Read Online War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 by Lynne Connolly - Free Book Online
Authors: Lynne Connolly
Tags: Roman gods;Olympus;Titans;Georgian;Regency;Gothic;England;governess;jane eyre;beauty and the beast
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thought of his predicament since they’d sat down to dinner. The remains of the food were cold, sauces congealed. They should have left the room long before this, but he was concerned he’d break the spell, that she’d retreat once more and he would be unable to reach her again.
She enchanted him. That fresh naïveté, so rare in the people he knew intrigued him, as did her intelligence. He did not need to know her full story to know that. She showed it every time that flash of apprehension shaded her eyes, and her mouth clamped shut, as if she’d said too much.
He owed her the answer to that question.
“I promise I won’t tell,” she said.
He waited for her to cross her heart in childlike fashion, but was disappointed when she did not. “No, I am not their father.”
Did he want to say any more? He did not. She could believe him or not, as she chose, but the truth was too raw and too new for him to easily share it with someone he’d barely met. Even if sometimes he felt he’d known her for years.
“Come, Miss Carter. Time for us to part, I fear. I have estate business to attend to, and you must attend to your duties.”
She rose gracefully, and curtseyed, her movements unconsciously elegant. He bowed in return, because she deserved it.
After she left, his demons returned.
He went to his room, tried to read, but it reminded him of the conversation with her earlier and subjects he still wanted to discuss with her. He paced the room, turned and paced back. He stripped off his neckcloth, which was positively strangling him, tossed it aside, and since the evening still held considerable heat, followed it with his coat and waistcoat. Damned inconveniences. What would whoever set fashions think of next?
He’d set one. He’d appear in public in a thick, shapeless tunic and breeches. No neckcloth, ever.
Grumbling, he wandered around his apartments, looking for something to do. He found nothing to hold his interest. Only that damned pixie woman. She looked at him as if he had the answer to everything, then gave him a cool response that knocked him sideways. He could never tell what she would say next, whether it was when she was doing her best to behave in a subservient manner or forgetting herself and answering back with something so impertinent it made him smile.
Finding sleep eluded him, and nothing to hold his interest, Marcus thought of the brandy downstairs. He had some in his room but the decanter was unaccountably empty. Unless Henstall had interfered again and ordered it not refilled. The man still thought of himself as Marcus’ father. It wasn’t as if alcohol would affect his health—as an immortal he would recover from any physical damage. Devil take it, one of his friends needed to keep himself sotted in order to stay sane. Marcus just wanted a reprieve from the agony ripping at him night and day.
It was dark, but he didn’t bother lighting a candle. He’d see his own way downstairs. He knew all the nooks and crannies of this house, every crack and imperfection. They were natural consequences of centuries of existence, at least for some. Not for him, though. He knew people as old as this house, fellow immortals, and they showed none of the vagaries of time. Except, perhaps, for a weariness of the soul.
At the age of thirty-one Marcus was only beginning to understand what he could do and what life might hold in store. The prospect sometimes elated him, sometimes filled him with horror. Two months ago, at the height of the London season, he wished for nothing else. Vigorous and popular, with a lover who was the most beautiful woman in the country, he’d savoured life to the full. Then it had come crashing down in a public and spectacular way. Now? Now, nothing.
He paused at the top of the stairs. He usually used the nearest ones, occasionally coming across a startled maid when he used the staircase meant for the servants. The staff here knew his ways, and most just bobbed a curtsey or nodded
She enchanted him. That fresh naïveté, so rare in the people he knew intrigued him, as did her intelligence. He did not need to know her full story to know that. She showed it every time that flash of apprehension shaded her eyes, and her mouth clamped shut, as if she’d said too much.
He owed her the answer to that question.
“I promise I won’t tell,” she said.
He waited for her to cross her heart in childlike fashion, but was disappointed when she did not. “No, I am not their father.”
Did he want to say any more? He did not. She could believe him or not, as she chose, but the truth was too raw and too new for him to easily share it with someone he’d barely met. Even if sometimes he felt he’d known her for years.
“Come, Miss Carter. Time for us to part, I fear. I have estate business to attend to, and you must attend to your duties.”
She rose gracefully, and curtseyed, her movements unconsciously elegant. He bowed in return, because she deserved it.
After she left, his demons returned.
He went to his room, tried to read, but it reminded him of the conversation with her earlier and subjects he still wanted to discuss with her. He paced the room, turned and paced back. He stripped off his neckcloth, which was positively strangling him, tossed it aside, and since the evening still held considerable heat, followed it with his coat and waistcoat. Damned inconveniences. What would whoever set fashions think of next?
He’d set one. He’d appear in public in a thick, shapeless tunic and breeches. No neckcloth, ever.
Grumbling, he wandered around his apartments, looking for something to do. He found nothing to hold his interest. Only that damned pixie woman. She looked at him as if he had the answer to everything, then gave him a cool response that knocked him sideways. He could never tell what she would say next, whether it was when she was doing her best to behave in a subservient manner or forgetting herself and answering back with something so impertinent it made him smile.
Finding sleep eluded him, and nothing to hold his interest, Marcus thought of the brandy downstairs. He had some in his room but the decanter was unaccountably empty. Unless Henstall had interfered again and ordered it not refilled. The man still thought of himself as Marcus’ father. It wasn’t as if alcohol would affect his health—as an immortal he would recover from any physical damage. Devil take it, one of his friends needed to keep himself sotted in order to stay sane. Marcus just wanted a reprieve from the agony ripping at him night and day.
It was dark, but he didn’t bother lighting a candle. He’d see his own way downstairs. He knew all the nooks and crannies of this house, every crack and imperfection. They were natural consequences of centuries of existence, at least for some. Not for him, though. He knew people as old as this house, fellow immortals, and they showed none of the vagaries of time. Except, perhaps, for a weariness of the soul.
At the age of thirty-one Marcus was only beginning to understand what he could do and what life might hold in store. The prospect sometimes elated him, sometimes filled him with horror. Two months ago, at the height of the London season, he wished for nothing else. Vigorous and popular, with a lover who was the most beautiful woman in the country, he’d savoured life to the full. Then it had come crashing down in a public and spectacular way. Now? Now, nothing.
He paused at the top of the stairs. He usually used the nearest ones, occasionally coming across a startled maid when he used the staircase meant for the servants. The staff here knew his ways, and most just bobbed a curtsey or nodded
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