by Louise Allen
‘But we love each other!’ Nicci cried dramatically, one hand pressed to her bosom.
‘Do not come the Sarah Siddons with me – I have no liking for high theatricals. Are you as much in love with him as you were with your drawing master? Or that young ninny Westlake you mooned over for months?’
‘You are so unkind. This is the real thing, true love.’ Nicci promptly burst into tears and buried her hot face in Marissa’s shoulder.
Marissa put a comforting arm around the girl. ‘My lord, do not be angry with her. Mr Ashforde was only doing what he felt to be right. Why, he told me – ’
‘So you knew about this?’ Marcus ceased his pacing and swung round to face her, his eyes narrowed. ‘And you encouraged it?’
‘But he is such an eligible young man, so intelligent, so kind, so well-bred.’
‘And such a milksop. One of these days that young man is going to be a bishop. Can you imagine a more unsuitable wife for a bishop than this silly goose?’ He pointed the riding crop at his sister.
Nicci wailed in protest and recoiled dramatically. Tightening her arms around the sobbing girl, Marissa raised her chin even though her knees were knocking. ‘My lord, you are cruel and unfeeling.’
‘Unfeeling, am I, ma’am? Allow me to know my sister better than you. Am I to assume you have been instrumental in promoting this touching romance?’
Marissa saw that he had gone pale with anger under his tan. His relaxed manner had deserted him: now he was a big man in a towering rage. Physically the resemblance to Charles Southwood had never been greater, but with Charles she had never seen hot anger, only cold, calculated displeasure.
The tattoo of crop against leather increased, menacing in the sudden silence. Marissa’s heart thudded, choking her. She tried to speak, found her voice trembling and steadied herself. Only the instinct to protect Nicci kept her from running pell-mell from the room.
‘Yes, I did advise Mr Ashforde to seek your permission to see Nicci. No more than that. They are deeply attached. I had not expected you to be so brutal to the poor child.’
Marcus grinned, but without humour. ‘Which poor child? My silly little minx of a sister or poor young Crispin Ashforde? And I will thank you, ma’am, to mind your own affairs and not meddle in mine. Nicole, go to your room.’
Nicci broke free from Marissa’s arms and dashed for the door. ‘You are a beast, Marcus, and I hate you!’ she threw at him from the safety of the threshold.
‘And you are a spoilt little hoyden who needs discipline, and I am determined you shall have it.’ He took one step towards her and Nicci fled.
Marissa called up all her courage and stepped, shaking, between him and the door. ‘No. I shall not permit it.’ In her mind the sight of the riding crop in his hand could mean only one thing – she knew only too well what discipline meant.
Marcus’s face flushed with anger. For a moment she believed he was going to lay hands on her, thrust her bodily from the doorway. Then he turned on his heel and brought the riding crop down in a furious arc to crack across the top of the occasional table which held Nicci’s sewing box. The sound in the room echoed like a pistol shot, the rosewood box fell with a splintering crash to the boards and Marissa fled down the corridor, up the stairs and into Nicci’s room.
She rushed in without knocking and turned the key in the lock. At the sound Nicci, who had cast herself across the bed, looked up. ‘Marissa? Why on earth have you locked the door?’
Marissa hurried across and gathered the girl in her arms. ‘There, there, do not worry. I will not let him hurt you.’
‘It is too late. He has already hurt me. My heart is in pieces!’
Despite the dramatic words, Nicci was already looking more composed. Marissa sat back and stared at her, puzzled. ‘No, Nicci. I did not mean that. Marcus is very angry, but you must not be frightened.’
‘Frightened?’ Nicci scrubbed her eyes and sat up, staring at Marissa. ‘Why should I be frightened of my own brother?’
‘But he is so angry. His language so immoderate. And he hit the table with his riding crop.’ Her voice faltered.
‘Oh, so that was what the crash was.’ Nicci got off the bed, all tears forgotten. ‘He hasn’t broken my sewing box. has he? He really is the limit!’
Marissa’s puzzlement grew. Nicci was certainly not frightened and now, looking back, her tears seemed little more than a temper tantrum.
‘Marcus doesn’t often lose his temper,’ Nicci explained. ‘But when he does, we all hide. He once threw the soup tureen at Jackson when they were arguing about one of the ships. It was empty,’ she added naively. ‘Jackson caught it and threw it back and they both ended up laughing.’
Marissa got up and walked to the window, her back turned to Nicole. ‘But he seemed so violent.’
‘He is hard on the china, I admit, but he’s as soft as butter, really. I’ve never known him strike anyone. You did not fear that he would beat me, did you, Marissa?’ Nicci came and put an arm around Marissa’s tense shoulders. ‘I am sorry if we upset you – I’m sure you are not used to this sort of thing.’
Marissa kept her face averted, fearful that Nicci would see how shaken she was.
‘Did your husband never lose his temper? I thought we Southwoods would all be the same.’
‘He never… shouted.’ Three little words that concealed so much pain. Marissa put a determined smile on her face and turned back to Nicci. ‘I am so sorry if my advice has served you badly, but do not despair. I am sure Mr Ashforde will wait for you for as long as it takes.’
Nicci looked doubtful, but there was a tap at the door before she could speak. When Marissa unlocked it Jackson entered with a tea tray, an expression of dour disapproval on his weather-beaten face.
‘He’s gone out again,’ he said without preamble. ‘You shouldn’t have done it, Miss Nicci. He wants to know what I was about, letting you run around on the terrace with the curate and no chaperone. Huh!’ He put the tea tray down with a thump and went out, closing the door with something perilously close to a slam.
Marissa gazed after him in bemusement. ‘He is very… unconventional, isn’t he?’
‘He is just Jackson,’ Nicci said, as if that explained everything. ‘Tea, Marissa? You know,’ she added after a couple of meditative sips, ‘I do not feel any longer as though my heart is breaking. Perhaps I am not in love with Mr Ashforde after all. It is a very lowering thought that Marcus might be right and that I am indeed a flirt.’
‘But, Nicci, I thought you wanted to marry him.’
‘I think I shall wait until I am out. It would be a pity to be engaged and not to enjoy Society – I should not be able to flirt at all.’
Marissa sighed, acknowledging to herself that she had learned a lesson that morning. Obviously not all young women were as dutiful as she had been, first to her father, then to her husband.
‘I should not think there is much likelihood that your brother will take you up to London for the Season after this upset,’ she said sympathetically.
‘Au contraire, I think it might make him do it sooner. I heard him talking to Jackson yesterday about opening the Town house. And,’ she added disarmingly, ‘he needs a wife. That is what he means about discipline for me. He thinks his wife would look after me and bring me out.’
Marissa’s heart thudded unaccountably. ‘Wife? Is Marcus thinking of getting married, then?’
‘I expect so. Diane says he should get married and he listens to her advice.’
‘Who is Diane?’
‘Oh, his mistress. Madame de Rostan, you know. She lives on the next estate to us in Jamaica. Her husband died ten years ago. He was much older than she was.’
Marissa set down her cup with a rattle. ‘Mistress? Nicci, you should not know about such things, let alone talk about them. I am sure Madame de Rostan is simply a close friend.’
She felt very flustered indeed, far more than Nicci’s improper behaviour warranted. Marcus has a mistress. Well, of course
he had, he was a man and men seemed to need such… diversions. At least this woman was in Jamaica. The thought was comforting, but she did not like to dwell too much on why she should care.
Nicci looked at Marissa from under her lashes. ‘I am sorry if I offended you, Marissa, but things are more openly known in the West Indies. And Diane is perfectly respectable and received everywhere. I do miss her but it will be delightful when she arrives.’
‘Arrives? Here?’
‘Oh, no, in London. She has a house there and comes every two or three years for the Season and to buy clothes.’
Marissa found she could hardly think straight. Without thinking, she blurted out, ‘Why does he not marry her if she is so respectable?’
‘Diane says they would fight like cat and dog if they were under the same roof. And besides…’ Nicci wandered over to the clothes press and began to finger a pile of lace. ‘She is older than he is.’
It was some comfort, but not much. No doubt in Lady Nicole’s eyes anyone over twenty-five was quite in their dotage. Marissa stood up, suddenly exasperated with the whole Southwood family.
‘I must go home and I have left Tempest tethered to the fence. Will you be all right now, Nicci dear?’
Nicci crossed and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Quite all right and thank you for trying to help. I am sorry Marcus was so cross.’
Marcus was standing in the hall when she descended the staircase. Marissa faltered slightly at the sight of him, then she walked steadily down, giving him a cool nod as she passed him. He put out a hand, touched her arm, then snatched his hand back as she flinched away from his touch.
‘I must apologise for losing my temper, Marissa.’
‘Please do not concern yourself, my lord. Nicci tells me it is a not infrequent occurrence.’ Her tone was glacial.
Marcus regarded her ruefully. ‘I had hoped you would have forgiven me, because I was going to ask you a favour. Will you not come into the study for a moment?’ He led her in, closed the door behind them. Under his fingers he felt her stiffen. The tension was vibrating from her like a note from a bowstring. Damn it, he thought, she is still overwrought from last night and now I have taken her into her husband’s study. It must be full of memories because he had changed nothing, preferring not to use the unwelcoming room.
Marissa stepped away from him, holding herself erect. ‘Forgive you, my lord? It is not my place to do so. I made a severe error of judgement in interfering between you and your sister and it is I who should beg your forgiveness.’
To Marcus her tone belied the sentiment: she could not have been colder had she been carved from ice. He knew her bereavement ran deep, but there was something else, he was sure of it. If only she would open up and tell him – but he could hardly ask her to confide in him.
He retreated into formality. ‘Then we have agreed, we shall speak of it no more.’
There was a short, uncomfortable silence, then, ‘You said you had a favour to ask me, my lord.’
‘I have decided that I must take Nicci up to London. She is too restless for the quiet of the country and will get into one scrape after another. The Season has hardly begun but it will do her no harm to come out quietly this year.’
‘Indeed? And I understand from Nicole that you yourself will be seeking an eligible alliance.’
Marcus felt his colour come up and looked away. Damn that little chit, prattling on to Marissa so improperly. And Marissa was making it obvious that she felt not the slightest regard for him if she could speak so dispassionately of his quest for a wife.
‘Possibly,’ he said shortly. ‘I had intended to ask you if you would consider accompanying us, helping me to launch Nicole into Society.’
‘Me? Marissa’s eyebrows rose haughtily.
‘And Miss Venables, naturally. But if you feel disinclined, ma’am, we need say no more. Nicole can wait another year for her come-out.’ It seemed to Marcus that Marissa must still be considerably irked by him to sound so unwilling.
‘Surely you have other female acquaintances who could oblige you?’ Marissa enquired, watching his face.
For a moment Marcus thought that his wretch of a sister had said something about Diane, then he recovered himself. Even Nicci would not be so indiscreet. ‘Unfortunately, no. No one suitable.’
‘I will think about it and also speak to Miss Venables. It may not suit her convenience,’ Marissa said coolly. ‘For myself, it makes little difference where I spend my time.’
Marcus regarded her, lips tight. She was deliberately provoking him, paying him back with her control for his intemperance earlier. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her until the ice melted, make love to her there and then on that wide mahogany writing desk…
Something in the warmth of his gaze must have reached Marissa. He saw her swallow hard, then she gathered up the long skirts of her habit and turned to the door, her slender figure moulded by the tightly-tailored costume. ‘If there is nothing else, I will take my leave, my lord. Please do not trouble to show me out.’
Marcus stood looking at the door which she had closed gently behind her. He raked his hand through his hair, then with a muttered oath poured himself a glass of claret from the decanter on a side table.
Chapter Eleven
Tempest was thoroughly bored with being tied up to the fence and made her displeasure known in no uncertain terms. Marissa had no intention of leading her round to the front of the house in search of a mounting block, so she used a tree stump. The mare sidled and backed every time Marissa attempted to mount and it took ten minutes before she was in the saddle.
Fighting a bad-tempered horse all the way back across the park to the Dower House on top of the morning’s upsets did nothing for Marissa’s mood. She stalked into the house and up to her room, calling for her maid as she went.
In her chamber she pulled off her jacket without waiting for Mary. When the girl arrived, breathless from running upstairs, she asked, ‘Has Miss Venables waited luncheon for me?’
‘Yes. my lady. Let me help you with that, ma’am. What would you like to change into, ma’am?’
‘Oh, anything you like, Mary. Just a simple gown.’
Jane was placidly reading in the dining room when Marissa joined her. ‘Your colour is very good, dear,’ she said, laying the book aside. ‘Did you have a good ride?’
‘My ride was very enjoyable, thank you. I have moved my favourite mare, Tempest, to the stables here. Would you care for some cold meat, Jane?’
‘Thank you, yes. If your ride was enjoyable, it sounds as though something else was not,’ Jane observed.
‘I became embroiled in a dispute between the Earl and Nicci over Mr Ashforde who has asked if he may court her.’
Jane snorted. ‘Has he indeed? Silly young puppy. He is no more in love with that girl than she is with him. No doubt the Earl put him right about that.’ She buttered some bread and asked innocently, ‘Embroiled, you say, my dear? How so?’
Marissa gave her an edited version of the morning’s events.
‘And the Earl was angry?’
‘He was certainly extremely annoyed, and said so,’ Marissa supplied. She had made no mention of his flaring anger, of the riding crop and the effect it had had on her.
‘Oh dear, so we are out of favour with him.’
‘Far from it, Jane. He has asked that we accompany them to London to do the Season and help bring Nicole out. I was so taken aback by his effrontery after all that had passed between us that I did not trust myself to give him an immediate answer.’
‘Oh,’ Jane said, failing to conceal her dismay. ‘But it seems an excellent plan to me – just think how much we would enjoy it after this past year. There can be no objection now to you coming out of mourning. We would have a splendid time. Just think – balls and parties and riding in the park. And entertainment of a higher kind, naturally. There will be the galleries, and exhibitions… And the shopping, dear, think of the shopping.’
Marissa laughed o
ut loud and leaned across the table to take her companion’s hand. ‘You are so good for me, Jane. We will like it exceedingly, in spite of the Earl. I shall tell him that we will oblige him.’
‘At whatever cost to ourselves,’ Miss Venables added, tongue firmly in cheek.
Marissa, Lady Longminster, thanks the Earl of Longminster for his kind invitation to join his London establishment for the season. Miss Venables joins her Ladyship in accepting the Earl’s amiable offer. Doubtless his lordship will favour them with full details of his plans at his convenience.
Marcus screwed the letter up and tossed it onto the desk in front of him, anger welling. He had thought he was making progress in breaking down Marissa’s reserve. And he had thought he was offering her and Miss Venables an opportunity for pleasure and diversion after long months of mourning. The cold formality of the note demonstrated just how wrong he had been.
He reached for the crumpled paper and smoothed it out, letting his palm rest on it. Marissa was an enigma to him, and her parting words earlier that day echoed uneasily in his mind.
She had said she did not care where she spent her time. He recalled her distress in the Gallery before the portrait of her husband. Despite her calm exterior Marissa must still be deep in grief – was he being cruel in asking her to spend more time with him when his appearance must be a constant reminder of her loss?
Nicci bounced into the Salon without troubling to knock, shattering his reverie. ‘Marcus, you have quite destroyed my rosewood box! I shall have to send to Norwich for a new one – and if you expect me to pay for it out of my allowance, then I call that mean of you.’
‘I am sorry for your box, you provoking brat. You may choose yourself a new one in Bond Street – and pay for it out of the ridiculously extravagant allowance I intend making you in London.’
Nicci whirled across to sit on his lap, wrapped her arms round his neck and planted a big kiss on his cheek. ‘You are the most wonderful brother in the world! We can truly go to London? And I will have a truly magnificent allowance?’