“Most singular,” Sir Godfrey Orbison observed with disapproval, when acquainted with the Dowager Countess’s plan and the fact that his goddaughter proposed to immure herself in the middle of nowhere for the summer. “Tell you what, Cecilia, you’ll never get that girl married off if she persists in this eccentric behaviour! Why, I wash my hands of her! She’ll die an old maid!”
He warmed to his theme, sticking out his ample stomach in its embroidered waistcoat.
“And as for that foolish young puppy, Peter, I’ve heard he’s going to Wellerden’s place at Wycombe,” he growled. “Damned fool of a boy, wasting his substance on women and gambling. Don’t know what this family is coming to, Cecilia! Dashed bad form!”
In the event, Suffolk proved nowhere near as dull as Sir Godfrey might have imagined. The arrival of the Seagraves and the Dittons from London amplified the existing gentry families such as the Farrants and Fitzgeralds, and there were plenty of parties, outings and entertainments. Indeed, it sometimes seemed that the whole of the Town had made its way to Suffolk that summer, and four weeks later, when Nicholas and Lucille returned early from their wedding trip, Dillingham Court really came to life.
“Lucille is in a Delicate Condition,” the Dowager Countess said coyly to Polly, the evening after her son and daughter-in-law had arrived back. “She needs to rest, and what better place than here in the good country air? And though I am desolated to be so soon a grandmother, I am delighted that she is enceinte. It is wonderful news!”
Polly had been visiting the Fitzgeralds when Lord and Lady Seagrave had returned and so was not able to see her sister-in-law until the next morning. Lucille did indeed look a wan sight, propped up on her lacy pillows, her face a creamish white and her huge blue eyes shadowed with purple.
“I feel wretched,” Lucille admitted in response to Polly’s anxious enquiry. “We were having such a nice time as well—the scenery was so beautiful—then suddenly I began to feel hideously unwell and could hardly bear to be cooped up in the carriage all those hours!” She shrugged. “Well, if this is marriage, I shall go and live alone in a cottage with a cat and my books!”
Polly laughed.
“I am so sorry you feel so miserable, Lucille! But think how many people you have made happy! Why, Mama is in seventh heaven, despite what she says about the ageing effect of being a grandmother, and as for Nicholas, he looks like the cat that got the cream!”
“Well, it’s all right for him!” the Earl’s ungrateful wife said crossly. “He just had the enjoyable part to play! But I shall have my revenge by being a very difficult patient!”
“Have you had any breakfast?” Polly asked practically, looking round the bedroom and espying a plate of toast on the table.
Lucille shuddered. “Your mama sent me some plain toast and dry biscuits—she said it was the best thing for the sickness, but the sight of it made me feel even worse! Monstrous! And yesterday all I wanted was a pickled egg!”
Polly giggled. “You will feel better soon, Lucille. Mama said so and you know how she is always right! Now, can I bring you anything before I go out? We are visiting the Dittons this morning, so you may count that as my punishment and not think yourself the only one suffering!”
Lucille managed a pallid smile. “Perhaps there are some benefits to being confined to bed, after all! Come in and talk to me when you get back. In the meantime, I am determined to have Nicholas at my beck and call!”
Lucille’s interesting condition was the main topic of conversation amongst the ladies visiting the Dittons, but when the gentlemen came in from the stables, the gossip turned to news of the Dowager Duchess of Broxbourne, who had had all her jewellery stolen in an audacious midnight raid on her London home the very night before the Dittons left London.
“The Dowager Duchess slept through it all apparently,” Mr Ditton reported, with an excited laugh, “but now her Grace is refusing to leave London at all, for fear her entire house will be ransacked! The on-dit is that she sits up all night with the butler beside her armed with a blunderbuss!”
Lady Seagrave shuddered. “What in the world are things coming to when one is not safe in one’s own home? Why, I for one shall be staying here in the country until that felon Chapman is captured! At least I may take the air in Woodbridge without being set upon by a gang of ruffians!”
Mr Ditton leant forward, almost impaling himself on his ridiculously high shirtpoints. “Can you be sure that the country is so safe, ma’am? They do say that there is a gang of smugglers who still work the coast near here, so take care if you choose to step out at dark of the moon!”
“Enough, Tristan,” Mrs Ditton said, quite sharply for her. She had seen the Dowager Countess shudder and cast her son a look of profound dislike, and Mrs Ditton had no intention of finding her invitations to Dillingham Court rescinded. She cast about swiftly for a new piece of gossip to distract attention.
“I have heard a far more riveting piece of news,” she said, brown eyes sparkling and her turban atwitch. “Mrs Cozens told Maria Wilcox, who told me that the Marchnights are coming to Woodbridge!”
There was a sudden silence, but for the muted clink of china. All conversations seemed to have been suspended as everyone turned to Mrs Ditton for further information.
Lady Seagrave raised her brows. “How extraordinary! Are you sure, Eustacia?”
“Well…” Mrs Ditton had the grace to retract a little “…it is only the Duchess and Lady Laura. I understand that they have been in Bath these four weeks past…” again her brown eyes twinkled with gleeful malice “…but Laura is being pursued by a most unsuitable young man and the Duchess is at pains to remove her from his company!”
There was a gasp of speculative interest from the assembled ladies. Lady Laura, only eighteen and the sweetest of debutantes, was the perfect target for scandal.
“How delicious,” Miss Ditton breathed in excitement. “Lord Blakeney was paying her particular attention in Town—I wonder if he followed her to Bath—”
“I had heard,” Lady Seagrave said a little tartly, “that Lady Laura is delicate and that Sarah Marchnight was thinking of a sea break even before they left Town, for the good of Laura’s health. But why they have chosen Woodbridge…?” and she frowned at the thought of her hegemony of Suffolk society being under threat.
“But the most piquant part,” Mrs Ditton finished triumphantly, “is that they are to be escorted here by Lord Henry. Lord Henry Marchnight is coming to Woodbridge!”
This time the gasp contained a frisson of excitement as well as interest. Almost every one of the ladies present had a deep interest in discussing and deploring the activities of so notorious a rake. That he might be about to create a stir in their little backwater was almost too stimulating to consider. Lord Henry might be condemned as being quite beyond the social pale, but he remained one of the most eligible and unobtainable prizes on the marriage mart.
Polly, despite having had foreknowledge of Mrs Ditton’s words, jumped and spilt a little tea on her lilac silk dress. Miss Ditton’s sharp brown eyes, so like her mother’s, noted Polly’s pallor.
“Lud, Lady Polly, the news has quite overset you!” she said, with spurious sympathy. “I do so sympathise. How can you face the strong rescuer who saved you from the mob? How can you look him in the eye after what you have been through? I know I should be quite overcome!”
“I shall face him with gratitude,” Lady Seagrave said trenchantly, wading in before her daughter could even speak. “Regardless of my previous opinion of Lord Henry, I cannot but be profoundly grateful that he was passing that night. Such good fortune! And he was truly courageous in facing down that mob and risking his life to help us! I shall not hear another word against him!”
Polly raised her eyebrows at such a staunch defence of a man her mother had previously dismissed as a dissolute wastrel.
“I vow,” Miss Ditton said archly, “Lord Henry has achieved a champion in you, has he not, ma’am! But I would wager all my pin money
that it will not be long before he does something truly dreadful,” her eyes sparkled at the thought of it “—and we are all deploring him for a villain!” She cast a spiteful sideways look at Polly. “After all, remember the incident at Richmond! I am sure that Lady Polly will never forget it!”
Someone tittered behind their hand. Polly felt the familiar fury rising at this denouncement of Lord Henry, mixed with the pain that the memory of that day could still occasion her.
“Lord Henry would no doubt be flattered to think that his activities could command such interest, Thalia,” she said coolly.
Miss Ditton, reddening, sought to sharpen her claws.
“It must be very pleasant to have your brother and sister-in-law back at Dillingham,” she said, smiling at Polly. “And I hear that your brother Peter has been intent on getting to know Lady Bolt much better! Such interesting family connections the Seagraves have!”
Polly knew better than to rise to that. Miss Ditton derived all her pleasure from the little pin-pricks and sharp words that could discommode her listeners. She yawned, as though somewhat bored with the topic of conversation.
“Oh, as to that, Peter has always been a most sociable creature! I am blessed with two very amiable brothers, Miss Ditton. No doubt I am the envy of all about me!” Polly’s gaze lingered just long enough on Tristan Ditton to make her point. In no way could Mr Ditton be coveted as a brother.
A tiny frown of annoyance marred Miss Ditton’s narrow forehead and Polly was grateful when Mrs Fitzgerald came across to join them and dilute the conversation. She was afraid that she was about to be very rude to Miss Ditton.
The Dowager Countess and her daughter left soon after, with the Dittons coming out on to the front steps to wave them off in state.
“Do give dearest Lucille our best wishes and tell her that we shall be over to Dillingham soon to see how she goes on!” Mrs Ditton gushed.
The Countess and Polly exchanged a look, in total accord.
“Poor Lucille,” the Countess murmured sotto voce. “Just when she was beginning to feel a little better as well!”
The unrelenting summer heat continued. The Dowager Countess had taken to dozing the afternoon hours away, and with Lucille also confined to bed and Nicholas out about estate business, Polly would wander in the shade of the gardens or curl up with a book in the pergola beside the lake. It was too hot for riding. Her mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Lord Henry Marchnight. Part of her longed to see him when he came to Woodbridge, but her practical side told her that this was unlikely. Whilst Lord Henry might well escort his mother and sister on the journey, he would hardly stay long in a provincial backwater which could hold no interest for one used to far more sophisticated pleasures. It seemed even less likely that Henry would choose to seek her out. Since he had not called in London after the ordeal, he would be unlikely to do so now.
Polly frowned, putting her book down on the painted seat of the pagoda and looking out across the dazzling water of the lake. There was no doubt that Lord Henry Marchnight was an enigma. She had guessed he was not the foolish dandy he pretended to be, though his reputation as a rake was perhaps another matter. But there was something suspicious in his behaviour. Mr Ditton’s words at the ball, half-forgotten, came back to give her a slight shock. A gentleman who was bored with his aristocratic lifestyle might well become involved in criminal activities for excitement. He might well be lurking during a riot—could even be an instigator of the discontent that had led the mob to turn on them. Polly shivered. Surely she was being foolish, particularly when she cared for him as she did. She could not equate her feelings for him with such doubts about his integrity. Yet something did not quite fit…
She got up, intending to walk off her fit of the dismals. She took the path which skirted the lake, enjoying the play of light on its surface and considering whether it would make a suitable subject for her painting. Polly had not picked up her paintbrush since returning to Suffolk, but it was an activity which she thoroughly enjoyed and she had some skill. It was a beautiful day to be outside, although a little too hot for comfort, but Polly’s parasol kept the direct sunlight off her face.
The Dillingham lake drained, by way of a small stream and a sluice gate, into the River Deben, and Polly slipped through the little gate and took the riverside path. Strictly speaking, this was not Seagrave land and belonged to Charles Farrant, but Polly knew he would not mind her trespassing. The Farrants and the Seagraves had grown up together.
There was a small fishing-house a little way further down the bank. With a smile, Polly remembered that this had been the scene of various childhood expeditions in the hot summers of years that had gone by; they had sat on the balcony of the fishing-house, dangling their lines in the river and losing patience before they had caught anything. The boys had been allowed to swim, but her governess had scolded Polly for asking to join in too, and had only reluctantly allowed her to dangle her bare feet in the water of the pool inside the fishing-house. Polly smiled at the memory. The pool, lined with coloured tiles and marble imported specially by Charles Farrant’s father, had always fascinated her. The water had been so clear and deep, shadowed and secret. She was minded to peek inside just to see if the reality was anything like her childhood memories.
Polly pushed open the fishing-house door and, in the split second that followed, her startled gaze took in everything before her. The interior was smaller than she remembered, but the tiles of a swirling green and blue were just the same. Light filtered down from the balcony above, dappling the water and illuminating the statues of mermaids and merman, which, in varying states of tasteful undress, lined the walls.
Polly certainly did not remember them. Her gaze lingered, half-shocked, half-intrigued at the sensuous display. Then she looked again at the pool and experienced a sensuous shock of an entirely more physical nature.
The pool was occupied. Polly, her hand still on the latch, took a hasty step backwards. And at that moment Lord Henry Marchnight, his wet, fair hair as sleek as an otter’s pelt, hauled himself out of the pool, the water running down his bronzed torso, shimmering droplets glistening on his naked body.
Polly gave a strangled squeak. She clapped her hand over her mouth, then wondered foolishly if it would be better to shield her eyes, since she seemed incapable of tearing her gaze away from Lord Henry’s body.
His nakedness was a shocking echo of the classical poses of the statues. But they were inanimate, whilst he was all too vividly alive. The strong, graceful lines of his body were utterly compelling. Somehow, Polly managed to raise her gaze to Lord Henry’s bare, broad chest, where it appeared to become fixed once again. He had an excellent physique, she thought dazedly, without an ounce of fat, the powerful shoulders and chest tapering to the narrow waist and down to strong thighs, all too clearly displayed to her view.
Lord Henry turned aside in leisurely fashion to reach for the towel which lay across a wicker chair and Polly’s fascinated gaze followed. Then, as he finally draped the towel about his waist, she was released from the spell and met his eyes, full of speculative amusement.
“Have you seen enough, Lady Polly?” Lord Henry asked, scrupulously polite, his hand hovering suggestively over the knot at his waist.
Polly could not answer. A huge wave of heat washed over her, compounded of sheer sensual awareness and burning embarrassment. Even as her mortification struggled for mastery, she was aware of other, more demanding and disturbing feelings, feelings she could not control or understand. She turned on her heel, bumping clumsily against the door in her attempt to get out of the fishing-house more quickly. The path was rough beneath the flimsy soles of her shoes as she ran from him. The sun suddenly seemed blindingly hot, the grasses threshing against her skirt, the colours spinning in a whirling kaleidoscope. Behind her, she thought she heard Lord Henry shout, “Polly! Wait!”
She did not turn. Branded on her mind was the vision of Lord Henry’s naked perfection, overlaid with the conventional gloss of how
utterly she had humiliated herself and that she would never be able to face him again as long as she lived.
She did not see the rabbit hole, did not realise her danger until she had tripped headlong into the grass and nettles to lie still, winded, with tears of pain and embarrassment stinging her eyes and the sound of Lord Henry’s footsteps drawing ever closer.
Chapter Eight
Polly brushed the tumbled hair out of her eyes and hastily attempted to sit up. A sharp pain shot through her ankle as she tried to put her weight on it. At the same time, tiny stinging patches of nettle rash seemed to rise on every exposed bit of skin. With a groan she lay back in the grass.
The blue sky was abruptly blotted out.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Lord Henry Marchnight demanded, with something less than his customary aplomb.
Even through her pain and misery, Polly was aware of relief that he had taken time to dress before he had followed her. He was not, perhaps, as immaculately turned out as usual, but there was something powerfully attractive about the sight of such casual dishevelment. Polly turned her head away with another groan. To be able to think of nothing but Henry Marchnight’s attractions at a time like this argued a disordered intellect.
Henry’s gaze took in her tumbled hair and the lines of pain on her white face, and his tone changed abruptly.
“You’re hurt!” He stretched out a hand and Polly flinched back, trying to scramble to her feet. She saw the angry colour come into his face at her reaction, though his voice remained level.
“I assure you that you can trust me, Lady Polly. I am not so far gone in debauchery as to take advantage of a defenceless woman! Besides, what were you intending to do—get up and hop away from me? Attack me with your parasol, perhaps?”
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