The Marker Read Online Free PDF Page A

the fool, had thought if she just loved him enough, if she kept fixing things for him, he would stop. Instead, what she had left were memories, a broken, drunken man who was nothing more than a mere shadow of what he used to be, and a pile of debts. It pained her to think he had no love left in him. And now, finally, he had killed the love in her.
    She gathered her few things and packed them in a small valise. She needed little—indeed, she possessed little—so there was not much packing to be done. Tears threatened to choke her, but she pushed them away. She wouldn’t cry over this, she would hold fast. What was one year, anyway? She would have more to eat working for Nicholas Wetherby than she would if she stayed with her father, and she wouldn’t have to face the creditors anymore. She didn’t have freedom here, only the illusion of it; it mattered little if she lost it or not. Her indentured servitude was just work, and she had never been afraid of that. This way, she would have a roof over her head and food to eat. Besides, she wasn’t trying to attract a gentleman to marry her.
    Her father’s mountain of debts had seen to that.
    She cast one last glance at her bedroom, the room of her childhood, and realized she needed to relinquish childish things and her attachment to a past long since gone. Her dogged determination to hold fast to the memories only hurt her, and would continue to hurt her if she allowed them to. She had loved her mother, but she died. She loved her father, but he betrayed her. She loved this house and fought hard to keep it, but she knew if her father didn’t stop—and he wouldn’t—the house was all but lost to them. To make matters worse, in a little under a year she would marry a man she didn’t love.
    But she didn’t hate him, either, so she could count her blessings. Love was for other people—she knew she would have to lead her life without it. She would never let herself be hurt like this again. She had a twinge of regret that the last remnant of her childhood—this sad, painful love she carried for her father—had withered and died, just like everything else he touched. She would give him this one last sacrifice, but once it was done and she was married, she would never owe him another thing again.
    Never again would a man break her heart. This was John Markland’s legacy to his daughter.
    She wouldn’t be hurt again if she didn’t allow herself to love.
     
    After a long and silent carriage ride, the carriage rumbled to a stop. Lexie wouldn’t engage Nicholas in conversation, which was all well and good, since he seemed disinclined to speak to her anyway. They sat in silence for a time before Nicholas sighed and said, “Here we are.”
    Without the slightest glance in his direction, she nodded. Nicholas opened the door to the carriage, but she ignored him. Only once he began noisily clearing his throat did she finally look over at him.
    The mere sight of him took her breath away. She wondered vaguely if passion really did exist, because she was pretty certain she felt it when she looked at Nicholas Wetherby. How else to explain the sweating palms, the racing heart, the butterflies that took to wing in her stomach every time their eyes met?
    She groaned inwardly. No one had a right to be that handsome, especially not the man who had won her in a card game. This was ridiculous.
    She shook herself out of her reverie. Handsome or not, no gentleman would take a woman he had won off another. She might be attracted to him, but she would be damned if she would like him. He was not better than her father, just younger and richer and more attractive...
    He extended his hand to assist her from the carriage, and, reluctantly, she took it, startled by the jolt she got from the mere presence of her hand in his. As he assisted her from the carriage, she got the impression of impossibly strong arms, of powerful, calloused hands accustomed to rough work, which seemed unlikely for a man