Thirty-three

Bits of hay flew as his pitchfork speared fodder. The barn was his solace, a place to ruminate on the choices ahead, choices made difficult by the new paper crinkling in his pocket. Genevieve worked inside the cottage, flanked by the Dutton sisters. Outside, rain poured thickly. Any rider would have to slog through the storm and battle a laundress and charwoman to steal his wife away. And there was much mud—thick, boot-sucking mud. No one would get in or out of Pallinsburn without notice.

Across the barn’s aisle, Samuel dumped oats into feed buckets, boring holes in Marcus’s back between each stall.

Marcus speared more hay. “You want to know what I’ve decided.”

“I do, but you seem different. You’re calm today.”

Time to contemplate his options had given Marcus clarity. So had limb-loosening sex with his wife.

“You mean I don’t seem like a man who could lose what little he has left in the world.”

The letter, folded safely in his breast pocket. News that changed everything. The message inside should be the answer to all his problems. The more distractions thrown his way, the more he gained precision of what he wanted and who he wanted. The dilemma was in how to make his wishes unfold.

“Atal wants to make it a three-horse race tomorrow and a bay filly of his.” Samuel squinted at the morning downpour beyond the barn doors. “It’d be dangerous with the mud.”

Marcus rolled the hay cart to the next stall. Horse heads poked over the stall, snickering at his coming. At the end of the row, Khan’s charcoal muzzle dipped over his private stall. The pampered steed deserved his accommodations. He was royalty, offspring of the Godolphin Arabian. The racehorse was also a dear friend. Marcus had been there when Khan was born, and the only one to train and ride him. And when Marcus needed extra coin, Khan delivered a steady stream of wins at casual country races.

The sure-footed gelding was at the edge of his prime. Marcus had stopped racing Khan for fear of injuries. He couldn’t let anything happen to his friend.

“If it’s like this all day and through the night, we ought to postpone…that is, if you’re planning to race Khan.”

Marcus drove the pitchfork into the ground and dug the letter from his pocket. “You need to read this.”

Samuel closed the distance in three strides. Handing over the letter was easy. Marcus owed his friend this…full knowledge of the options ahead. The reading was cursory with the juicy morsel of news near the top of the letter.

“When did you get this?” Samuel asked.

“Early this morning when Peter Dutton brought his sisters.”

“And?” Samuel shook the letter. “What are you going to do?”

Horses snorted. A few stomped the ground, restless from being denied their chance to run in the pasture. The heavy storm brought disruptions on all sides. The race tomorrow didn’t have to happen. He could cry off…the mud and all. None would gainsay him, but it wouldn’t stop the Wolf.

He took back the missive and scanned his brother’s hastily scrawled words.

Dear Marcus,

Your presence has been severely missed.

He snorted. His third reading, and he couldn’t get over the feeling North was laying it on thick.

You’re scoffing as you read this, I’m sure, but I was wrong.

Smirking, he pictured his brother’s woeful grimace as he wrote the letter.

The marchioness misses you, and so do I. It’s true. We want you back at Northampton. There’s been a development in the bride hunt. We found a bride for you. Do you recall talking with Miss Phoebe Rutherford at the Carruthers’ musicale? Her father, Mr. James Rutherford, owns three textile mills in Manchester and…

He stopped reading and folded the letter. A development indeed. He was shocked at North’s expectation that he be the sacrificial lamb on the altar of family need. That was the heir’s job. Not his. Did he recall Miss Phoebe Rutherford? Glossy black hair and light-blue eyes alight with mischief. He recalled her and their stolen moments behind a strategic topiary. She’d rubbed against him like a cat in heat, letting slip how she’d wanted a garden walk with the infamous Lord Marcus Bowles to experience his expert kisses.

The arrangement North requested wouldn’t happen. His heart was already taken by an inappropriate woman who favored russet-red skirts.

“Well,” Samuel prompted. “Are you going to pursue Miss Rutherford?”

“I’m a married man. That barrier aside, I thought you were against a man using a woman to solve his financial problems.”

Samuel had the decency to look away. “I was,” he admitted. “This offer would make things easier all around. Believe me, I’m sorely tempted to drag you back to Northampton.” His chest expanded with a deep breath. “But I wouldn’t be your friend if I did.”

“No?”

“It’d save our venture, spare you and Khan a dangerous race—”

“Which thrills Khan.”

“And you wouldn’t have to put him up as collateral for a loan, but it would break the heart of a certain housekeeper, who I’m certain was never your housekeeper to begin with.”

“Because I love her,” he said, leaning against the post where his wife had announced he’d delivered a nice, impersonal kiss—unlike Miss Rutherford who had wanted to experience his kisses. Genevieve didn’t want an experience. She wanted him.

“Does she know?”

“I haven’t found the right time.”

“Right time? You fool. There is no such thing.”

“When did you become an expert on matters of the heart?”

“This isn’t about me. That woman could slip away, and you’d lose her forever.” Samuel leaned against the stall. “You know what else I think? Your housekeeper wants your happiness, and she wouldn’t hesitate to take drastic measures to make sure you get what you want. Such as that letter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yesterday. You said she chased after Lord Barnard…to spare us any more trouble.”

Marcus held up the letter. “I still wouldn’t be free to marry a wealthy woman.”

“Pffft! If Barnard truly has the king’s ear, your problems are solved. He can take care of all legalities and make your Coldstream elopement disappear quickly and quietly on the grounds a woman duped you. The stagecoach records alone are damning. Proof she traveled under a false name.”

Was Samuel goading him?

Marcus made his way to Khan’s stall. “I couldn’t let that happen. Genevieve’s suffered enough from the maneuverings of men.” He petted Khan’s nose. “If or when she wants to leave, the burden of this will fall on me.”

“And the letter?”

“I’ll write North and tell him I must decline on the grounds I’m already a married man. It’s time I faced what I want on all facets.”

Samuel’s manly grunt of acknowledgment was his answer as he toed the stall’s bottom slat.

Marcus stuffed the letter in his pocket. “It doesn’t change our struggles.”

“There’s nothing bad about having struggles, Marcus. It’s what you do with them that defines you.”

Samuel moseyed back to his morning task of scooping oats for hungry horses. The side of the barn Samuel worked brimmed with the second needy herd. Already coats were thicker, eyes clearer, the cloud of misery lifted. There was satisfaction in having had a hand in those changes.

Marcus pulled an apple slice from his pocket and offered it to Khan. “You and I, my friend, are close to facing our defining moment.”