Chapter Sixteen
When Winifred arrived at the library the next morning, it was to the welcome sight of several new books piled on her usual table.
As sunlight streamed over them, the air glittering with dust, a lump formed in her throat.
There was no note, but she knew it was Marcus’s doing, a very considerate act, given how she’d thrown herself at him the previous evening.
She wasn’t sure what surprised her more, that she’d been bold enough to ask him to teach her, or that he hadn’t outright rejected her.
Yes, he’d asked her to wait, but as a historian, she was well acquainted with time.
She shifted her skirts and settled down in her chair.
She’d intended to continue the journal he’d read for her the previous evening, but she’d peruse the new volumes first. The book at the top of the stack had a worn leather cover and when she flipped it open, the text was hand-printed in medieval German.
After puzzling over the vocabulary for several minutes, she realized it described a creature of the night similar to the ones her ancestors had supposedly hunted.
A vampire.
She set it aside and checked the next. It was as unusual as the first, again handwritten, but in French this time, and appeared to be another occult tome.
Why had Marcus selected these for her to read? They would have been better choices for Felicity. She would ask him the next time they spoke. Although, when they were alone, the parts of her mind that were insatiably curious quieted.
Three hours struggling to read scrawled German script later, she rubbed her temples with her fingers and stretched the stiffness out of her shoulders.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d become so absorbed in any topic that was not at least tangentially related to a subject of her obsession.
Usually, the only thing that piqued her interest enough that she slipped into a focus so intense that she lost track of time was natural disasters.
She’d tried to engage her curiosity with several other subjects, but her mind inevitably refused to absorb any details.
This was a fascinating development. She turned to a fresh page in her notebook and furiously jotted ideas.
Origin of vampire myth unknown. Modern depictions originate from Polidori’s novel. Further sources required. Potential for investigation?
She tapped the tip of her pencil on the paper.
That was an interesting idea. She had assumed that when she sought publication to establish herself as a distinguished scholar, it would be for work relating to Pompeii.
But what if she wrote about the creatures her family had supposedly once hunted instead?
That would certainly be unique and might earn her good will from her uncle.
Unlike her past proposals to publishers regarding volcanic eruptions or earthquakes, there would be less competition for a book on supernatural creatures.
That would give her an advantage, especially if she could use Marcus’s name.
She had been dismissed out of hand countless times based on her sex alone.
Ideas for topics bloomed in her mind like weeds until a headache started and her wrist ached from clutching her pen.
When she’d straightened and looked at what she’d written, her eyebrows rose.
She had enough material for an entire series of textbooks.
That should have been exciting, but she felt oddly morose.
Marcus’s strange habit of sleeping through the day meant there were only a few hours each day when they were both awake.
Was this to be her routine, alternating between silent, lonely meals in her room, assisting Marcus, and her research?
It should have been a thrilling prospect, given how often she’d wished for more time to devote to her studies before she’d agreed to marry him, but faced with countless days of the same, there was a hollowness in the pit of her stomach.
It was difficult to immerse oneself in history when one was afflicted by homesickness.
Company, that was what she needed. It was time to circumvent her uncle’s orders and contact her cousin. She returned to her room and rummaged around the drawers of her writing desk until she found the materials needed to compose a letter. Then she dipped her pen in ink and wrote.
My dearest Felicity,
I wish you were here. This castle is gloriously large, but I find the many empty spaces make me quite lonely.
I hope you will be reassured to know that married life has so far suited me, other than a few minor complaints.
Solitude and study were exactly what I wanted, but I find there is something missing.
Perhaps if I held a ball, you could pretend to be attending a country party and visit.
I can hardly believe I am suggesting such a thing.
Do you remember the time I begged a megrim for several days to finish reading Mommsen’s first volume of Romische Geschichte, the History of Rome?
Mother was furious when she learned the truth.
As for Marcus, we are slowly learning about each other. If I had realized his peculiarities sooner, I might not have been so eager to travel here.
She stopped, crossed out several lines, then crumpled the paper into a ball.
She wanted to convince Felicity that she was well despite her uncle’s orders, not have her cousin read the letter, then race out to a horse and ride across the country.
Things were certainly not that bleak. She picked up another sheet of paper and tried again, this time aiming for a more positive tone.
Felicity,
I hope this reaches you and that our uncle is treating you well. Please know that I will understand if you choose to not respond to prevent our uncle from punishing you. It pains me you were forced into making such an awful decision.
As for me, I have adapted well to married life.
I have as much time as I wish to research and the earl even agreed that you can join me as my companion, although I fear we must settle the feud Uncle Ethan believes exists between our families before you can become my companion.
Do you know anything about the conflict?
I have asked my husband, but he could not provide clarity.
I miss you, and can’t wait to see you again.
Winifred
After reading it several times, she found the tone stilting and awkward, but it would have to do.
She folded the paper, sealed it with plain wax, and flipped it over.
Her uncle would surely inspect any letter that arrived for his niece, but he would likely ignore the activities of his servants.
She scrawled the name of Felicity’s favorite maid, Anastasia.
With luck, she would receive it, recognize who it was meant for, and route it to Felicity.
Winifred picked up the slim, blue leather book she’d brought from the library, hoping it would serve as a distraction.
As soon as she’d opened it, she flushed.
The first sketch depicted a naked man and woman sprawled on a couch, with the woman’s face at the level of the man’s crotch.
Her mouth was clasped over his… Well, that was an interesting idea.
She was suddenly too hot to be wearing so many layers.
Rather than summon Keenan, she struggled out of her dress, then found the wrapper she’d worn on her wedding night.
The sleeves were rumpled and there were spots of grease on the bodice, but when she lifted the fabric, she could smell Marcus’s sweat mixed with the lingering aroma of hot metal.
She donned the garment, then returned to her bed and opened the book again.
The next illustration made her spectacles fog.
A man’s head was buried between the thighs of a woman, who had her eyes closed and her mouth open.
It was too easy to imagine the man as Marcus and herself as his lover.
They were married, but Marcus had not consummated their union.
He’d asked her to be patient, but he’d also previously dismissed her as nothing more than his assistant.
A suspicious part of her couldn’t resist pointing out the unusual things she’d noticed.
The rushed wedding. Spending most of the day asleep.
The way he tensed when she touched him. The clues came together to form an answer she did not like but could not ignore.
Marcus had a mistress.
He must have been spending his days in her company and was only indulging Winifred because she had made her attraction so obvious.
Her stomach tightened, but she had no right to be disappointed.
Marcus was her husband, but their marriage was not a love match.
Other than their first night, he had shown no interest in anything beyond companionship.
It was her fault for misinterpreting his actions.
If he wanted to take a mistress, she could not stop him.
She slammed the book shut, threw it across the room, then buried her face in her arms.