Mistress - Amanda Quick [122]
“We shall get through this, m’dear,” Otis murmured as he guided her toward the doors. “From the very beginning we knew that someday we might have to face the thing.”
• • •
An hour and a half later, shortly before two-thirty in the morning, Marcus walked into his laboratory, poured himself a glass of brandy, and settled into the chair behind his worktable.
He surveyed the chamber by the light of the single lamp that he had lit. He needed to think and he always did his best thinking in this room.
He propped his boots on the table, leaned back, and took a sip of the brandy. It was his habit to let his thoughts drift aimlessly for a few minutes before he began to concentrate. The technique helped him to focus his attention.
He reflected briefly on the conversation in the Crandals’ garden an hour ago. He knew Iphiginia was anxious about her aunt’s situation, but Otis had seemed quietly satisfied with events. Marcus thought he understood. After eighteen years of being forced to play the role of a doting friend, Otis would now be able to claim his daughter.
By the end of the discussion, Zoe had seemed resigned to the inevitable, perhaps even relieved that the secret was about to come out.
It remained to be seen how Maryanne would respond to the news that Otis was her real father. Her wedding plans were unquestionably in jeopardy, but who knew how it would all fall out? Marcus thought. Sheffield was an independent-minded young man with a will of his own. If he really loved Maryanne, he might not give a bloody damn about the gossip.
If he really loved Maryanne?
“Bloody hell.” Marcus’s mouth turned down in disgust. He was starting to think like one of those idiot romantic poets. Obviously he had been spending too much time in the company of his brother and Iphiginia. Their distorted, overly romanticized views of the relations between men and women were having an insidious effect on him. He would have to take care that he did not allow them to influence him unduly. He was a man of reason, not a poet.
He had learned his lessons the hard way, formulated his rules so as to protect himself from the pitfalls of naivete and romantic inclinations.
A knock on the door of the laboratory interrupted Marcus before he could refocus his thoughts.
“Enter.”
“Marcus?” Bennet walked into the room.
Marcus glanced at him. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” Bennet hesitated. “Lovelace said you were in here. I was on my way upstairs to bed. Thought I’d say good night.”
“I came in here to do some thinking.” Marcus looked down at the glass in his hand. “Have a brandy with me?”
“Thanks.” Bennet seemed relieved by the invitation. He crossed the room to the brandy table and poured himself a measure.
Marcus waited.
Bennet cradled the brandy glass and looked down into its depths. “I saw you with Mrs. Bright an hour ago.”
“At the Crandals?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“It was an awful crush,” Bennet said. “The ballroom was packed.”
“Yes, it was.”
Bennet cleared his throat. “Have you made plans for your wedding yet?”
“Mrs. Bright has not yet consented to be my bride.”
Bennet’s head came up swiftly, his expression one of amazement. “What did you say?”
“She is not precisely leaping at the opportunity to become my wife.” Marcus smiled ruefully. “She claims that although she is rather, ah, fond of me, she is not terribly keen on the notion of marrying me.”
Bennet choked on his brandy. “She must be mad.” In spite of his opinion on the subject, it was obvious that he was affronted by the news.
“I shall take that as a compliment,” Marcus said. “But in truth she is far from mad. She is spirited, proud, independent, and very much an Original, but she is not mad.”
“How could she not want to marry you? You’re an earl, for God’s sake. And wealthy into the bargain. Any woman in her position would kill to marry you.”
“Mrs. Bright is quite comfortably well off, thanks to her own judicious investments. Nor does she seem overly impressed with my title.” Marcus smiled faintly. “She has a