Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Mark heard the hushed voices outside the closed drawing room door.
Finally. He’d waited two whole hours. Mark took a deep breath, bracing himself for a flutter of silliness, nerves, and giggles. As the door opened, Mark stood.
A woman paused in the doorway, dressed in a simple wool gown with hardly any bustle at all.
Her light brown hair wisped around her shoulders and made a frizzy halo about her face.
She was taller than Mark remembered, but the brown eyes and rosy cheeks were the same.
The bright gold wedding ring on her hand, the same.
The sharp chin, the swan-like neck, the same.
She was older, yes, he could tell that immediately.
And she stood more confidently than he had imagined.
“Ellen.” Mark bowed and smiled, stomach full of fluttering moths. “You look lovely.” True. “It’s so wonderful to see you.” Not so true.
Ellen stood in the doorway for several heartbeats, like a statue. Even her face went white as marble. “You.” Her tone was low, hard, and sharp.
Mark fumbled, and the moths turned to bees. “Uh, yes. I was recently discharged from the Navy and I’ve come to see you. I know it’s been overlong, my love, but—”
She marched toward him, face clenched with, was it fury? And before he could even finish his sentence she raised her hand and cracked it across his face.
Pain, blinding and hot, scalded across him. Mark’s eyes watered at the impact, and he whipped his head back to face her. Shock rippled through him. He hadn’t been hit since he was a midshipman years ago. And—Ellen? Ellen had hit him?
“You bastard!” Ellen breathed. “You good for nothing bastard.”
This, also, apparently, would not go according to Mark’s plan. Eyes wide, he beheld the fury in front of him in shock. He hadn’t known what to expect, but anger hadn’t been on his list of possibilities. “I realize I’ve stayed away far too long.” I didn’t know Ellen Hanson could get this angry!
“You spawn of Satan.” She slapped him again, on the other cheek.
Mark gasped in pain and stepped back, hitting his heels on the chaise behind him. “Let’s talk about this like civilized people, Ellen. We’re married.”
“Don’t remind me.” Ellen glared.
“This isn’t how I saw my day going, either.” Mark raised his hands to fend her off. “How about a cup of tea? That should calm you.”
Had his wife gotten a case of female hysteria while he’d been at sea? Why had no one told him she’d lost her wits? A tiny sliver of regret—or guilt?—wedged beside his surprise. She never wrote to complain. We decided this was a mutually beneficial arrangement.
In the distance, the front door opened and slammed.
Ellen took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, clenching her fists. “You will remove yourself from my presence this instant. You will walk out that door and never reenter my life. You will—”
Heavy footsteps sounded in the foyer beyond them.
“What’s all this?” Mr. Hanson stuck his head in the door. “Mark? Is that you?”
Mark smiled weakly. “Ah, my dear father-in-law. So good to see you.” Please go away so I can finish arguing with my wife.
Mr. Hanson also looked older, his pale skin paler. His gray mutton chops bristled when he talked, and he patted his potbelly in contemplation. “I heard you might be in town. We’re having a small dinner party tonight. You will attend, of course?”
So he hadn’t beaten all the gossip that he’d returned to London. Stifling a groan of frustration, Mark dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I’d be delighted.”
“No.” Ellen, still in front of Mark, practically vibrated with rage. She whirled to face her father, and another curl escaped her bun and drifted down her back at the violent movement. “He will throw the numbers off. Mother planned the dinner carefully, and we’ll be uneven.”
Mark frowned, confused. Ellen Hanson, who'd spent her nineteenth birthday with pink frills and footmen carrying pink petit fours in Hyde Park with tiny lapdogs yapping about, was showing more personality in this moment than he’d ever seen.
She looked...well, not beautiful. Nineteen-year-old Ellen from Hyde Park was beautiful.
This older, more negative Ellen was vibrant.
“Come now, poppet. He is your husband. I think we can let the numbers go askew for that.” Mr. Hanson entered the drawing room.
Mark stepped forward, and Ellen sidestepped so she wouldn’t be too close. He reached over, which made her lean back farther, and shook his father-in-law’s hand. “Reginald. It’s been too long.”
The man furrowed his brow as he gave a hard shake of his hand. “It has been overlong.”
I probably deserve that. Guilt twisted through him, something else he hadn’t planned to deal with today.
“I’d be delighted to join the dinner,” Mark repeated. “It will give us time to catch up.”
“Rumor has it you’re no longer a part of the Royal Navy.” Mr. Hanson leaned back and stuck his hands in his waistcoat pockets, looking Mark over. “You look well.”
Well, bugger. She should’ve been the first to hear, she deserved that as his wife.
He thought that going from port to the country would have slipped under society gossip’s attention.
“Nearly a month now. I’ve spent almost all of the past eight years on a ship, so it’s good to get my land legs back.
” Steeling himself, Mark flashed an easy grin.
He and his father-in-law had always gotten along well.
They were men of business, interested in advancing in Society and making a name for themselves. Mark understood and respected it.
“I’m very sorry to hear the circumstances of your discharge. Your brother is strong, though. He’ll recover.”
Mark winced. “They weren’t going to let me go.
It wasn’t as if Matthew died and I had inherited everything, so my superior officers wouldn’t budge at first. Thank goodness for friends in high places.
” He shot a glance at Ellen, who stood nearby, arms crossed, looking like she was sucking on a lemon.
While everyone in high society probably knew about the accident by now, no one but the family knew the extent of the injuries.
“The privilege of the aristocracy! Where have you been recently?” Mr. Hanson inquired.
“I was at Cottesloe, checking on Matthew. The accident happened three months ago, but it took a while for news to reach me, and then for me to be discharged.”
“I meant your ship.” Mr. Hanson rocked back on his heels, smile on his face.
“Father,” Ellen broke in, but he ignored her.
“The HMS Black Prince mostly alternated between voyages on the Atlantic and Channel work.” He darted a nervous look at Ellen. She refused to acknowledge him.
“Well!” Mr. Hanson leaned forward and clapped Mark on the shoulder. “You’ll have to share all your stories with us over supper.”
“He isn’t dressed properly,” Ellen interjected through gritted teeth. “He can’t come to dinner.”
Mark looked down at his afternoon wear: a simple brown frock coat, paisley green necktie and waistcoat, and simple walking shoes. “I’m not prepared for black tie,” he agreed.
“I’ll send a footman to your house to pick up your valet and clothes. Will that work?” Mr. Hanson raised a bushy eyebrow.
Mark hesitated. His valet was new to him, and had been Matthew’s until a few days ago.
He was probably still unpacking. Or dusting.
The furniture was covered in six inches of dust. More importantly, Ellen looked like she was about to crack a tooth.
Yet he wanted to please his father-in-law, to start off right.
“Very well. If you have a room I can freshen up in?”
“Of course.” Mr. Hanson walked to a corner of the room and yanked on a bellpull. Ellen huffed and snorted.
It was the right decision to stay, wasn’t it? Then again, he wasn’t married to Mr. Hanson, he wasn’t the one Mark had to woo back into his bed. Why was she so angry? Hadn’t she eventually agreed separation was best for both of them?
A tense moment later a footman scurried into the room.
“Sir?” The black-haired young man was still straightening his white gloves as he looked to them expectantly.
Mr. Hanson relayed his instructions, requesting Mark follow the footman upstairs to a guest room.
Nothing was going exactly to plan, but then again, it hadn’t for eight years. So Mark thanked his host and followed the footman out of the room.
“Why did you do that?” Ellen hissed, and Mark could feel her vitriol through the open door.
“He’s finally here and I’m not letting him get away,” Mr. Hanson replied.
“He should have been here eight years ago.”
Mark slowed his steps, knowing he was being childish, but curiosity overcame him.
“Better late than never,” Mr. Hanson said.
“Not in this case.” Ellen shut the door.
Mark flushed and hurried to catch up with the footman.
When Mark arrived in the drawing room again two hours later, resplendent in a black dinner coat, white necktie and silk waistcoat, he found it full of dazzling gowns, sparkling jewels, gossiping women, and stuffy men.
Amidst the small crowd, a peach dress broke free and launched at him. “Mark, darling!”
Blinking in surprise, Mark reached out his hands and clasped his mother-in-law in a loose embrace. “Mrs. Hanson.”
“You can call me Mother, you silly boy.” The short, blond woman smiled up at him.
She had the full cheeks and sharp chin of her daughter, and she was likely also where Ellen had inherited her gaiety.
“We are so happy to have you back. Still, it would’ve done Ellen so much good had you been here for the tragedy.
” The peach gown offset her creamy complexion beautifully.
A little confused, Mark nodded. “I didn’t think Ellen would be so affected by my brother’s health.”
Mrs. Hanson lost her smile. “I was very sorry to hear about your brother’s riding accident, but you know that’s not what I meant. I meant seven years ago.”