Page 13 of The Vampire's Guide to Wooing a Scholar
“A lesson,” Marcus said coldly. “Our nest has become complacent.” He tucked his hands behind his back. “I might have allowed Cordon to presume authority for the moment, but you would do well to remember that I am the eldest.”
Jonathan straightened. “Y-Yes. Of course.” Then he dropped to his knees and dipped his head. “I will obey your commands.”
Chapter Eight
Winifred sat infront of a dressing table in her new room wearing the softest cotton night rail she owned and running a comb through her hair. Her attentive maids had already helped her bathe, plying her with a magical substance that had caused her usual wild curls to form soft ringlets, but she had to keep her hands busy to keep from peeling the loose skin at the edge of her thumb or absently plucking her eyebrows. It was far past the hour when she should have been asleep, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Marcus.
They hadn’t discussed how or when she would take up her duties as his assistant. In fact, the contrast between their energetic letters and the stilted conversation when he’d delivered her to her room couldn’t have been starker.
She shook her head. This was ridiculous. He was her husband and she certainly would not be able to sleep until she clarified the bounds of their relationship and whether he’d agree to Felicity coming to live with them. Better to ask immediately rather than grow increasingly anxious by delaying.
With her mind made up, she donned a plush wool wrapper before venturing into the hallway. One of her maids had mentioned that Marcus spent his evenings in his workshop at the top of the north tower. With that in mind, she strode through her cavernous new home, her slippers slapping against the carpet runner and then bare stone. After several turns, she discovered a spiral staircase and climbed it until she’d found a wooden door braced with iron.
She knocked, but there was no response. Then she heard a loud slam, followed by a string of words that made her ears burn. Whatever Marcus was up to, he clearly needed her help. She tried knocking once more, and when there was no answer, she turned the knob and peered inside.
The circular room was stuffed with machines in various states of disassembly. A long, wooden desk filled with tools stood by a narrow window framed by thick, velvet curtains. She couldn’t see Marcus, but she could hear him muttering, so she cracked the door open more until she spotted him crouching next to a large, cylindrical contraption. He wore black boots, brown trousers, and a loose, white shirt that gaped at the neck. He had one arm stuck to the elbow inside what she assumed was his latest invention, and the other was braced on the floor.
She licked her lips, aware that she was staring and should announce herself, but watching him work was fascinating. The awkward, quiet man who had led her to her room wasn’t the Marcus she knew from her letters. Nor had she recognized the man who’d made halting conversation at her door before running away. But the figure in front of her, his cheeks red with exertion and his hair slick from hours of focus…thatwas the Marcus she knew. The tension that had been building in her from the moment he’d kissed her that afternoon vanished, replaced by a warmth that curled in her stomach and gave her the confidence she needed to step inside.
Marcus’s head jerked in her direction. He withdrew his arm from the contraption and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Win—What, er, are you doing up so late?”
The concern in his large, brown eyes, the softness of his voice, and the triangle of pale skin showing through the top of his gaping shirt combined to chase every intelligent thought from her head. Instead of offering to help or asking him about Felicity or turning around and fleeing before she embarrassed herself further, all she did was stare.
He closed the space between them and put his hands gently on her shoulders. “Winifred. It is only me.”
His use of her name jostled her senses back in order. She’d been an utter fool coming to him so late at night. He could have been furious at the invasion of his privacy. She had certainly snapped at her own cousin in the past when Felicity had barged into the library while Winifred had been deep in a tricky bit of translation.
“I apologize, my lord,” she said. “I did not intend to interrupt.”
“‘My lord’?” He dropped his hands to her upper arms and squeezed. “When did I stop being ‘Marcus’?”
“Marcus,” she whispered. Then she breathed in sharply, taking in the smell of sweat and hot metal. Weeks of imagining their meeting, and not once had her mind supplied how he might have smelled. It was overwhelming, but she had not dared the freezing stairs to fall apart at the last moment. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and met his gaze. “Can I be of assistance?”
He scratched the base of his throat. “You want to help?”
“Yes.” She would show him how useful she could be and hope that would sway his opinion when she brought up Felicity. She guessed that like any scientist, he could go hours without sleep or food while focused on a problem. As his assistant, she intended to provide him with anything he needed to continue working efficiently, even if that meant occasionally wrenching him out of his workshop to stretch his legs or take a walk in the sun.
His lips turned down. “It’s been a long day. You should rest.”
Now there was something she recognized, having heard similar statements from her cousin for years. She put her hands on her hips. “As should you. Nevertheless, we are both awake.” She slid the sleeves of her wrapper up to her elbows. “Tell me what to do.”
This was much better. Focusing on the task to be accomplished made it easier to not stare at his lips and remember how he’d pressed them to hers in such a light caress, or how his hands had felt on her shoulders. She’d come all the way across the ocean to be his assistant first and wife second.
“Well, if you insist,” he said. “There is a loose bolt I can’t reach. Hence…” He held up his grease-covered hands.
She giggled, then looked at her own palms and the slim, gold band he’d slipped onto her finger earlier. Wearing it while squeezing between heavy gears was a terrible idea. She’d read of working men who’d had entire parts of their body amputated because they’d failed to remove a bit of jewelry and it had become caught in machinery. She carefully slid the item off and was about to slip it into her pocket when Marcus said, “Wait.”
He removed a chain from beneath his shirt, unclasped it, then held out one end. “It’ll be more secure this way. You can tuck it beneath your clothes.”
She stared at the necklace for several seconds before threading her wedding band onto it.
He held the chain so that the ring slid to the middle. “Turn around.”
She did as he asked, then shivered as his arms came around her. A soft click indicated he’d done up the clasp. She lifted the necklace and placed it beneath her chemise so it nestled between her breasts atop the scar her uncle had given her years ago.
“Will that suffice?” he asked, his voice rougher than it had been a moment ago.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Rather than consider what the exchange meant, or wonder why the metal now lying against her bare skin wasn’t warm from his body, she spun around. “Yes. Now, tell me what to do.”
