Marcus had never felt the bite of unspent passion as keenly as he did now. There were many women who would be entirely willing to satisfy his needs. All it would take was a few murmurs and a discreet tap on the bedroom door, and he would find himself in a pair of welcoming female arms. But it seemed wrong to use one woman as a substitute for someone that he couldn’t have.

Drawing near the family parlor, Marcus paused beside the half-open door as he heard his mother lecturing the Bowman sisters. Her complaint appeared to hinge upon the sisters’ habit of speaking to the footmen who served them at the dinner table.

“But why shouldn’t I thank someone for doing me a service?” he heard Lillian ask with genuine perplexity. “It’s polite to say thank you, isn’t it?”

“You should no more thank a servant than you would thank a horse for allowing you to ride it, or a table for bearing the dishes you place upon it.”

“Well, we’re not discussing animals or inanimate objects, are we? A footman is a person.”

“No,” the countess said coldly. “A footman is a servant.”

“And a servant is a person,” Lillian said stubbornly.

The elderly woman replied in exasperation. “Whatever your view of a footman is, you must not thank him at dinner. Servants neither expect nor desire such condescension, and if you insist on putting them in the awkward position of having to respond to your remarks, they will think badly of you…as will everyone else. Do not insult me with that vapid stare, Miss Bowman! You come from a family of means—surely you employed servants at your New York residence!”

“Yes,” Lillian acknowledged pertly, “but we talked to ours.”

Marcus fought to suppress a sudden laugh. It had been rare, if ever, that he had heard anyone dare to spar with the countess. Knocking lightly at the door, he entered the room, interrupting a potentially caustic exchange. Lillian twisted in her chair to view him. The flawless ivory of her skin was burnished with pink at the crests of her cheeks. The sophisticated braided coil of her hair, pinned high on her head, should have made her appear older, but instead it seemed to emphasize her youth. Although she was motionless in the chair, an air of electric impatience seemed to surround her. She reminded him of a schoolgirl who was eager to escape her lessons and run outside.

“Good afternoon,” Marcus said politely. “I trust your discussion is going well?”

Lillian gave him a speaking glance.

Sternly fighting a smile, Marcus delivered a formal bow to his mother. “My lady, a letter has arrived from America.”

His mother stared at him alertly, making no response even though she knew that the letter had to be from Aline.

Stubborn bitch, Marcus thought, cold annoyance settling in his chest. The countess would never forgive her older daughter for marrying a man of low descent. Aline’s husband, McKenna, had once been in service, working for the family as a stable boy. While still in his teens, McKenna had gone to America to seek his fortune, and had returned to England as a wealthy industrialist. In the countess’s view, however, McKenna’s success would never atone for his common birth, and therefore she had objected violently to the marriage between McKenna and her daughter. Aline’s obvious happiness meant nothing to the countess, who had developed hypocrisy to an art form. Had Aline simply had an affair with McKenna, the countess would have thought nothing of it. Becoming his wife, however, was an unpardonable offense.

“I thought you would wish to learn its contents at once,” Marcus continued, coming forward to hand the letter to her.

He watched his mother’s face grow taut. Her hands remained motionless in her lap, and her eyes were cold with displeasure. Marcus took a slightly malicious enjoyment in forcing her to confront a fact that she so obviously wished to disregard.

“Why don’t you tell me the news?” she invited in a brittle voice. “It is obvious that you will not leave until you do.”

“Very well.” Marcus slipped the letter back into his pocket. “Congratulations, my lady—you are now a grandmother. Lady Aline has given birth to a healthy boy, named John McKenna the second.” He allowed a fine edge of sarcasm in his tone as he added, “I’m certain you will be relieved to know that she and the baby are doing quite well.”

On the periphery of his vision, Marcus saw the Bowman sisters exchange a puzzled glance, clearly wondering at the cause of the hostility that filled the air.

“How nice that our former stable boy has begotten a namesake from my elder daughter,” the countess remarked acidly. “This will be the first of many brats, I am sure. Regrettably there is still no heir to the earldom…which is your responsibility, I believe. Come to me with news of your impending marriage to a bride of good blood, Westcliff, and I will evince some satisfaction. Until then, I see little reason for congratulations.”

Though he displayed no emotion at his mother’s hard-hearted response to the news of Aline’s child, not to mention her infuriating preoccupation with the begetting of an heir, Marcus was hard-pressed to hold back a savage reply. In the midst of his darkening mood, he became aware of Lillian’s intent gaze.

Lillian stared at him astutely, a peculiar smile touching her lips. Marcus arched one brow and asked sardonically, “Does something amuse you, Miss Bowman?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “I was just thinking that it’s a wonder you haven’t rushed out to marry the first peasant girl you could find.”