The Youngest Dowager

by Louise Allen

  ‘No,’ Marcus said with gentle insistence, removing the sheet from her nerveless fingers. ‘Never be shy, not with me. You have a beautiful body. Every night I dream of seeing it in daylight.’

  He feels like that about me? Marissa watching as Marcus shrugged off his shirt impatiently. Then he joined her on the big bed, bent over her, traced hot kisses from her mouth to the tip of her aching nipples, catching them between his lips and teasing, tantalising, the swollen peaks.

  She moaned, catching his head in her hands, pressing his mouth against her yielding flesh. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tasting it with her fingertips, alive to every texture of his body.

  Marcus released her nipple, shifting against her to reach her mouth, kissing her slowly, deeply, marvellously. When she thought she would surely drown in sensation he broke the kiss to look down into her face. ‘You taste of wine and strawberries – even better than the sea-salt.’

  The reference to their moonlight encounter brought the colour flooding up under her skin. She buried her face in his shoulder, licking his skin with the tip of her tongue, letting her fingertips trace the muscles under the smoothness of his back until they encountered the waistband of his breeches.

  In response to her impatient fingers he groaned, rolled over on his back to release the fastening and discard the final garment. Marissa gasped at the sight of him, naked and aroused, then shut her eyes as his weight came over her and the warmth of him heated her skin. His lips sought hers blindly, and he kissed her again, the invasive pressure of his tongue echoing the urging of his body. It was the moment she was dreading and, despite Marcus’s skilful lovemaking, his attention to her pleasure, she felt the paralysis creeping through her limbs, the fear rising in her breast.

  It was enough to give him pause. ‘Marissa? You do want this, do you not? Because, if not, you have only to say.’

  Yes, she wanted to cry. Yes, I want you. Instead the old words, the old pleas tumbled out. ‘Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me…’

  He ran the back of his hand gently down the soft curve of her cheek. ‘Hurt you? I would never hurt you, Marissa darling.’

  The endearment gave her the courage to wrap her arms around his neck, pull his head down to hers and kiss him as she had never kissed him before.

  Chapter Twenty

  Marcus groaned and entered her, and realised, even as the pleasure wrapped around him, that the yielding, passionate woman had turned to stone in his arms.

  He withdrew abruptly, gathered her into his arms and stroked her quivering body, forehead and then her eyelids as soft sobs that she was trying to choke back shook her.

  ‘Marissa? Marissa – don’t cry. You must tell me what is wrong. What have I done?’

  He could almost feel the effort it took her to answer, to compose herself. ‘Nothing. It is only that it has been such a long time, and I was shy… I am quite all right, Marcus, believe me.’

  But he could not. That was a lie, a brave one, but a lie. He had never taken an unwilling woman, nor would he ever. But although she had hidden it so much better than she had on the beach, hidden it to the point that he had, for the moment, been totally deceived, Marissa had been afraid at the moment he had entered her.

  They lay together quietly, Marcus nuzzling her hair, stroking the white slope of her shoulder until Marissa dozed. When he was sure she was settled he eased his encircling arm from under her and pulled the sheet over her body. Then he lay back on the pillows, hands behind his head, gazing up at the ceiling as though the moulding could furnish him with a clue.

  She had wanted him, had responded to him with an ardour and passion he had never experienced before. And the thought came to him again, as it had done after the night on the beach, that her responses had an edge of innocence which did not square with her married state. If he had not known better he would have sworn she had never been kissed before.

  He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. It was not his lovemaking that had frightened her, but the act of possession itself. She had begged him not to hurt her, but it was not her heart she feared for as he had thought, but her body. What sort of man had his cousin been, for heaven’s sake, to frighten his beautiful young wife so? He felt uneasy, remembering the odd hint he had picked up in the clubs that the late Earl had had… unusual tastes. He recalled the chilly perfection and discipline of Southwood Hall, the reticence of the staff and estate workers to say anything about their late master, good or bad.

  Marcus shifted restlessly. Could he talk to Marissa about this? He instantly dismissed the idea. If she was capable of speaking of it she would have done so – she had been so reluctant to allow him to make public their betrothal yet she had given him no good reason – this had to be it. No, he could not talk to Marissa, but he needed a woman’s viewpoint. Miss Venables was obviously out of the question, but he could discuss anything with Diane. Friendship had always been more important to them than their physical affair.

  He had just come to this conclusion when Marissa murmured and stirred. Then she opened her eyes. As soon as she saw him watching her she blushed and drew the sheet up to her chin. ‘I must get dressed before the others get home and the servants return,’ she stammered.

  She was so obviously embarrassed he made no move to stop her, or to talk. Instead he handed her his dressing gown and tactfully turning his back as she gathered up her scattered clothing and slipped quietly from the room.

  It was a very thoughtful Earl of Longminster who stood at the drawing room window as Sir Frederick's carriage brought Jane and Nicci home. He had heard Marissa moving around upstairs but had made no attempt to speak to her. The servants had returned an hour ago and were busy preparing the evening meal.

  Marcus went out onto the steps to greet the returning party, offering his hand to Miss Venables to assist her to alight. She thanked him, turned to bow to Sir Frederick and thank him in a stilted voice for his kindness in conducting them back to the Lodge. Nicci, her face flushed under her ridiculous hat, bobbed a schoolgirl curtsey before scuttling into the house, her hot face averted from his puzzled gaze.

  Sir Frederick was still standing in the open carriage as Marcus came down the steps to offer the baronet his thanks. ‘Will you not come in and take a glass of wine? I am most obliged to you for escorting Miss Venables and my sister.’

  ‘No trouble, Longminster, a pleasure,’ the banker replied with a twinkle. ‘But I will not accept your kind offer, not just now. I rather think you will be glad to have no strangers in the house this evening.’ And on that enigmatic note he sat down, resumed his hat and called out, ‘Drive on, John!’

  Marcus was barely in the hall when the storm broke. Nicci was halfway up the stairs, Miss Venables at the foot. ‘Come down here immediately, Nicole, and tell your brother how you have disgraced yourself.’

  ‘No, I shan’t!’ Nicci sobbed and plumped down on the stair, head in her hands.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ Marcus muttered under his breath. He went to stand beside Miss Venables. ‘Nicci, come down here. Marissa is not feeling well and I do not want her disturbed by you making a hullabaloo out here. Miss Venables, let us go into the drawing room and you can tell me what has happened.’

  Nicci descended reluctantly and stood sniffing while Miss Venables told him. ‘I found her – I can hardly bring myself to use the word, my lord, but there is no other way of putting it –in the embrace of a man. An officer, and behind the pavilion! Anyone could have seen her. My lord, I am so sorry that I have failed in my duty as a chaperone…’

  Marcus cut across the anguished apology. ‘But did anyone else see them?’

  ‘Only Sir Frederick and I believe we may rely absolutely on his discretion. As soon as I realised she was missing, during the second race, he accompanied me in search of her. Oh, I would never have believed she could behave so… so…’ Miss Venables rummaged in her reticule until she found her smelling bottle and waved it wildly under her own nose.

  ‘Who was the man?’ Marcus enquire
d, keeping his voice calm. Now he supposed he would have to come the heavy brother with Nicci. Thank heavens Miss Venables had interrupted them or he would have found himself calling the man out on top of all the other things he had to concern himself with at the moment. ‘Nicci, stop snivelling, take that blasted hat off and answer me. Who was it?’ He had never spoken to her like that before, and his sister wrenched off the bonnet and cast it aside.

  ‘Captain Cross,’ she wailed.

  ‘And who the devil is he? Don’t tell me you just picked up some uniformed whippersnapper on the racecourse?’

  ‘A friend of Lady Valentine’s,’ Miss Venables said grimly, as if that summed it all up.

  ‘That woman? Lady she might be but she’s the instincts of a lightskirt.’

  For once, Miss Venables did not wince at the word. ‘I fear,’ she ventured, ‘that Lady Nicole’s attire may have misled the Captain into thinking she was older and more worldly-wise than she is.’

  Marcus regarded both of them with a smouldering eye. ‘And I suppose you are going to say it was all my fault for letting her out dressed like that?’ He gestured furiously at Nicci’s crumpled outfit.

  Wisely Miss Venables did not respond to this question. She got to her feet and took Nicci’s arm. ‘Come along, Nicole, I think you had better take supper in your room tonight.’

  Marcus waited until they had disappeared around the curve of the stairs before tugging the bell-pull to summon Jackson. ‘My compliments to Lady Longminster, and I shall not be dining at home this evening.’

  ‘Very good, my lord. May I say where you are going, should she enquire?’

  ‘No. But should you have need of me I shall be at Madame de Rostan’s.’

  Marcus did not wait to take the carriage and threw a saddle on his hack himself. Twenty minutes later he entered the busy streets of Epsom, thronged with racegoers either flush with their winnings or drinking away their sorrows. The crowd forced him to rein back to a walk as he entered the quiet street where Diane had borrowed a friend’s house for the week.

  Although he was not expected, he was admitted immediately and shown into the Salon. Despite having no guests for dinner, Diane was as beautifully attired as ever in a simple cream silk gown, her hair in artfully arranged ringlets, her family diamonds gleaming at her throat.

  ‘Chéri. What a surprise, but always a pleasure to see you.’ She rose gracefully from the chaise and offered her cheek for his kiss. ‘I must confess I had not looked to see you tonight. You will dine, of course?’

  Marcus dropped into a chair, his booted legs stretched out in front of him. He knew Diane so well that he could interpret her tone as clearly as her words. ‘Why so surprised to see me tonight? And, yes, if you will excuse my informal attire, I would like to dine here.’

  The butler appeared, received his instructions and vanished discreetly after pouring Marcus a glass of wine.

  Diane waited until the door closed behind him before she replied. ‘You forget, I saw you leave the racecourse this afternoon with Lady Longminster.’ There was a wicked curve to her lips.

  ‘And?’ Marcus raised an eyebrow, galled that his intentions had been so transparent.

  Diane laughed at him affectionately. ‘My dear Marcus, it is only I who would have realised the significance of you taking Marissa home in the early afternoon.’ Again her lips curved, this time in remembrance. ‘She really is a very charming young woman: I must congratulate you.’

  ‘I am glad I have your blessing,’ Marcus said drily, sipping his wine. ‘However, I fear it may be a little premature.’

  ‘But if you have been making love to her you really must marry her, you know,’ Diane teased, then, seeing his face darken, was suddenly serious. ‘Chéri, what is the matter?’

  ‘I only wish I knew,’ he confessed. ‘Yes, we did make love… to a point. But there is something wrong. Diane, she responds to me with passion and fire and yet there is a part of her that remains untouched, for all the intensity of our lovemaking. It is almost as though she were afraid. She is afraid,’ he corrected himself.

  ‘But she was married, for two years, was it not?’ Diane broke off as the butler entered.

  ‘Dinner is served, Madame.’

  Both the butler and a footman were standing attentively by the high buffet, but Diane waved them away. ‘Thank you, Henry, Monsieur le Comte will carve, we will serve ourselves.’ As soon as they were alone she said, ‘A little salmon, please, Marcus, and if you will pass the dish of peas… Thank you, darling. Now, where were we?’

  ‘You were asking how long Marissa had been married. It was just over two years, I believe. She wed very young. And yet, I find this difficult to believe, Diane, but I could swear she had never been kissed until I kissed her.’

  ‘Perhaps it is simply that she has not yet fully recovered from the loss of her husband? Would you pour me a glass of the Sancerre?’

  Marcus passed her the glass. ‘She can hardly bear to speak of him. I found her in tears in front of his portrait and she is always very formal when she mentions him, as though she wants to keep me at a distance from the marriage. And, of course, my likeness to him is a constant reminder of what she has lost. Do you know, she fainted dead away the first time she saw me? She must have loved him very much.’

  ‘Loved him – or hated him. They are two sides of the same coin, Marcus.’

  He put down his wine glass with great deliberation, his eyes fixed on her intelligent, concerned face. ‘Hated him? But, Diane, that would explain a great deal. One day, soon after the funeral, I found her in the family chapel. She was standing by the mausoleum, and when she saw me she was terrified, as if I were his ghost. And her words struck me as strange at the time, but I put it down to the shock of her loss.’

  ‘What did she say, Marcus?’ Diane’s food lay untouched on her plate.

  ‘She said, He has really, gone, has he not? He will not be coming back? Naturally, I assumed that her words were spoken in grief.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Diane shook her head, making the ringlets fall over her shoulder. ‘Oh, no, she wanted to make sure he was really dead. That is why she needed to see the tomb, his name on it, to make certain he was in it.’ She forked up a piece of salmon and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Did you see me speaking to her father? Mon Dieu, but that man is a pig. How one such as he could have sired Marissa, I cannot imagine! All the time he was talking to me he was undressing me with his eyes, leering at my bosom. Ugh.’ She shivered and sipped her wine, as if to wash away the thought of Sir George’s lecherous behaviour.

  ‘It is not like you to tolerate such a type. Why did you remain with him?’

  ‘I was curious to know more of Marissa. The first time I met her I could tell she was not happy, that she was hiding something. And I tell you, that man would sell his soul to the Devil, never mind his daughter, if the money was enough. That first marriage was all wrong, yet I can tell she is in love with you.’ She met his arrested gaze with a smile. ‘Yes, she is in love with you, you fool! How could you doubt it?’

  Marcus pushed his chair back and stalked over to the buffet. But then he stopped, the carving knife and fork in his hands, staring at the roast capon with unseeing eyes. ‘But if she loves me why was she so reluctant to agree to marry me and, when she finally did agree, why did she insist on keeping it a secret?’ He hacked at the chicken, producing a ragged lump of breast meat.

  ‘And?’ Diane prompted. She knew, as always, that something else was eating at him.

  ‘And when I made love to her this afternoon, she wept.’

  ‘Because she was happy?’

  ‘No,’ Marcus said bleakly. ‘Because she had forced herself to go through with it.’

  ‘She was unwilling?’ Diane asked incredulously.

  Marcus abandoned the capon and paced away, to stare down into the dark street below. ‘Not at first. For God’s sake, Diane, you know I would never force myself on a woman.’

  ‘I know, chéri,’ she said soothingly.

>   ‘Then I thought she was shy. After all, it is over a year since her husband died.’

  ‘But there is more.’

  ‘Yes. It was fear, Diane. I know fear when I see it, and she was afraid. How can that be?'

  ‘Has it occurred to you that your highly respectable late cousin was not all he seemed? That perhaps he had tastes which, how shall we say, were unusual, that made his young bride afraid?’

  It was what he had half-feared, had pushed away because he couldn’t bear to think it. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Marcus, you are a man of the world. You know there are other men who take pleasure in inflicting fear, pain. She was a very young woman, a virgin, when she came – was sold – to the Earl. How was she to know it could be any other way?’

  ‘And every time I made love to her…’ He dropped into his chair and stared blankly at his untouched food while his stomach roiled. ‘I would remind her of him every time she looked at me. She was waiting for me to be cruel to her as he had always been.’ A vivid image of Marissa’s reaction on the beach, when the moonlight must have increased the likeness even more, stabbed through him.

  ‘But how can I confront her with this? How can I ask her to resurrect the humiliation of her marriage? Yet if I do not we could never be happy together; it will be doomed from the beginning.’

  ‘Knowing you love her, she will come to trust you,’ Diane said gently. He looked up, met her eyes. ‘You have told her, have you not?’

  ‘No. How could I speak of love when I thought she was still in love with Charles?’

  Diane uttered a particularly unladylike word in French. ‘Why are men so stupide?’ she demanded. ‘Tell her you love her, tell her you know that Charles was a beast and that you are not. Make love to her until she forgets he ever existed. And do not,’ she added with a wicked twinkle, ‘tell me you cannot do that!’