Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Mark lived on that kiss for the rest of the day.
He didn’t want to push his luck, even when Ellen seemed so light-hearted and eager for intimacy.
He contented himself with merely holding her hand, touching her hair, and stealing three more chaste, close-mouthed kisses throughout the day.
His whole body ached with desire, literally ached as if in pain, but he refused to ruin something before it could truly begin.
They almost didn’t make it to supper with her parents.
They dressed separately in their rooms, the connecting door left open the entire time.
He handed her hairpins while she put her hair up, and he told her she looked beautiful as he wrapped her in a coat and handed her the new gloves.
She couldn’t stop smiling at him, and it made Mark feel like they would find a new, better life together.
Dinner was long and dull, when all Mark could think of was bundling Ellen in a carriage and devouring her while they drove back home.
He restrained himself. Barely. It was late when they returned home, the servants milling about the kitchen.
Mark and Ellen tiptoed upstairs, stealing glances at one another, and he played lady’s maid in helping her change for bed.
He turned his back, putting away the hairbrush and her evening toilette, while she slipped out of her combination and into her nightrail, and the rustling satin had sent a pang through his cock that took his breath away.
He mastered it, then tucked her in bed. To his immense satisfaction, he saw the glint of the gold locket around her neck even as she burrowed under her blankets.
Mark gave her a long, lingering kiss. Ellen sighed happily into his mouth as she kissed him back.
She didn’t ask him to stay in her bed, even for sleeping, and he didn’t ask.
Not yet, even if his whole body had canted toward her and his legs had nearly seized when he forced himself to walk to the door.
The next week was that odd period of time in the dead of winter, between Christmas and New Year’s, when everything felt like it had come to a halt and was waiting.
The post, thankfully, did continue to come each day.
On New Year’s Eve he finished translating one scene from the Argonautica to his satisfaction, then paused to sort through the letters Gaye brought him on the letter tray. Three stood out.
The first was a short note from one of his brothers:
Mark—
You missed a hell of a Christmas at Cottesloe.
Mama was in rare form, and Matthew’s little nurse is just darling.
Quite bossy, too, which Matthew despises.
I love it. I hope you had a happy little Christmas.
Speaking of which, I haven’t seen you since you’ve returned.
I came back to London early and plan to visit the Opera tonight.
I rented a box for the whole season (I know, don’t chide me about the cost), and you’re free to join tonight. The Pirates of Penzance. No need to send a note, just ask for Box 12.
–-Luke
Pleasure suffused Mark as he read it. He had spent all his leave for the past few years either carousing through London with Luke or hunting and stomping through the countryside with Matthew.
When the younger ones weren’t away at school, he loved debating philosophy and natural sciences with them.
He hadn’t seen them since the end of September, when he’d visited Cottesloe to check on Matthew’s injury, and the opportunity to catch up with Luke was delightful.
He needed to check with Ellen first, as she often returned to the house tired from a long day’s work.
The second came from his mother and was as lengthy as usual.
He read it slowly, enjoying all the tidbits of gossip she included about his brothers.
She had a lot to say about Matthew’s recovery, of course, and the Nightingale who forced him to try walking again.
She lamented the fact that Mark was her only married son, and wished Luke would hurry up and find a bride.
Mark rolled his eyes at that. Luke was utterly and completely devoted to his valet, and Mark never knew if his mother was oblivious or just held out futile hope she would one day have grandchildren.
She complained regularly she hadn’t had six sons for them to all be bachelors.
John was a curate in some remote village near Wales, and their mother lamented that he’d moved so far away and hadn’t settled in Cottesloe with one of the country squire’s daughters.
Mark had missed him at Christmas, as he always loved debating pagan philosophy with him. They were the studious brothers.
Peter and Paul, the twins, had just finished at Oxford, though Mark wasn’t sure how much they’d learned while there. His mother said they were off to the Continent for a grand tour with friends.
His mother veered right to the topic of grandchildren.
She hinted, very strongly, she was glad to hear he’d spent Christmas with his wife in their own home, and she couldn’t wait to soon have grandchildren to cuddle and spoil.
And that it would ease a huge burden from Matthew’s shoulders, as he felt he’d let down not only the family, but the whole lineage, not being able to bring forth the next generation for the title.
Your younger brothers have no deep attachment to the estate, but you and Matthew can show your future son what an honor it is to be Baron.
Mark’s stomach curdled and he carefully set the letter down.
What did Ellen mean, she wouldn’t be having more children?
Is she unable? Was the birth so traumatic?
Or is she unwilling? Mark liked the idea of being a father now he was twenty-eight.
He thought of snuggling a child or three on his lap, telling them the stories of Herakles and Jason in the firelight of a nursery.
And carrying the expectation of his family line was heavy on his shoulders.
But with Ellen...he was loath to put her in a position that made her feel inadequate or caused more heartbreak.
Growling in frustration, Mark set aside that problem for another day. We have time, he reminded himself as he picked up the third letter. It was postmarked from Oxford. His heart thumped, and he ripped the envelope open.
Dear Mark,
It’s so good to hear from you more regularly now! I’m sure the Navy was right nanty narking, but we’re all glad you’re taking scholarship seriously again.
I let Professor Duncap know about your interest in further studies of classical poetry, and he remembered you fondly.
Said he was glad you hadn’t gotten blown out of the water.
Anyway, when you get a selection done, send it to me and I’ll present it to him.
If a don position at Wadham College opens, you’ll be the first to know. We might both live in Oxford!
Cheers, Edward
Mark snorted at the brevity of the letter. It was just like Edward, who waxed rhapsodic about the rhetorical devices of ancient Greeks while drunk, but was known for letters with abrupt endings.
He sighed, casting his eyes around the study.
It was clean and organized, and he should feel brimming full of ideas and yet…
he loved the stories of the Greeks, but the actual translation process wasn’t as joy-filled as it used to be.
Maybe because he was alone, in a townhouse in London, rather than bumping elbows with fellow scholars amidst the bustle of the university.
The front door out in the hall burst open and Ellen’s gait sounded through the halls. Mark jumped up and rushed to greet her, not bothering to remove his spectacles.
“Happy New Year’s Eve!” he blurted, sounding ridiculous to his own ears, as he braced his hands against the study doorframe and leaned into the hall.
Ellen smiled as she unwrapped her scarf and took her cloak off. “To you too!”
“It is fortuitous you’re back early. Luke sent a note inviting us to the opera tonight. Would you like to go?”
She draped the cloak over the coat rack in the hall, ignoring Gaye as he came toward her from out of nowhere, muttering something about wild, independent women.
“The opera? I haven’t been in ages. Probably five or six years.
And it is New Year’s Eve.” Ellen stepped toward him, and he took her hand in his.
Mark felt a smile tugging at his lips. He smiled whenever she was around. He pulled her to the study, where a fire was roaring. “Come get warm.”
Ellen allowed herself to be seated on a velvet ottoman, and leaned toward the fire, shivering. Mark sat behind her and rubbed his hands briskly up and down her arms to chase the chill away.
“It’s the Pirates of Penzance, I believe. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”
Ellen stared at him in dismay. “Never? And you were in the Navy! How can you possibly call yourself a modern gentleman without knowing the very model of a modern major general?”
Mark rolled his eyes, having heard that line far, far too many times. “Go with me tonight and correct my ignorance, then. Wear the red dress you wore to your parents’ Christmas dinner. I love that with your hair all done up.” He nuzzled her neck, and she sighed.
“You’re so warm. How was your day?”
Mark thought of the letter from Oxford and his pulse spiked. “Fine. Letters from old friends at Oxford, a letter from my mother.”
“She’s lonely, I believe,” Ellen addressed the fire. “All her boys, all grown up.”
Mark chuckled. “She told me in no uncertain terms she wants grandchildren.”
Ellen stiffened at his words. “She will have to look to Luke and the others for that.”
Mark paused, letting his hands gently grip her shoulders. “Why?” He didn’t want to push her, but he did want to know. “Was it…was the birth that bad?”
Ellen sighed, still facing the fire. “It was terrible, but not in the way you mean. I can still bear children. It was an uncomplicated, easy delivery, as far as childbirth goes,” she added bitterly.