Miss Marianne's Disgrace

by Georgie Lee

  Lady Ellington flipped closed the magazine and set it aside with a triumphant smile. ‘As I’ve already sent her instructions to do it up based on your last measurements, I’d say very soon.’

  * * *

  ‘What was so important you had to summon me from Sussex?’ Warren demanded as he strode into Mr Berkshire’s London office, his legs complaining from the three-hour ride. Whatever it was, it had got his notice and was the only thing short of a fire at Priorton which could have separated him from Marianne and her glorious figure against his.

  Mr Berkshire pushed himself up out of the leather chair behind his massive oak desk. He wasn’t fat, but solidly built like a dockworker. Despite his size, he possessed the authority and self-assuredness of the aristocrats he flattered to secure their patronage for his authors. He also specialised in anonymous memoirs of wronged society mistresses. He had yet to betray a pen name while marketing salacious stories the public ate up. He held out a copy of the Morning Post to Warren. ‘Read this.’

  Warren took the newspaper and read the headline proclaiming the latest debate in Parliament for the Pains and Penalties Bill against Queen Charlotte. What the devil was he supposed to be reading? ‘I assume you didn’t bring me to London to discuss the proceedings against the Queen.’

  Mr Berkshire pointed a stubby finger at the paper. ‘Look at the piece about halfway down.’

  Warren found the small article near the bottom, under one lamenting the rising price of wheat. Calling it an article was being generous. It was the latest tattle about a duke and his mistress. The next line made Warren start to sweat.

  The famous novelist Sir W—has been enjoying the delights of the country and Lady P—n’s vast estates. Even the dowager Countess of M’s companion, a young lady of dubious background, whose notorious relation caused quite the scandal four years ago, has been snared by the

  Lothario’s literary ways.

  The moisture on his fingers smudged the ink and blurred the last few words. The Morning Post was a cut-rate rag with more gossip than news, but the salacious stories it published were as popular in London as they were in Sussex. It would only be a matter of time before this one found its way to the country, and Marianne and everyone else’s attention.

  ‘What have you been getting up to at Priorton?’ Mr Berkshire asked as he took his seat.

  ‘Nothing with Lady Preston.’ Warren flung the paper down on the desk.

  Mr Berkshire’s bushy eyebrows rose. ‘Then the rest is true?’

  ‘It’s not a dalliance.’ It was a great deal more. With the memory of Marianne in his arms, new stories had begun to fill his mind during the hours he’d spent on the road. It had made the endless countryside pass without notice until the smoke of London had appeared in the distance, just like the craving to be near her had carried him from Priorton this morning. When he’d received her note crying off, he’d refused to let it stand or to allow the incident with Rupert to fester and undo all the progress they’d made. He’d gone to Welton Place, expecting to be turned away, not welcomed by both Lady Ellington and especially Marianne. Writing beside her, he’d felt the excitement and potential which used to fill him with each new story return. It had hurt him to leave her and the pleasure of her kiss, but for the first time in too long he felt like the old Warren, the one who could create not only tales, but every aspect of his own life.

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s not time spent writing. It’s been a year since you’ve given me anything new,’ Mr Berkshire reminded him, illustrating how much further Warren still had to go until he was his old self.

  ‘The repairs to Priorton have interrupted me, but I assure you, you’ll have something within the month.’ If Mr Berkshire doubted Warren’s ability to produce, his biggest ally might find himself another author to support.

  Mr Berkshire thumped the top of his desk. ‘I warned you not to buy the thing. Being lord of the manor is distracting you from your real purpose. Stay here in London and work in the peace of your town house.’

  ‘No, I need the quiet of the country and Miss Domville. She’s helping me, the way Leticia used to. The rest will soon be resolved.’

  Mr Berkshire leaned forward on his burly arms and spoke with more caution than he usually displayed with Warren. ‘If financial issues are hindering your writing, I can always help.’

  Warren shook his head. ‘I’ve never taken money from you that I haven’t earned, I won’t do it now.’

  ‘But you will earn it.’ Mr Berkshire threw up his hands, unable to comprehend Warren’s reluctance. Sometimes Warren didn’t either, but it was who he was and he wasn’t going to allow difficulty to make him change. He would fight through his troubles like he always had.

  ‘When I do, you will pay it to me and not before.’

  ‘Then hurry up with things. You know how fickle the public is. Wait too long and they’ll forget you.’

  ‘Not with pieces like this running in the paper.’

  ‘Mr Steed is already taking the necessary steps to make sure the publisher of this fish wrap is silenced by the threat of a libel suit.’ Mr Steed was one of the best solicitors in London. To be involved with him in a hearing was to have it in all the papers and to lose, expensively. ‘Who do you think sold them the story?’

  ‘It could have been Rupert.’ He explained about their falling out. ‘He’s never shown this much initiative, but he has the most reason to hurt me and he needs the money.’

  ‘Then you’d better make it clear to him that if he sells any more stories like this he’ll have Mr Steed to deal with.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do before I return to Sussex.’ Warren didn’t pity his brother-in-law. Rupert deserved every punishment he received.

  ‘I think I’ll come with you to the country. Get in a little hunting and see for myself what’s going on there and soothe things over with Lord Preston. Can’t have him turning his back on you. He’s influential, it’ll encourage others.’ Mr Berkshire shifted back in his chair and hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘I don’t need a chaperon,’ Warren retorted. There’d be enough for him to deal with when he returned without Mr Berkshire hovering over him. Including finishing the book and explaining to Marianne why she was now in the gossip column. He’d promised her no scandal. For the second time in a week he’d failed to keep his promise. If he wanted her in his life, he’d have to win her before she found out about this. It was time to prove his faith in her and them, not because of his work, but because of his heart. He’d lost it to her and in doing so he’d regained something of the man he’d been before the tragedy of Leticia’s death. His confidence in himself and his stories had returned with her tenderness and understanding. He wouldn’t lose it or her.

  Chapter Nine

  Marianne entered Lady Astley’s ballroom with a nauseating mixture of apprehension and anticipation. Everyone turned to view her, their eyes never rising above the low-cut neckline of her shimmering blue-silk gown. There was nothing vulgar about the dress, not the sleeves covering her upper arms, the length of the skirt or the silver trim beneath the bust and along the hem. However, it was far more revealing than what they’d come to expect from her. If they couldn’t see her heart beating against her chest, she’d be stunned. She’d never once showed these people her fear of them. Tonight she wanted to grab Lady Ellington by her massive diamond bracelet and race back to the carriage.

  As if sensing Marianne’s apprehension, Lady Ellington twined her arm in the younger woman’s and drew her deeper into the room. It wasn’t just for Marianne’s benefit she did this, but for everyone who looked to her and the Falconbridge family to set the tone. Marianne was grateful for the solidarity, but it wasn’t enough to stop the women from whispering behind fans or to put an end to the men’s lurid looks. These people wouldn’t snub her with Lady Ellington present. They’d find more snide and c
utting ways to make their disapproval clear, to try and chip away at her like an artist she’d once seen in Paris sculpting a block of granite. She wouldn’t let them, not with Warren beside her, encouraging her as he always did, assuming he was here.

  She looked over the guests, trying to ignore their silent insults and sneers as she searched among the men for him. It had been three days since he’d left her at Welton Place. She worried he hadn’t returned in time for tonight. Then her bravery would be wasted, especially if he’d forgotten her in the rush of London and his work.

  I shouldn’t be so quick to doubt him.

  He had yet to let her down.

  At last she spied him. He stood near a gilded table with a stocky gentleman she didn’t recognise. As if sensing her, he turned and his jaw dropped open. Instead of wanting to cover herself, she stood up straighter, pressing her shoulders back to give him a better view of her in the dress. He stroked her with his gaze, not just her ample chest, but her entire body. A potent thrill raced along her skin and the tips of her breasts hardened beneath her stays. This wasn’t the first time she’d turned a man’s head, but it was the first time she’d experienced the power of being alluring and understood why it had so obsessed Madame de Badeau. If they weren’t in the middle of the classically decorated sitting room, she’d rush to close the distance between them.

  Instead she stood as she always did at these gatherings, as if nothing anyone said or did could pierce her steadfast surety. Even if she was crumbling inside, they’d never know, nor would she reveal the excitement she experienced at Warren’s quick stride as he made his way to her. Her heart beat so fast she could feel it in every gloved fingertip.

  Warren bowed to Marianne, his pulse fluttering as fast as hers above his at last properly tied cravat. The darkness of his coat across his shoulders contrasted with the green waistcoat beneath his jacket which echoed the tone of his eyes. He wore his light hair swept back off of his forehead. It had been trimmed while he’d been in town so it no longer touched the edge of his white collar.

  ‘Did you have a good trip to London?’ Lady Ellington asked while Marianne struggled to reclaim her voice. It had been startled out of her by Warren’s heated regard.

  The question stiffened the corners of his smile and trouble clouded his eyes before it vanished. Marianne wondered what had happened in London. Perhaps something with his book? Whatever it was, it bothered him despite his effort to hide it.

  ‘Very productive. In fact, I brought my publisher back with me. Allow me to introduce him.’ He waved over the stocky man by the fireplace. ‘Miss Domville, This is Mr William Berkshire. Mr Berkshire, this is the accomplished pianist I told you about.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ He nodded appreciatively at Warren, who offered him a terse frown, alluding to something the two of them alone understood. She wondered what Warren had said to his publisher about her. It couldn’t be the more salacious tales the bucks who visited Madame de Badeau’s used to exchange. Warren wasn’t so crude. It was something more disturbing, one she sensed had nothing to do with books. Perhaps Mr Berkshire had doubts about her ability to play or had balked at publishing her compositions. It could easily cause tension between the two men. ‘Warren told me about your gift for music and your interest in publishing your compositions. Will you be playing tonight?’

  ‘No, I’m not. There are very few people beside Sir Warren who are aware of my playing, or my compositions.’

  ‘Well, if Sir Warren is as talented a judge of music as he is a writer, there’ll be many who learn of your music once we’re done with you.’

  She smiled graciously at him and his unexpected compliment. At least he wasn’t resisting Warren’s efforts on Marianne’s behalf. It fuelled the hope she’d nurtured since Warren had first made his offer and edged out her previous worries. Maybe she could at last create a new life and reputation for herself, one free of all the people eyeing them with disapproval while she commanded the famous author’s attention.

  ‘Mr Berkshire, no business tonight. Instead, you must tell me all the gossip from town,’ Lady Ellington chided with her usual grace.

  ‘Ah, well, there isn’t much to tell,’ Mr Berkshire blustered and again there was the knowing exchange between the publisher and Warren. It didn’t last as Lady Ellington pulled Mr Berkshire far enough away from Marianne and Warren to give them privacy, but remained close enough so no one could accuse her of abandoning her charge.

  ‘Did all go well in London?’ she asked, eager to learn what was going on.

  ‘Yes. There was some difficulty with a newspaper, but nothing Mr Berkshire’s solicitor won’t see to,’ he murmured before fixing her with an admiration to make her toes curl. At home, she’d fretted over wearing the gown and at the last minute had considered changing it. She was glad she hadn’t. The heat in his eyes was worth every disparaging look from the other women. He, not them, was the only one who mattered. ‘You’re stunning.’

  Experience warned her to pry and discover what he was hiding behind his charm, but she didn’t want to break the spell of his adoration. ‘Careful, if you flatter me too much it will go to my head and I’ll think myself too important to play for you.’

  ‘You could never be so arrogant. You’re too kind and enchanting.’ He shifted a touch closer and dropped his voice. ‘I missed you while I was in London. Writing wasn’t the same without you.’

  His breath caressed the tops of her breasts, stoking the fire building deep inside her at the nearness of him. His breathing matched hers and she was sure his pulse did too, both of their hearts beating together like two perfectly timed duet players. If they could be alone, they might move with one another like dancers, his solid body against hers, leading her through every movement of this growing affection and intimacy, one as intoxicating as it was new to her.

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’ The admission felt as revealing as her gown, but she didn’t want to hold back from him. The last two nights, she’d nearly licked her lips raw with the reliving of their last kiss. She cursed the rules of propriety stopping her from falling into his arms now and experiencing again the thrill of his mouth against hers.

  The butler struck a small gong from the front of the room, silencing everyone. ‘It’s time to take your seats for the performance.’

  The room drained as the guests entered the ballroom where the pianoforte had been moved to the centre at the far end. Chairs gathered from all over the house stood in neat rows and ladies and gentleman filed in to fill them up. An attractive but little-known singer from Austria was to perform tonight, accompanied by a young male pianist. The entertainment wouldn’t pass muster in London, but it was perfect to while away a dull autumn evening in the country.

  ‘Shall we?’ Warren offered her his elbow.

  She laid her hand on his arm and accompanied him into the room, excited to at last be able touch him in the only way allowed. As they fell behind the crowd, she considered slipping off with him to somewhere where they could be alone. She didn’t want to share him, not even with the singer. It was tempting, but she wasn’t so daring. She couldn’t openly defy convention, not even for Warren.

  He guided them to the chairs in the back row. She didn’t condemn his choice. By sitting behind everyone they’d be as alone as possible in the gathering. No one could turn their heads and frown at her, or watch them and speculate. It would drive them mad, except it wasn’t them she wanted to tease, but Warren. She pushed back her shoulders, raising her breasts in the magnificent gown. The corner of her lips curled into a smile when she caught Warren admiring them. Desire wasn’t just trouble, but a heady power and for the first time ever, she flirted with the allure of it. With Warren, she felt safe unveiling it.

  He took her hand to help her sit and it was his turn to tease her. The pressure of his fingertips through the satin of her gloves reached inside her as did his nearness. She didn’t want to l
et go of him or look away from the passionate smile gracing his fine lips. She wanted to tilt her face to his and feel his mouth on hers again, but with everyone around them shuffling into the rows, she was forced to let go and take her seat.

  Lady Ellington and Mr Berkshire settled in on his other side as the singer and her pianist took their places. Most of the audience was here for something to do in the country as opposed to hearing the music, but they were polite and welcoming as the woman began her first song.

  Marianne struggled to listen, more aware of Warren’s steady breathing than the singer’s arias. He was as tempting as the last sweet in a box and it took all her effort to avoid laying her hand on his thigh, pressing her fingers into the firmness of it and resting her head on his shoulder. She’d never wanted to be close to someone, to touch them and be touched by them the way she did with Warren.

  The singer’s voice rose, drawing Marianne’s attention and she settled in to listen to the song. The performer was quite accomplished as was her dark-eyed pianist, a young man who exchanged more than one knowing glance with her. Marianne felt the connection between them as she did the one between her and Warren. His thigh pressed against hers thanks to the tight packing of the chairs and their knees bumped when he shifted in his seat. It was the most he could touch her without drawing either Lady Ellington’s or Mr Berkshire’s attention. Marianne didn’t slide away from him or turn her legs, but left her thigh against his, twisting her foot to caress his heel with hers. He slid her a sly smile and she returned it without hesitation.

  The song was in French, a tale of love and the fear it wouldn’t be returned. Marianne understood more than the words and the melody carrying them. To need someone was to risk being hurt as she’d learned too many times in the past. She’d needed a mother and the woman had turned her back on her. She’d needed a family and the Nichols and Smiths had cared for her only as long as they’d been paid. She craved love and something more to look forward to than a life alone. Did Warren love her, or would his regard fade the moment he wrote ‘the end’? She wasn’t sure. Experience was a difficult thing to shake but it didn’t fill her with dread as it had in the past. He was here beside her, in front of everyone. There must be something more to it than inspiration for a story and the prospect of it lifted her spirits as much as the song.