“For the best,” he echoed mockingly. One dark eyebrow lifted. “Was it for the best when you went tramping around London, lifting your skirts for any rich man who would have you?”
Catherine gasped and jerked as if he had slapped her. Marcus’ cheeks flared with color, as if his cruel words had shocked even him. Turning, he faced the fireplace, casting his rigid profile into shadow. Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes into what seemed like hours before he finally spoke.
“I will grant you your damned divorce, but you will do something for me first,” he gritted out.
“Anything,” said Catherine immediately. Her heart slammed against her ribcage as a wave of elated euphoria swept over her. Finally... Finally she was but one favor away from being free of her husband forever.
Stretching out his long arms Marcus braced his hands against the wooden mantle and leaned into the flames, letting them bath his face in flickering light. Once again he took his time gathering his thoughts, as if he wanted to weigh and measure each word before it was said aloud.
“I do not wish to marry again,” he began at last. “I have found I have neither the patience nor the time a wife requires, and a mistress will suit my needs just as well. But a mistress cannot give me a male heir, at least not a legitimate one, and with no other siblings the responsibility of ensuring the Kensington title stays with the Windfair’s rests on my shoulders alone. Grant me a son and I shall grant you a divorce. A fair arrangement, do you not agree?”
Poor Catherine was so stunned her lips parted half a dozen times before sound finally emerged. “I… you… no, Marcus. No! I will not. Do not ask this of me.”
He sighed and cast her a pitying glance over his shoulder before crossing the room to pour a new glass of scotch. Raising it to his lips he drank deeply and finished half of it in one hard swallow. “Then we shall continue as we have been. You in the city, myself in the country. It really is an ideal arrangement, my dear darling wife. I do not understand why it burdens you so.”
Her mind whirling, Catherine bit down on her bottom lip and worried it between her teeth. A child… She and Marcus had tried to conceive after their wedding, but had been unable. She was afraid she was barren, but had never shared her secret fear with her husband. Was the use of her body too high a price to pay for her freedom?
“I am waiting, Catherine.”
“Fine!” she snapped out, glaring at him with eyes that shot blue fire. “I will do as you ask, but on one condition.”
His glass of scotch paused halfway to his lips. “You will?”
“Yes,” she hissed, tossing her head back. “I will. If this is the only way I can be free of you than I shall do it, but I will take no pleasure from the act.”
“That is fine. I shall take enough for the both of us,” he said crudely.
Her fingers balled into tiny fists of anger. Fighting to school the flurry of emotions that struggled to run rampant across her face, she took a deep breath. “But I have one condition. If after two months I have no conceived, you will agree to a divorce.”
“That is not the agreement I offered.”
“No, but it is the only one I shall give.” Catherine drew herself to her full height and stared at him without blinking, drawing strength from the idea that in two months she would be free from Marcus forever. She was not concerned an actual child would come of their intimacy; if she had not conceived before she would hardly do so now. Why, one of her closest friends had been trying for a child for years without success. It was not an ideal situation, being forced to lie beneath her husband again, but it was something she would gladly suffer through if it meant being granted her independence.
“One year,” said Marcus.
“Two months,” Catherine countered swiftly.
“Six months.”
“One.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “Two it is.”
She hid her smile behind a cupped hand.
Marcus scowled. “Go clean yourself up and change out of that filthy dress,” he said. “I do not want mud on my sheets.”
Catherine’s smile vanished. “Y-you want to sleep together t-tonight?” she stuttered. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks, along with her carefully constructed layers of control.
Marcus gave a negligent shrug. “Why not? If I only have two months, there is no point in wasting time.”
“N-no, I suppose not,” she murmured. It had been over three years since she had been to Woodsgate, but she remembered the way to the master bedroom as if their honeymoon had been yesterday. Holding her spine so stiff she feared it might crack, she gathered up her damp skirts, turned on her heel, and ascended the stairs without looking back.
Chapter Four