With a toss of her head, Catherine stalked towards the stairs. As she went, Marcus scanned her trim and shapely figure before he halted her. ‘It is my desire that you wear a gown appropriate for the occasion. After all, the event will be a form of celebration.’
Icy green eyes cut back at him. ‘Celebration?’ she repeated coldly.
‘Since becoming my wife it will be our first entertainment together,’ he drawled leisurely. ‘Is that not cause enough to celebrate?’
‘For you, maybe, but not for me.’
Nothing had prepared Marcus for the sight of his wife when she presented herself to him in the hall the next evening, for the apparition that moved towards him wiped his mind clear of anything but sheer appreciation. He felt the full weight of her beauty; to his supreme gratification, she was wearing a charming creation of sage green velvet, tasteful and demure, that bared her shoulders and the twin soft mounds of her bosoms sublimely. Her heavy black hair, drawn from her face by a jewelled band, fell free over her shoulders and down her back, and round her swan-like neck a thin band of diamonds seemed to vibrate with shimmering life.
‘I trust my gown meets with your approval,’ she quipped.
Marcus tilted his head to one side, crossing his arms over his chest and studying her with arrowed eyes. ‘You look very lovely,’ he remarked, looking positively dazzling himself in black knee breeches and frock coat and a dove grey satin vest. Delicate lace cascaded from his throat and spilled over his wrists, and his stockings were of fine white silk. His dark brown hair gleamed in the candlelight, and his dark eyes were calm. It was hard to believe that this was the man of yesterday.
‘Nervous?’ he asked.
‘Terrified,’ she confessed.
‘Don’t be.’
Sir Roger and Elizabeth arrived only minutes before the Stanhopes. Catherine urged Marcus forward to meet his sister. Marcus would have taken her with him, but she stood quietly back by the hearth, hoping that a moment alone with his sister would break the ice—and praying to the Lord to get her through the evening unscathed.
When Marcus greeted his sister, kissing her cheek affectionately, and she returned his kiss, he sighed with relief. He could see that Elizabeth’s ideas had been moderated by her husband’s arguments since he had last spoken to her, but even so, knowing her moods as well as his own, he could see that she was not prepared to capitulate entirely in her attitude towards Catherine. As she looked across the hall, her eyes coming to rest on the still figure of his wife, it was obvious that her manner was aloof and there were many reservations in the formal welcome with which she was prepared to greet her sister-in-law.
As Marcus held out his hand to her, Catherine walked towards them, the graceful folds of her gown swaying elegantly.
Elizabeth looked appraisingly at Henry Barrington’s daughter, who was surveying her with eyes of vibrant green. She was momentarily taken aback by the sheer magnetism of her presence and her beauty—it was a dangerous beauty, and it was easy to see how she had managed to captivate her brother. The force of her personality burned through her eyes, and she could see that this was no easily manipulated female. For Marcus’s sake, Elizabeth wanted to believe Catherine would be worthy of the name she bore, yet in her heart of hearts she wondered if such beauty could ever be without guile.
Subjecting Elizabeth to the same appraisal she was giving her, Catherine saw there was an acute, penetrating look that she would come to know so well. It did not hold one, or question or accuse. Rather it seemed to penetrate the very centre of one’s being, and see all that was there, tolerantly and with surprise.
Catherine had somehow expected Marcus’s sister to be a tall woman—perhaps because Marcus was tall—but instead she saw someone about the same height as herself. At thirty-four Elizabeth was extremely attractive. She had auburn hair, and arched eyebrows over warm, lively brown eyes, which seemed by contrast to make the pale texture of her skin even whiter than nature intended.
‘Elizabeth, may I present Catherine, my wife?’ Marcus frowned as his sister’s gaze fastened on Catherine and she subjected her to an intent, lengthy inspection before she spoke.
‘Welcome to the family,’ she said with polite reserve, looking as if she were trying to smile when she didn’t want to. And then, as if she belatedly thought of it, she held out her hands and said, ‘I am happy to meet you at last, Catherine.’
Something about that forced cheer in Elizabeth’s voice set off alarm bells in Catherine’s brain, and she felt her hands tremble as she held them out to her sister-in-law. ‘Thank you. I regret that I cannot say the same.’ She cast Marcus a look of reproach. ‘I thought perhaps it must be a habit with Marcus to spring surprises on people, for until yesterday I had no idea whatsoever that he had any siblings.’
‘Now, is that not like my brother,’ Elizabeth remarked drily. ‘Always inconsiderate to another’s feelings and, what is more, always springing surprises when one least expects it. I was severely annoyed with him when my husband returned to Somerset, and told me he had met up with Marcus at The Hague. Imagine my shock upon being informed that my brother had been married for months and never a word to me. I was most displeased.’
Catherine saw the frown between Marcus’s eyes and the sudden tightening of his lips and knew that he was put out by his sister’s rebuke. Her chest tightened with anxiety and irrational foreboding. There was something behind Elizabeth’s remark that only Marcus would understand. Something was odd, dreadfully odd, and she felt as if she wanted to flee from the house with its tension and undercurrents.
‘It was indeed inconsiderate,’ Catherine managed to say. ‘And had I been in your place, Lady Danby, I should have been just as angry as you were.’
‘We are sisters-in-law, Catherine. My name is Elizabeth.’ She turned to the man hovering beside her. ‘May I present Roger, my husband.’
Roger affected a courtly bow. ‘Welcome to Saxton Court, Catherine,’ he said, smiling warmly. ‘I trust Somerset is to your liking.’
Catherine took an instant liking to him. His voice was deep and quiet and somehow quite different from what Catherine had expected, following her strained introduction to his wife. ‘I like it very well, at least what I have seen of it.’
At that moment they were interrupted by the arrival of Lord and Lady Stanhope.
‘Lady Reresby, how lovely to meet you at last,’ Margaret Stanhope said, smiling widely as she swept across the hall.
The gentle smooth tone of her voice and the radiance of her smile were such that Catherine began to relax. In her late forties, Margaret Stanhope was a small, trim woman with glossy brown hair peppered with grey. Her gaze was frank and open, and her eyes, a startling blue and wide apart, were kind.
‘Please call me Catherine, and, if I may, I will call you Margaret.’
‘I should be delighted, my dear—and this is my husband, George,’ she said, drawing a foxy-looking man forward. With his stout figure and once-red hair turning white, George Stanhope gave the physical impression of age, yet his pleasant pink face, bright grey eyes, bushy red eyebrows and ready smile were the epitome of youth.
George smiled broadly. ‘The pleasure is all mine. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to join such gracious company. At last I have the honour of meeting you after hearing Marcus sing your praises from the moment you arrived in Somerset.’
Catherine was not immune to the gallantry of Lord Stanhope, and she was astonished by his remark. Meeting her husband’s eyes, which rested on her as boldly as ever, she raised questioning brows, wondering what she had done to deserve his acclaim. Slipping her arm through George’s, she took the initiative as hostess.
‘Lord Stanhope, would you be so kind as to escort me into the dining parlour? I believe the food is ready to be served.’
‘I’d be honoured, my dear—and George will do.’
George led her to her place at the far end of the table from Marcus, leaving the two of them separated from the other by the length of it.
‘You are very lovely, my dear,’ George proclaimed, pulling out her chair. ‘As lovely as my Margaret.’
‘Nay, George,’ Margaret laughed chidingly as she followed her husband on Roger’s arm. ‘Your memory deceives you. I never looked as lovely as Catherine.’
‘You did to me, my love,’ he said, looking back at his wife, ‘and oft was the time I had to fight off smitten swains.’ His eyes twinkled down at Catherine. ‘Your face would slight the beauty of a lily in full bloom, my dear.’
‘And are you familiar with lilies, sir?’ Catherine questioned.
Her light laughter threaded through Marcus’s head, weaving a spell. His gaze fell upon his wife as she slipped into her chair, and he was relieved to see that George’s compliments had put her at ease.
‘I have some prime blooms in my garden at Burton Grange,’ George answered as he seated himself. ‘I shall see to it personally that some are delivered to Saxton Court when they flower later in the year.’
‘Why, thank you. You are most kind.’ Catherine glanced at his wife. ‘Is your husband always so charming, Margaret?’
‘Always,’ Margaret admitted, giving her spouse a fond look. ‘You must forgive him, my dear. You’ll get used to him in time. George never can resist complimenting a beautiful woman on her looks, but he is utterly devoted to me and never strays.’
‘I wouldn’t dare—and nor would I want to,’ he chuckled good-humouredly. At that moment he really did look most endearing, like a naughty, overgrown boy. It was difficult to believe he was a deputy Lieutenant of the county’s militia, with orders to disarm all dangerous and suspected Dissenters in Somerset.
‘Why the frown, Elizabeth?’ Marcus asked lightly, giving his sister an amused look as she became seated. ‘Your thoughts appear to be mightily unpleasant. Are you wondering where Mr Fenton is, by any chance?’ Elizabeth’s feelings towards his bailiff were well known to him.
Elizabeth glanced at him sharply. ‘You know I seldom think about Mr Fenton if it can be avoided. However, since you mention it, where does the man skulk?’
‘Fenton doesn’t skulk.’
‘Yes, he does. The man’s a menace. Where is he, by the way?’
‘He’s taken a few days off to visit his brother in Bath. I expect him back tonight.’
Catherine frowned, puzzled as to how Mr Fenton could possibly be in Bath when she had seen him in Taunton only yesterday.
Elizabeth shot Catherine a hard look. ‘What do you think to my brother’s bailiff, Catherine? You must have had time to form an opinion of him.’
‘I—I haven’t—I mean, I don’t often see him, so I don’t really know him all that well.’
‘Undoubtedly that’s a blessing. I cannot like the man.’
‘I mean no disrespect, Marcus, but Elizabeth has a point,’ Roger said. ‘You know what I think where Fenton is concerned, and I cannot for the life of me understand why your father employed him in the first place.’
‘Having run Sir John Mortimer’s estate in Surrey efficiently for a number of years, he came well recommended. Sir John spoke highly of him and was sorry when he left.’
‘Then why did he?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘To seek a position closer to his family in Devon.’
‘Has Mr Fenton never married?’ Catherine enquired.
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Marcus replied. ‘What you seem to forget, Elizabeth, is that Father was not the man he used to be. He always prided himself on being able to manage Saxton Court, but gradually it became too much for him. Whatever Mr Fenton’s political and religious beliefs might be, he has done a great deal for this place. And I would add that, among certain people in the neighbourhood, he is well respected.’
‘Not by many,’ Elizabeth countered. ‘Please, do not be deceived. I find him extremely offensive. Beneath the surface your Mr Fenton is quite ruthless.’
There was the faintest edge to Elizabeth’s voice, an edge of wry rebuke for her brother that Catherine recognised. ‘What do you know of him?’ she asked, taking a sip of her wine.
Elizabeth looked at her. ‘Before he became the most influential member of staff?’
‘If you like.’
‘Since Father’s death and Marcus’s long absence, Mr Fenton has enjoyed tremendous influence at Saxton Court—indeed he lives in high style. His father was a gentleman from some place in Devon—somewhat impoverished, as I understand. Being the youngest of four sons denied him the hope of an inheritance. He had to make his own living. Father was in London when they met. I’m not at all sure how Father came to offer him the position of bailiff, but he did and that was that. I confess that at the time I was relieved he had someone to take over the burden of running the estate. With Father’s full trust and authority behind him, and his own competence, within no time at all Mr Fenton has successfully carved himself a niche at Saxton Court.’
‘And when Father was killed he continued to run things with my full approval,’ Marcus remarked, ‘and he will continue to do so until I have just cause for complaint and until I have done with the army.’
‘In which time he will become more powerful, his competence only exceeded by his malice and ambition,’ Elizabeth argued calmly. ‘I find his presence here suspicious. Given his extreme political views and this being a hotbed of dissent, I believe he sought to use Father and his position at Saxton Court to establish a niche here in the West Country, should there be insurrection.’
‘Really?’ Marcus’s dark eyes were hard as they looked at his sister. ‘Surely you must see that it puts Father in a very poor light, implying that he was unable to judge a man’s character for himself.’
‘No—no, I don’t. I would not be so disloyal, but perhaps there were things I could see in Mr Fenton that he could not.’
‘Such as?’
‘Mr Fenton is not your ordinary, hard-working man. There is an aura about him. An aura that is threatening and dangerous. The workers on the estate go in fear of him. He is fond of hunting and he’s got himself a pack of hounds to specialise in tracking down creatures other than foxes.’
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying those who live and work on my estate are ill treated?’
‘In truth I don’t know. I have no proof, but I suspect he metes out his own kind of punishment on those who fall foul of him.’
‘You always did have a wild imagination, Elizabeth. I know well that it is your custom to make mountains out of molehills. I am astonished that my bailiff is worth such concentrated attention, and I do wish you wouldn’t attack the man,’ Marcus chided, concealing the disquiet his sister’s accusations regarding his bailiff had stirred. ‘You know I disapprove.’
‘And you know that I would never do anything to upset you. But I am uneasy about the way he runs Saxton Court—and I dare say it would well survive without him.’
‘And I say he stays for the time being.’ Suddenly Marcus smiled. ‘Calm yourself, Elizabeth,’ he said, spinning the wine around in its goblet, first one way and then the other, as he looked thoughtfully at his wife. ‘I shall be finished with the army in a matter of weeks. Then we shall see.’
As dinner progressed topics were discussed, from the latest fashions and affairs at Court to the weather. Marcus was unusually quiet. His eyes flicked constantly from his wife to his sister, anxiously waiting to see if they were warming to each other. Halfway through the delicious meal and several glasses of wine, Margaret could no longer resist broaching a subject that piqued her curiosity.
‘Marcus, we know very little about Catherine—how you met and how you came to marry her. It’s all very intriguing, you know.’
Over the clutter of dishes filled with meats, vegetables, fruits and sauces, Catherine saw the tenseness in her husband’s face and manner. She also saw that Elizabeth, who had become conspicuously quiet, was watching her closely. It was humiliating enough for Catherine that Marcus’s sister should know the sordid circumstances of their marriage, and she would not give anyone else more
meat to chew. She experienced a brief surge of irritation that Margaret should raise the matter, but forced it down as she realised the question was asked in all innocence.
‘Marcus and I met through my father,’ she explained. ‘His military duties kept us apart—until recently, when my father died.’
‘And you were at The Hague, I believe?’ Margaret said.
‘Yes. It is no secret that my father was a political exile.’
‘And you went over there to be with him?’
‘Catherine’s father suffered ill health, Margaret,’ Marcus was quick to reply, saving his wife the embarrassment of having to invent a lie, for the truth was known only to himself, his sister and his brother-in-law, and none of them wished it to go further. Margaret was a very dear friend, though something of a gossip. In no time at all the whole county would have him down as a cuckold. ‘It is only natural that he would want his daughter with him.’
‘But of course. Still, I believe most of the exiled nonconformists settled in the Low Countries have little to do and allow the wildest conjectures to flourish. Did you see the Duke of Monmouth, my dear,’ Margaret asked excitedly, ‘and is he really as handsome as they say he is?’
‘I—did see him. He is an impressive figure, noble and military in his bearing, gracious and charming, and, yes, he is very handsome.’
‘It is obvious that you express an interest in Monmouth,’ Elizabeth commented, ‘for you to defend him so passionately. If he should come to these parts to aid his victory, do you intend to clasp your hands in pious prayer, or sing his praises in support?’
Catherine met her gaze squarely. ‘Both. You can be assured that I will not forget my place, but I am of the opinion that one must follow the dictates of one’s conscience. Were I a man, I would do whatever was in my power to aid the Duke’s cause. He has right on his side, after all.’
Catherine’s imprudent remark caused Marcus’s jaw to clench in a tight line of rage. However, thirty-one years of strict adherence to certain rules of etiquette could not be disregarded, and he only looked, albeit with stern disapproval, at his wife.
His Rebel Bride Page 9