by Louise Allen
For a moment Marcus did not recognise the dazzling young woman in the doorway. He felt his jaw drop and pulled himself together with an effort. He had seen Marissa virtually every day for the last fortnight but she had always been the Marissa he had come to know: poised, rigidly groomed, controlled, friendly yet distant.
But this was a different woman. Her hair sparkled in the candlelight, her skin, always so white, seemed creamy against the diamonds and, with a shock, he remembered that she was not much older than his sister.
Nicole, who was wearing a simple gown of midnight blue appropriate to a young lady who was not yet out, gasped audibly. ‘Oh, Marissa, how pretty you look.’ She dashed over, caught Marissa’s hands in hers and turned to appeal to him, ‘Do you not think Marissa looks pretty, Marcus?’
‘No, I do not,’ he drawled. His sister gasped indignantly but, before she could protest, he said, ‘I think she looks beautiful.’ Marissa blushed rosily and he turned to her companion. ‘Miss Venables, may I be so bold as to compliment you on the elegance of your gown?’
Miss Venables responded with a gracious inclination of the head as Jackson announced, ‘There is a carriage approaching, my lord.’
Hastily the party assembled themselves to receive their guests and before long the Salon was alive with the sound of chattering voices and the swish of silk.
When they had constructed the guest list Marissa had been apologetic about the lack of distinguished company. ‘With the start of the Season so close our more fashionable neighbours are up in Town,’ she had explained. ‘The Blackwoods, the Exeters… I wonder if the Scotts have left yet.’ In the end the guest list had included the local squirearchy and professional people, with a touch of aristocratic eccentricity in the form of Lady Augusta, who now had Sir Henry Ollard trapped next to the mantelpiece and was berating him over the state of his coverts. ‘How you expect to enjoy a decent run if you cannot provide the cover for the foxes I do not know.’
Sir Henry, a mild man. was protesting faintly that his keepers were doing their best, but was making no headway.
He saw Lady Ollard, who was making polite conversation with Mr and Mrs French, raise her eyebrows but she passed no comment. Doubtless, he thought, she was well used to Lady Augusta. He saw with some sympathy that Mr and Mrs French, more recent arrivals on the local scene, tended to start nervously when Lady Augusta approached them. Mrs French, having moved from the bustling heart of the City where her husband had made a substantial fortune, was finding it difficult to adjust to an entirely new social scene, he thought, making a mental note to set her at her ease.
He scanned the room, on the look-out for any guest left without someone to talk to. Miss Catherine Ollard was attempting, not very successfully, to engage young Stephen French in conversation but, as both he and his brother were more interested in Mr Ashforde’s description of a recent shooting trip, her efforts were wasted. The Misses Woodruffe were chattering to Nicci about clothes, but she was only half listening, he saw. Following the direction of her gaze he saw that her shining eyes were fixed on the perfect Classical profile of the young curate. What’s his name? Ashton?
Marcus politely extracted himself from a discussion of a local political scandal which was engrossing Dr Robertson, Mr Hope and Miss Venables and strolled across to where Marissa was standing by herself, watching the group of young people.
‘And what is my little sister up to now?’ he enquired softly.
‘Oh, nothing.’ Marissa smiled tolerantly. ‘She is enjoying the party, which is only natural. I am afraid it has been so very dull for her at the Dower House this past year and she really has been very good.’
Her lips curved in a soft smile and Marcus, seeing where she was looking, frowned. ‘Is that the curate? What's his name, Ashton?’
‘Ashforde,’ Marissa corrected. ‘He is very much a favourite hereabouts, considered quite an embellishment to local Society. He is the second son of Viscount Bassingbourn but very unlike his elder brother. Mr Ashforde is dedicated to his calling, and is very erudite.’
‘Popinjay,’ Marcus muttered.
‘Oh, no, not that. I admit his quite extraordinary good looks draw more attention to him than he would wish, but it has not turned his head in the slightest.’
‘You think him good-looking, then?’ Marcus eyed the white skin, Classical features and elegant figure of the curate with distaste and an uneasy feeling that, with his black hair and cultured manners, Mr Ashforde must offer a reflection of the late Earl to a woman who was still mourning her husband.
Marissa turned to stare at Marcus. ‘Good-looking? Why, certainly, he is perhaps the most handsome man I have ever seen: he could take his place on a pedestal here in the sculpture gallery and rival Adonis.’
Marcus’s expression mystified her. What had Mr Ashforde done to displease him? It was so much accepted that the curate combined excellent manners with physical perfection that it seemed quite natural to discuss him as one would any other beautiful phenomenon. He did not cause her heart to flutter but she could understand the effect that he had.
Marcus still seemed strangely out of humour to Marissa when Jackson announced that dinner was served. He offered Lady Augusta his arm and Marissa found Sir Henry, who would sit at her right hand. Gradually the party sorted themselves out and processed past the string quartet into the Small Dining Chamber, a cavernous room only slightly less imposing than the Grand Dining Chamber. Marcus, having viewed the larger room, had announced flatly that he would not use it and had instructed Jackson to move the best silver to the Small Chamber.
Huge fires blazed at either end of the room, despite the mild weather outside, and a myriad of candles reflected off the polished mahogany and massed silver. Marissa took her place at the foot of the table facing the new Earl. She had protested when he had asked her to act as hostess, but Nicci was not yet out and Marcus had flatly vetoed her suggestion that he ask Lady Augusta to preside.
She saw him watching her as he listened to a lecture from Lady Augusta on the probable shortcomings of his cook. Judging by the array of dishes that the servants were even now bearing in, Mrs Wood’s cooking would stand up to the worst criticisms from Aunt Augusta, as usual.
Even so, Marissa could not help herself worrying about the arrangements, but she relaxed as the dishes were laid out. Stuffed soles, a fricassee of veal, chickens, curry of rabbits, a vegetable pudding, sweetbreads, buttered lobster and a fat goose created a cornucopia of local fare which Marissa hoped would show Marcus the best that his estate could offer.
She met Jackson’s eye and saw a glimmer of satisfaction in their depths as he supervised the footmen removing covers and pouring wine. The volume of conversation began to rise and with a sigh of relief she smiled down the length of the table at Marcus. At that distance the likeness to her late husband disappeared and all she was aware of was Marcus’s mane of blond hair, the relaxed grace of his body, the broad set of his shoulders. Despite the formal evening clothes he still managed to radiate a dangerous sense of exoticism.
And yet she felt safe with him. If it had been Charles in that seat she would have been picking at her food, her stomach churning with nervous anticipation of an error, a slip by the servants which would mar his expectations of perfection.
Marcus caught the smile, read the pure, uncomplicated pleasure in it, and his irrational jealousy and bad humour vanished. Of course she was not hankering after that young puppy of a curate. Nor, for the first time since he had known her, did she seem trapped in some sad memory.
His attention was distracted momentarily by the giggles of the Vicar’s daughters and Miss Ollard. They, and Nicci, seemed so much younger than Marissa and made him dread the thought of someone like them for a bride. He had resigned himself to the thought that sooner or later he was going to have to go up to London, brave the Marriage Mart and find some suitable young lady to be mistress of Southwood, mother to his heir.
He looked again at Marissa, almost luminous at the other end of the table, her skin g
lowing in the candlelight, the diamonds glinting at her throat and in her dark hair. Why had he not thought of her before? There was no bar to marriage with a cousin’s widow. She was beautiful, intelligent, mature beyond her years, well used to running a large establishment. Nicci loved her, that much was plain. And she was not averse to him, he thought. When he had kissed her it had been as though a fire had kindled into life.
Yes… why not Marissa? In fact, why not broach it this evening after the guests had departed?
Marissa was too far away to read Marcus’s expression, but she noticed his sudden stillness, the intensity with which he was gazing at her. Was something wrong? She checked the room hastily, then he seemed to recollect himself and began to talk to Lady Ollard on his left-hand side.
It was time she stopped daydreaming and paid more attention to her guests, Marissa chided herself. She turned and listened intently to Mr Woodruffe’s knowledgeable suggestions for plants for her refurbished gardens at the Dower House.
‘Now roses are always safe on these heavy soils and of course you are sheltered from the worst of the winds in that dip. Lavender, however, might suffer, although if you get your gardener to dig in plenty of gravel that will stop any root-rot…’
He was well away, needing only occasional nods and murmurs of encouragement. Marissa glanced down the table and frowned slightly to see Nicci’s heightened colour. Her laugh was becoming rather shrill and she had been talking to Crispin Ashforde almost exclusively. It would never do for her to be setting her cap at him too obviously, especially when Marcus seemed disinclined to like the young man. She would have to do something to change that opinion because she was still convinced that the curate would be the ideal husband for Nicci.
The servants were removing dishes, re-laying the table with an array of sweetmeats and desserts. Syllabubs, jellies, a confection reproducing the frankly hideous fountain in the West Court in sugar, custards and baskets of pastries were set before them. One of the footmen lifted the heavy epergne loaded with fruit from the sideboard to place in the centre of the table. It was off balance, and another man hurried to help him, but before he could do so the top layer of fruit spilt over, thudding onto the table and scattering between the chairs.
Footmen scrambled for the fruit. Jackson seized the epergne and set it firmly on the table and Marcus laughed out loud. The guests, cheerfully fielding fruit as it rolled in their direction, joined in.
Marissa dared breathe when she saw guests laughing, the amusement on Marcus’s face. She made herself release her grip on the arms of her chair and smile too.
The meal seemed to drag on as she toyed with three grapes on her plate without lifting even one to her lips. At last she could rise, catch the eye of Lady Augusta and lead the ladies out, leaving the gentlemen to their port.
Marissa struggled to regain her composure as they entered the Salon. Mechanically she encouraged Lady Augusta in her efforts to set up a four for whist and found music for the young ladies to play later.
Was she never to be free of Charles? Would her husband always haunt her, dominating her in death as he had in life? She shivered as she remembered what had always followed any domestic transgression for which he held her responsible. The late Earl had believed that physical punishment was necessary to discipline servants, hounds and his wife. He would never show the slightest sign of displeasure in public: chastisement belonged in the bedchamber…
Chapter Nine
Half an hour later, when Marcus led the gentlemen back in to join the ladies, the whist table was already established and Miss Catherine Ollard was turning over the pile of music sheets on the piano, rather too obviously hoping that she would be asked to perform.
‘Will you not play for us, Miss Ollard?’ Marissa asked.
‘Oh, well, that is, I do not know if my playing is… But if you insist, Lady Longminster.’ She sat at the piano, settled her skirts and opened a volume of ballads on the music rest before her.
The younger Mr French stepped forward. ‘May I turn for you, Miss Ollard?’
The Woodruffe sisters raised their eyebrows at each other but sat politely to listen and the remaining gentlemen disposed themselves about the room.
Marcus came and sat next to Marissa on one of the pair of sofas flanking the fireplace. He stretched out his long legs. folded his arms and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Did you have to do that?’
He was rather too close for convention, the sleeve of his coat almost touching her gloved arm. Melissa felt the warmth of him, smelled the sandalwood cologne he wore and felt her heart begin to thump. Somehow she managed to give him a reproving stare and whisper, ‘Shh.’
Under cover of the opening bars he leaned closer and whispered in return, ‘You look even more magnificent when you frown at me.’
‘Do not be ridiculous.’ She could feel the colour rising up her throat and turned her head away. Why he should be flirting with her she could not imagine, but that was undoubtedly what he was doing. She might never have been involved in flirtation before, but she could recognise it when it was happening.
‘There is nothing ridiculous about it, you must know how beautiful you look this evening.’
She turned her head away but she was still conscious that he studied her averted profile. ‘I know no such thing.’
‘Fishing for compliments, my lady?’
The sheer audacity of it brought her head round. ‘Certainly not!’
‘But no woman appears at a social occasion with a new hairstyle unless she is well aware of how well it becomes her.’
She could hear the laughter in his whispered teasing and it only served to add to her indignation. ‘I am not a young lady. I am a Dowager.’
‘Surely the youngest and loveliest in the land.’ He broke off to applaud the end of the ballad. ‘Well done, Miss Ollard, a very pretty air indeed. Will you not favour us with another?’
Miss Ollard blushed and began to rise from the pianoforte. ‘You are very kind, my lord, but I believe it is time to make way for someone else. Miss Woodruffe, if I were to play, will you not sing?’
Having restored peace with her friend she struck up an Elizabethan love song. Miss Woodruffe warbled away, causing Marcus to moan softly in anguish.
‘Marcus, you are impossible,’ Marissa hissed, struggling to maintain her appreciative social smile. ‘You will have to get used to this sort of thing.’
‘Remind me to have the pianoforte chopped up for firewood,’ he retorted, low-voiced.
Marissa could not help but smile. ‘Miss Sophie Woodruffe plays the harp and she often brings it with her.’
‘Oh, my God.’ He dropped his head into his hands in mock despair. ‘Must I stuff my ears with sheep’s wool?’ The air came to an end and before they could embark on another he was on his feet, leading the applause. ‘Ladies, thank you, that was delightful. It almost moved me to tears.’
Jackson forestalled any further entertainment by ushering in the footmen with the tea tray, much to Marissa’s relief.
She dutifully circulated around the room, exchanging pleasantries with the guests, admiring Aunt Augusta’s winnings at the whist table where they were playing for penny points and congratulating the young ladies on their musical performance.
Seeing that the Earl was within earshot, she added wickedly, ‘And I do hope you will bring your harp to the next soirée here, Miss Sophie. The Earl has just confided in me that it is quite his favourite instrument.’ She looked him across at him, managing, somehow, to keep the smile from her face.
As he passed Marissa Marcus bent his head and whispered, ‘Touché, my lady.’ He watched her, admiring her elegance as she moved around the room, gracefully putting everyone at their ease, taking the opportunity to thank Jackson for the success of the arrangements as she passed him.
No, it would be no hardship being married to Marissa, and the contrast with the immature younger girls only pointed up her obvious advantages. He would find an opportunity to speak to he
r alone and ask her to marry him tonight.
He found Sir Henry at his side and realised that the older man also watching the Dowager Countess. ‘Good to see her enjoying herself again,’ the baronet said. ‘I’ve missed seeing her out riding, you know. Damned fine seat on a horse. Of course your cousin would never permit her to ride with the hounds. Great stickler for decorum, the late Earl.’
‘Tell me, Sir Henry, I am not familiar with the fine details of English social niceties yet, but would it be considered inappropriate for Lady Longminster to be seen riding at this stage in her mourning?’
‘Good grief, no. It’s been well over a year, hasn’t it? Perfectly acceptable, and it seems a shame to deprive her of something she enjoys after all she has been through.’
Marcus clapped his guest on the shoulder. ‘Sound advice, Sir Henry. I am obliged to you.’
Marissa accepted a cup of tea from Jackson and went back to her place on the sofa. Marcus, waving aside the offer of refreshment, joined her. ‘Tell me, Marissa, do you miss riding?’
‘Oh, yes, very much. I used to ride every day when the weather permitted.’
‘Surely it would be acceptable for you to ride again now?’
‘I suppose so. Yes, I must think about buying a horse.’
'You must have had a horse. Is it not still in the stables here'?'
‘Not one specific one, no. My lord preferred me to ride a variety of mounts, depending on the occasion and the season.’ She bit her lip as though puzzling over how to explain something. ‘My lord viewed a rider in the landscape as part of the composition of the parkland.’ Seeing his puzzlement, she said, ‘In autumn, for example, against the backdrop of the newly ploughed fields and reddening foliage, I wore a chestnut-brown habit and rode the red roan. In winter, he wished me to ride in garnet-red on the grey.’
Her face was serious as she explained the late Earl’s detailed rules for creating a landscape almost Palladian in its perfection, in order to set off the house like a jewel in its box. Marcus would have laughed out loud if he had not been so fearful of offending her. Wherever he went he had heard murmurings of his late cousin’s eccentricities, but had put them down to the whims of a dilettante rich enough to indulge his every desire. Now he was beginning to wonder if the third Earl had not been actually unbalanced.