by Georgie Lee
Lord Cartwright’s bulbous nose turned a deep shade of red as he scowled at the blatant reference to his gambling habit and the debt he was too proud, foolish and lazy to work to pay off. ‘How dare you? First you allow your mistress to insult my daughter and then you insult me.’
‘Miss Domville isn’t my mistress,’ Warren growled, ready to call Turner and have him escort Lord Cartwright out.
‘You think I haven’t read the news in the Morning Post about the two of you?’
Warren stiffened again. People had heard. It wouldn’t be long before Marianne did too. He had to reach her, to tell her and make his determination to remain beside her through it all clear.
‘You’ve become too grand for your own good,’ Lord Cartwright spat out. ‘I suggest you remember your place and who are your betters.’
‘And I’d suggest you remember who my friends are. When I tell Lady Ellington about your snide comments about Miss Domville and she tells Lord Falconbridge, he may not be so generous in regards to your gambling debts next time. How much was it you lost to him last winter that he forgave?’
Lord Cartwright blanched, seeing his mistake as clearly as he’d pointed out Warren’s. He smashed his hat down over his grey hair and stormed out of the room. A moment later, Warren heard the jingle of equipage as the carriage carried him and his rage off. Warren wished he could so easily walk away from their exchange. It wasn’t just the loss of Lord Cartwright’s patronage that concerned him, but Marianne.
He raced up the stairs towards his room to change into his riding clothes and hurry to Welton Place. At the top of the stairs, he paused as two men straining under a thick beam balanced on their shoulders crossed the hall. The weight of everything settled on Warren like the wood on the workmen’s shoulders. He drew in a deep breath, craving even the faintest hint of Marianne’s delicate perfume to settle him but there was nothing except sawdust.
Maybe I have reached for too much.
The noise of hammers pounding and chisels scraping used to fill him with pride. Today, it sounded like his hard-earned money being spent on a foolish dream, just like his father had done with the vicarage school. Warren could have bought something more modest in London, but the opportunity to purchase Priorton, like his meeting with Mr Berkshire ten years ago, was one he hadn’t been able to resist. Through hard work he’d gained everything he’d ever dreamed of as a child, all the fantasies which had carried him through the darkest moments aboard ship and after his father’s death. With the same tenacity, he’d won Marianne’s heart. Nothing, not even a leaking roof, would make him choose begging to the Cartwrights over Marianne. He’d write more, sleep less if necessary, but he wouldn’t give up on Priorton, or Marianne.
* * *
Marianne sat on a bench in the garden with her eyes closed and her face turned to the sun to enjoy its warmth. Despite spending half the night lying in bed thinking of Warren, she was exhilarated instead of exhausted this morning. The edginess which had haunted her all summer faded in the autumn cool and it was because of last night, because of Warren.
In the middle of the night, as she’d stared at the swirls of brocade in her bed canopy illuminated by the coals in the grate, she’d begun to imagine going to London in the spring, perhaps even travelling to Austria as Lady Ellington and Warren had suggested, except every time she pictured herself in the Vienna opera house enjoying a performance, it was Warren who was at her side. In the short time they’d been together, he’d encouraged her to step into the world instead of shying from it. Bit by bit she’d taken his advice until last night when she’d plunged into it at last. In doing so, she’d soared in a way she hadn’t believed possible a few months ago. It was because of him and the way he gazed at her as though she was more precious to him than his writing.
She opened her eyes and fixed on the statue of Zeus embracing the nymph, admiring the sensuous lines of Zeus’s marble fingers on the nymph’s plump thighs, her billowing dress revealing every curve of her as she opened her mouth to kiss the god. When Warren had admired her in the dress, Marianne had felt like the nymph, revelling in his awe of her body instead of wanting to hide it away. The thrill of it rushed through her again and for the first time she felt like one of the other young ladies who became giddy over a beau and society and the future. Warren wanted her and it was no longer for inspiration, but something much deeper. It had been there in the clasp of his hand on hers last night and his every encouraging word. Warren believed in her, and it had strengthened her belief in herself and the possibility she might have at last what she’d always craved, but never thought she’d obtain—genuine love.
‘Good morning, Miss Domville.’ The familiar male voice made her cringe and burst her contentment.
She turned on the bench to see Lord Bolton standing behind her, hat cocked over his forehead, his charming smile oozing confidence and making her want to retch. ‘What are you doing here?’
He settled his hands on his walking stick. With a lean body, forceful jaw and dark hair, he was too handsome for his own good. ‘Is that any way to greet an old friend and admirer?’
She stood, pinning him with enough spite to wilt a rose. ‘You were never an old friend.’
He stared at her breasts, a lascivious smile curling up one side of his too-perfect mouth. ‘But I’m still an admirer.’
‘Of my money. Surely you didn’t travel all the way up from London for me to refuse you again?’ She started off down the walk, determined to be rid of him, but in two strides of his long legs he was beside her.
‘Apparently, I’m not the only one. I read an interesting story in the Morning Post about you and Sir Warren. Of course I didn’t realise it was you until Lady Cartwright told me over tea this morning. It was all she could talk about, especially after his stunning performance with you at Lady Astley’s musical.’ His smile widened as she stopped so fast on the walk, pebbles shifted beneath her half-boots. ‘I’m sorry I missed it, but I was delayed by a thrown horseshoe.’
‘Too bad the horse didn’t throw you.’ She pulled back her shoulders, regaining her usual disdain for him, refusing to reveal any more shock or the anxiety creeping in beneath it. Warren had been in London. He must have heard the stories. Was this the silent unease he and Mr Berkshire had shared last night and the trouble with a newspaper he’d mentioned? If so, he shouldn’t have kept it from her, but told her instead of leaving her to discover it from slime like Lord Bolton. ‘Lady Cartwright should have more important things to discuss than me, especially since her daughter is without a husband after a very expensive Season Lord Cartwright can ill afford.’
‘I’m not surprised Miss Cartwright failed to take. Her assets aren’t as impressive as yours.’ His licked his lips as he came to stand over her. ‘My offer still stands. I’ll make you a respectable wife and you’ll free me of my debts. I need an heir and I’d like to leave him a little more than an over-mortgaged estate. You should accept me—what other decent man will have you?’
‘Get out or I’ll have Lord Falconbridge ruin what’s left of your reputation.’ She needed him gone as much as she needed to see Warren, to know if the rumours were true or another of Lord Bolton’s plots to undermine her confidence. He’d been as ruthless as Madame de Badeau in trying to make her believe she needed him and the protection of his name. She hadn’t believed it then, she wouldn’t now, even while her faith in Warren was wavering.
He shrugged away her protest. ‘You needn’t bother threatening me with Lord Falconbridge’s wrath. My debts have ruined my reputation as much as your sister did yours. As tainted by her as you are, ‘I’m the best chance you have of regaining any respect and not ending up a spinster.’
She balled her hands at her side, struggling not to strike the smirk from his face. ‘Get out.’
‘If you’re counting on Sir Warren to offer for you, then I recommend you don’t. With the Cartwrights shunni
ng him for his liaison with you, it won’t be long before others do too. He’ll give you up before he loses any more patrons, unless he thinks your money is worth the trouble. I do.’ Lord Bolton twirled his walking stick as he strolled around her and made for the house. ‘When Sir Warren makes a formal offer for you, I’ll gladly step aside. Until then, I’ll be at the Horse and Lion in the village should you change your mind.’
Marianne dropped down on to the cold stone bench in front of the fountain, the fight shocked out of her. She’d been brave last night, defied everyone and their petty expectations of her and the only thing it had gained her was more derision. She could imagine the Cartwrights sitting around the tea table, laughing about her with Lord Bolton and gobbling up his stories of her from her time with Madame de Badeau. He’d probably made up a few more to amuse his snickering hosts. It shouldn’t matter, she shouldn’t care. For a brief time at the piano last night, and for hours afterwards, she hadn’t. She did today because it might cost her Warren.
She stared across the garden at the statue of Zeus, Lord Bolton’s warning about Warren ringing in her ears. Warren hadn’t declared for her and his association with her was at last costing him patrons. No, she shouldn’t lose faith in him so easily. He’d stood by her last night and had always scoffed at all her previous fears over what their time together might do to him. He wouldn’t abandon her simply because one or two families shunned him. He had the Prince for an admirer and who knew what other aristocrats in London. He didn’t need the Cartwrights. He also didn’t need her reputation placing their patronage at risk too.
She jumped up and paced in front of the statue, barely aware of the footsteps crunching over the gravel coming up from the house. She never should have come to rely on Warren. A month ago she wouldn’t have cared if he never spoke to her again—this morning it terrified her. He might leave her like nearly everyone else she’d ever been close to had done.
‘Is everything all right, miss?’ Darby asked, appearing strangely out of place in the garden carrying a silver salver.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she rushed to answer and he was deferential enough not to pry. He’d leave that to Lady Ellington after he told her he’d noticed Marianne was distressed. For the first time, Marianne didn’t mind. Down the walk, through the open French doors, the curtains billowed out with the fresh breeze, revealing the pianoforte. It didn’t call to her like it had in the past. She didn’t want to sit there alone, but be with someone to talk and figure out what was going on in her mind and her heart. She wished Lady Ellington was here instead of off paying calls. She needed to hear her say, as she had so many times in the past, all would be well.
‘This arrived for you.’ Darby held out the salver to reveal a letter from Theresa.
Marianne took it, relieved to see it was a friendly missive instead of something more sinister like a parting note from Warren. She’d ignored Theresa’s other letters for the past couple of weeks, but she tore this one open, craving kindly words. She shouldn’t have avoided her friend or allowed her malaise to make her dismiss the people who cared about her. She might have been reluctant to admit her need for them in the past, but she couldn’t today, not with the possibility of Warren ending things facing her.
She read the letter. There was a friendly chiding about Marianne not coming to visit. She said if Marianne was worried about encountering Lady Menton she need not be since the woman had gone to visit her sister for a month. Marianne could come see Theresa whenever she wished though she hoped it would be soon. She pledged her unending friendship to Marianne before ending the letter.
Marianne folded it, guilty at the way she’d neglected her friend. If Theresa didn’t survive her travails, and there were many women who didn’t, Marianne would lose one of the few people who genuinely cared about her. Theresa, along with her husband, had stood with her as much as the Falconbridges, even against Mr Menton’s parents. With her enemies mounting yet another attack, Marianne needed all the amiable smiles and pleasant conversation she could gather.
‘Darby, please summon the carriage. I’m going to visit Mrs Menton.’
* * *
‘Miss Domville isn’t here,’ the bland Welton Place butler informed Warren.
Warren stuffed down the urgency which had gripped him since Lord Cartwright’s visit, determined to remain level headed. He must talk with Marianne before the news of the scandal did its damage. ‘Where is she?’
‘Visiting a friend.’ Lady Ellington’s regal voice carried out from behind the butler. The tall man stepped aside and allowed the Dowager to come forward. There was no hint of blame in her answer. She simply announced what she knew. ‘Walk with me, Sir Warren, I wish to show you my Italian landscapes.’
She took his arm and Warren allowed her to lead him into the entrance hall despite his eagerness to set off to wherever Marianne was. They stopped at the bottom of the main stairs and she gestured to the stunning collection of Italian landscape paintings hung three and four tall along the walls.
‘I heard a very unsettling rumour while I was visiting friends today,’ the Dowager announced as she stared up at her collection.
Warren stopped himself before he could adjust his cravat. ‘Did it have to do with the column in the Morning Post?’
‘Ah, I see you are aware of it.’ She at last faced him, scrutinising him like captains used to do to their new sailors.
‘Is Miss Domville?’ His stomach dropped when the Dowager nodded and the large diamonds dangling from her ears brushed her cheeks.
‘She had an unfortunate visit from an old suitor this morning who saw fit to inform her.’
Warren didn’t know who the vile man was who’d delivered the news, but he wanted to thrash him. ‘I apologise. It was never my intention to compromise Miss Domville or to make her a target for ridicule.’
‘And now that she is, what do you intend to do about it? Miss Domville has not had an easy life and does not need yet another person failing her. I won’t allow it and neither will Lord Falconbridge.’
If Warren had ever thought losing the Cartwrights’ support would be unfortunate, he sensed it was nothing compared to garnering Lord Falconbridge’s wrath. With his power and influence, the Marquess could ruin him in a way none of the other country families could dream possible. However, losing Marianne would be a greater punishment than anything Lord Falconbridge might conceive.
‘I won’t fail her, Lady Ellington,’ he assured her, as vociferous in his declaration as Lady Ellington was in her duty to her young charge. ‘I care very deeply for her and I only want to see her happy.’
Lady Ellington nodded sagely. ‘Have you told her this?’
‘It’s why I’m here.’ He opened his arms to the hallway. ‘But she’s not.’
She tilted her head, appraising him as if he were a new bauble to adorn her fingers. Then she straightened, the decision made. ‘She’s gone to visit Mrs Menton at Hallington Hall. It’s an easy ride from here, just on the other side of Falconbridge Manor. Mrs Menton is very preoccupied with her baby, so I don’t see how she’ll pay much attention to Miss Domville.’ Lady Ellington winked at him. ‘Good day, Sir Warren.’
* * *
‘Of course Lord Bolton is wrong,’ Theresa reassured Marianne. She sat in a deep chair by the fire with Alexander, her infant son, perched on her slowly shrinking lap. The chubby-cheeked boy sucked his little fingers, his eyes wide as he listened to the ladies. Marriage and a baby had mellowed Theresa’s high spirits since they’d met four years ago when Lady Falconbridge, the cousin who’d raised her, had brought her to one of Madame de Badeau’s salons. It was Marianne’s friendship with Theresa which had led her to betray her mother and reveal to Lord Falconbridge the plot to see Cecelia humiliated by Lord Strathmore.
‘What if he’s not?’ Marianne stopped pacing across the flowered rug to peer out of the window. Below, the lawn slipped
down from the back of the house to a copse of trees. Through their nearly bare branches the lake shimmered in the sun. ‘The Astleys and the Prestons and who knows what other patrons in London may abandon him. His work fuels everything he does, it’s who he is. He won’t let anything jeopardise it.’ Not even me.
‘You must speak with Sir Warren. It’s the only way to settle your fears.’
Fears. She hated them and how they dominated her life as much as she hated the uncertainty of waiting on Warren’s response to the gossip. The entire situation felt too much like the week after she’d written to the Smiths asking to return to them. She’d waited every day for their answering letter, not even unpacking her things at Lady Ellington’s, sure she’d soon be on her way to her old guardians. Their letter severing all ties with her had been a blow, one she feared Warren’s reaction to gossip would be too. She wiped at her eyes, pushing away the tears building there. ‘I don’t know if I can face him.’
Theresa set Alexander in the cradle beside her chair. She approached her friend and laid her hands on her shoulders. Marianne didn’t flinch from her touch, but was grateful for the gesture and the comfort it brought her. ‘If he’s placed this much effort in you, he isn’t going to let you go so easily. Don’t run from him, Marianne. He’s good for you. A month ago you wouldn’t have played for Sir Warren, or even Lady Astley’s guests like you did.’
‘And what has it gained me except more problems?’ Marianne’s shoulders sagged. ‘I’m tired of fighting people.’
‘It won’t be for ever. Nothing lasts so long.’