Free The Wyndham Legacy by Catherine Coulter Page A

things.”
    Badger looked at the Duchess, but she merely smiled that cool, aloof smile of hers. “Go along with Sampson. His lordship can’t very well slit my throat in his library.”
    She walked quietly into the huge intimidating room. Marcus stood behind his desk. He didn’t move when he saw her standing in the doorway, merely said, “You came.”
    She nodded. “I had to. I wrote you that.”
    â€œYes, to be a Wyndham of Wyndham, you had to show your face here before January 1, 1814. But that makes no sense. You are either legitimate or you’re not. You are not without sense, Duchess. There is more, isn’t there?”
    She wouldn’t tell him the rest of it, tell him the real reason she was here. She couldn’t serve him such a blow. She would let Mr. Wicks do it. She simply raised her chin, saying nothing.
    Marcus grunted, threw down the sheaf of papers in his right hand, and came around the massive desk. “Congratulations on the marriage of your father and your mother.”
    â€œThank you. I only wish I had known, just a clue, perhaps before—”
    â€œWell, now you do and you’re home where you belong. It’s nearly Christmas. I plan to take the Twins and Spears out to cut a Yule log for the drawing room. Would you care to accompany us?”
    He saw, perhaps for the first time since he’d known her, a leap of something very excited in her blue eyes, then it was gone, and she was nodding coolly, saying, “Thankyou, Marcus. You are very kind. I apologize for being here, in advance, truly, I’m sorry if my now being legitimate is distressful to you.”
    He said, his voice harsh, “Nonsense, Chase Park is now your home, just as it is mine. If you hadn’t been such a stubborn twit, you would have been living here for the past six months instead of—” He broke off, shook his head, then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he said, “How did you earn money to keep that damned snug little cottage? And what about that very nice crystal?”
    â€œWhen would you like to cut that Yule log?”
    â€œIn an hour,” he said, looking at her white neck, his fingers clenching and unclenching. This gown was stylish, a pale cream muslin, the neckline not to her chin, but lower, just giving a hint of her bosom, which looked quite enticing to him. “Dress warmly and wear stout boots. Do you have warm clothes and stout boots?”
    â€œNo, I fancy I will have to wear only my shift and a pair of slippers. I have sufficient clothing, Marcus. Don’t worry. You aren’t my guardian. Also, I pray you won’t forget that you have only five years on me. In short, cousin Marcus, we are both quite young and indeed, too young to beset each other.”
    â€œWhat the hell does that mean? You’re still eighteen. I will very likely be appointed your guardian—despite my meager number of years—so I advise you, Duchess, not to raise the level of my ire any further.”
    â€œYour ire, Marcus, is of no concern to me. I’m here because I must be here. There is nothing more to it. And I now am nineteen.”
    â€œAnd will you deign to remain?”
    She gave him a small smile, an infuriating small smile, turned, and left the library. She didn’t close the door. He heard Mrs. Emory saying with surely too-great exuberance, “Hello, Duchess, and welcome! Oh, excuse me, miss, it’s Lady Duchess now. Let me take you to your room. Theearl has assigned you the Princess Mary Chamber, and very lovely it is, you remember, of course.”
    â€œOf course,” the Duchess said. “I remember it quite well. It is kind of his lordship to select such a superior accommodation for me.”

5
    T HERE WAS SOMETHING to be said for a Christmas at home in the bosom of one’s family, Marcus thought, as he sipped the warm nutmeg-tart mulled wine, felt the heat from the burning Yule log upon his face.