Chapter Eighteen
Winifred found Marcus standing outside the closed doors to the dining room, staring at the carved mahogany panels as if they were the gates of hell and the handles were hissing cobras.
Part of her wanted to demand to know if he’d taken a mistress.
But that would likely only worsen his anxiety, and if she was going to figure out how to convince Uncle Ethan there was no feud and see Felicity again, she needed him able to leave the castle.
“I’m here,” she said. Then she removed a handkerchief from her pocket and tucked it between the thumb and index finger of his right fist.
“Thank you,” he said. Without looking at her, he dabbed the soft fabric against his skin. “I-I do not know if I can do this. When I get anxious, I can barely eat.”
“You can. We will say you are recovering from illness.”
If she’d thought him truly not ready, she would have sent him away and made up an excuse to placate her guests, which included the vicar, his wife, and their two young daughters.
But Marcus had insisted an hour earlier that she not allow him to retreat.
It was only a momentary burst of fear that had paralyzed him.
She still thought it odd that a man of science, an inventor, seemed incapable of conquering the metaphorical demon that plagued him. “You need not say much,” she said as a footman opened the door from the inside. “I will lead the conversation.”
The space was lit by several hanging chandeliers and a long table was set up in the middle of the room, where the guests were already sitting.
The vicar, Mr. Charles Benton, was gesturing to the large windows.
His wife, Winona Benton, nodded every few seconds, making the peacock feathers tucked in her silver-blonde hair bob.
Their two daughters tilted their brown, curly heads together and whispered.
“Give me your arm,” Winifred whispered.
Marcus did so, and she placed her fingers on his sleeve. He led her to her seat, then took his, but when he sat, the table fell silent.
As if on cue, six servants filed in, carrying small, white plates containing grapefruit halves on trays.
“We were surprised to receive your invitation, my lady,” Mrs. Benton said.
She spoke softly, but the intensity in her bright-blue eyes and the way she kept her back perfectly straight reminded Winifred of her mother.
This was not a woman to be trifled with.
She turned to Marcus. “Will you and the countess be having more events in the future, my lord?”
Winifred tensed. That was not a question they had practiced.
“That is up to my wife to decide,” Marcus said after only the slightest hesitation.
She forced her stiff shoulders to relax.
He’d successfully navigated his first hurdle.
The vicar and his wife were easy guests to entertain.
They expected very little, and unlike proper society, would not notice or care if Marcus used the wrong spoon or rambled about a subject for far longer than necessary.
It also helped that Mrs. Benton had raised her twin daughters to be both polite and kind.
Over the next hour, Mrs. Benton made several comments that led Winifred to suspect she wanted Winifred to become friends with the girls.
Likely to improve their social standing.
Winifred was happy to do so, although she doubted association with her would hold much sway in the village.
Mr. Benton finished the last of his roast partridge, set down his fork, and patted his stomach. “That was magnificent.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Benton said. “I only wish you had invited us to your table sooner, my lord.”
Marcus froze. Winifred sensed the exact moment panic set in.
You can do this. It was a joke, not a critique.
He lifted a glass to his lips, a tactic she had shown him during their sessions, allowing him a few more seconds to respond. Then his cutlery began to bounce.
“Our cook is remarkable,” she said loudly.
“I will pass along your praise, Mrs. Benton. The ginger cream is my favorite.” She dipped her spoon in a bowl that contained a rich dessert flavored with strawberries and redcurrant jelly, then brought the dessert to her mouth.
The entire time, she watched Marcus out of the corner of her eye.
Judging from the way he subtly repositioned the silverware next to his plate, he was through the worst of the attack.
The rest of the meal proceeded without incident, and soon they were standing in the entryway alone, aside from a bored-looking footman.
“That went well,” Winifred said.
Marcus scoffed. “I would not call it a rousing success.” There were bags under his eyes and his face was sweaty. “I have not had such a stressful evening in decades. At least I was able to exit the wedding celebration early.”
She put her hands on her hips. “I remember.”
He grinned. “Thank you. For tonight. I appreciate it.”
“You do not need to pretend. I know you hated every minute.”
He put his palm over his heart. “You wound me. I merely disliked every minute.”
She matched his grin and remembered how Felicity had warned her that there was more to him than he presented.
Her cousin could not have known how right she had been.
Winifred had married him because she’d wanted the freedom to pursue her research.
She hadn’t expected him to slip between her ribs and wrap around her heart like a soft blanket.
It was with that in mind that she twined her arms around his neck.
He stiffened and maneuvered out of her grasp. “Not tonight.”
She let him go, even as she felt her heart breaking. He’d asked for time, but that could be a delaying tactic. She didn’t want to believe he had a mistress, but all the evidence pointed to the conclusion she’d arrived at the previous night.
Marcus was in love with someone else.