispassionate, that it felt like a physical blow. "Percy, I—"
"My lady," he said insistently. "We had best return to formality. And we had best conclude this interview, lest you be discovered where you ought not be. I thank you for your company during the party; it was most diverting. Now, you should not be here." He tilted his head down the hallway, as if dismissing a misbehaving puppy. "You should go," he said again.
Marina didn't know which emotion was stronger, the anger or the hurt. He had thanked her for her company? It was most diverting? And that blasted nod! It was so insulting that, had the pressing need for quiet not tempered her, she'd have struck him.
"You bastard ," she spat, barely managing to keep her volume under control. She had never sworn at someone before—it was too unladylike even for her—but it felt good.
Yet her words did not get a rise out of Percy, as some part of her had hoped. He merely nodded solemnly.
"I'm sorry you feel that way. Goodnight, my lady."
And then he closed the door into Marina's gasping face.
For a moment, Marina stood there, considering knocking on the door again. She could demand answers, demand to be heard. But did she really need to be reminded for the thousandth time that she had no power in her own life? Did she need the humiliation of being dismissed all over again, of being pushed into the role of a foolish girl, begging for a scrap of attention from the mighty duke? She couldn't bear seeing Percy's—oh, excuse her , seeing His Grace 's—unengaged, distant expression. Or worse, what if he didn't even answer the door? What if he left her out in the hallway entirely unacknowledged?
So Marina did not knock. Percy could deal with his own family members without her help. So what if Martin or the viscount whispered about him behind his back? He'd made it perfectly clear that it was not Marina's problem or her business.
Marina marched back to her room. She was finished with Percy Dunn. Completely, entirely finished. It was time to return to her real life anyway.
But as Marina curled up in bed, the quilt tucked snugly about her ears, she could not resist one last indulgence over her brief, ill-fated affair. She let loose in a torrent of tears and cried herself to sleep.