by Dorothy Mack
“You must be mistaken.”
“I saw her,” replied Claire calmly. “I would wager my mother’s pearls that her hat is the only thing to sustain an injury.”
Marianne made no reply because the men had all remounted, but her cousin’s words had given her plenty of food for conjecture on the return trip, which was a strangely quiet one. When Lady Mauraugh attempted to initiate a conversation, the marquess suggested quite kindly that talking would only increase her headache. He rode almost silently by her side, and the others seemed to be absorbed in their own thoughts for there was very little conversation exchanged.
Marianne’s thoughts were concerned with the intelligence conveyed to her by her cousin. Though there wasn’t much for which she would take Claire’s word, she did not disbelieve her in this instance. Claire had been quite convinced in her own mind that the countess had contrived the accident, so Marianne was not alone in thinking the beautiful widow was hunting the marquess in earnest. He accorded her all the consideration due to a guest, but to Marianne’s eye he did not appear to seek out her company. Did this morning’s incident indicate desperation? The countess could not realistically extend her visit much past the Christmas season except at the specific request of the marquess. Despite her efforts there was only a superficial cordiality in the relationship with her sister-in-law, and little Richard’s presence at the Hall went virtually unnoticed though his need was the ostensible reason for the visit. As they entered the carriage drive to the main entrance, she decided it was time to shelve the question for the present. Doubtless all would come clear in due course.
She was to have those sentiments recalled strongly to mind later that same night. The marquess was hosting a sizable reception and all the neighboring gentry had been able to attend thanks to the clear weather. Two reception rooms were given over to accommodate the guests, but even so by eleven o’clock the crowd of constantly moving humanity had raised the temperature to uncomfortable levels in both. Lady Lunswick, unlike the majority of her contemporaries, did not fear the night air, but it would have been unthinkable to throw open a few windows for a moment to let in a cooling draft. Marianne, in the vicinity of her hostess momentarily, suggested she slip into her morning room and relax for a short time in private.
“For you are looking flushed, Ma’am, and I suspect you have the headache a trifle, or will have if you continue here.”
“You are quite correct, my child. I shall be glad when this evening is over, but hospitality is expected of us at this time of year. I find I no longer have the same pleasure in huge gatherings as when I was younger. Let us step into the conservatory for a short spell. It will be cooler with all that glass, and I love that damp earthy smell.”
There was only one wall light near the entrance and the conservatory itself was lit only by the silvered moonlight. The two women stood close together, quietly savoring the damp cool air and odor of greenery for a time while their eyes adjusted to the relative gloom. Almost immediately, however, Marianne became aware of a murmur of voices somewhere to their left.
“There is someone here already,” she whispered, touching her companion’s arm lightly. “Perhaps we had best not...”
The whisper died in her throat as her seeking eyes made out two figures in intimate conversation. Even as she recognized the gentleman by the set of his shoulders, the white-garbed feminine form raised her hands to those same shoulders and her lips invitingly to his. For an instant the man seemed to hesitate, arms at his side, then he bent his head to hers and encircled the slight form in strong arms. The marchioness emitted a small gasp and stiffened under the hand that had tightened involuntarily on her arm. As she made an instinctive movement forward, Marianne gently but firmly drew her back through the doorway by which they had entered the conservatory. In the dim light of the single wall sconce they stared at each other. Noting the older woman’s pallor, Marianne led her unprotestingly down a corridor and, opening the door to her morning room, gently pushed her hostess inside. She closed the door softly, then sped to the room where the buffet was already spread. Casting a hasty eye over the food that would be served quite soon now, she settled for a claret cup, pouring a good-sized glass with hands that shook slightly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Marianne returned to the morning room shortly thereafter, having safely negotiated the route with claret cup intact, one glance assured her that the ghastly pallor that had frightened her had gone from the marchioness’ face. Her relief was short-lived, however, for Lady Lunswick was seen to be suffering a great agitation of spirits if her incessant pacing of the small room was a true manifestation of her mental state. As the young girl stood hesitating just within the room, Lady Lunswick swung around again furiously, her soft lilac skirts whipping about her.
“How could he—how could Justin be so stupid as to allow himself to be entrapped by that woman?” she almost snarled, baring her even white teeth. Caring nothing for any sort of response, she resumed the erratic pacing and her hands were clenching and unclenching at her sides. On her next swing by Marianne, the girl stopped her and thrust the glass into her hand, folding her own firmly on top. She gentled the older woman into the nearest chair.
“Drink this, please. It will steady you. It is almost time to serve supper, and you will be missed shortly.”
Suddenly all the fight went out of the marchioness. Meekly she drank from the glass and handed it back to the anxious girl kneeling by her chair. Their eyes were almost on a level and Marianne saw tears shining in Lady Lunswick’s.
“How could he, Marianne?” she repeated, this time without the fury.
“You wished him to marry, ma’am,” the girl reminded her softly, averting her own eyes from the despair mirrored in the other woman’s face.
“Yes, but not that woman!” her hostess declared passionately. “Any other, even that baggage, Claire, would do better.”
“Surely, ma’am, you must have suspected that Lady Mauraugh felt—that she was greatly attached to the marquess?”
Lady Lunswick waved an impatient hand. “Oh, her! Of course I knew what her game was before she came here, but I would not credit that Justin could be such a fool as to let himself be attracted by such a woman, not after what she did!”
There was a palpitating little silence while rampant curiosity warred with well-bred reserve in Marianne. Curiosity won.
“I do not perfectly understand, ma’am. Do you feel Lady Mauraugh is being disloyal to your brother by contemplating another marriage so soon after his death? She has observed the period of mourning.”
“Oh, William! William got what he asked for—and paid for,” she replied bitterly. “I am referring to what she did to Justin.”
“What did she do to Justin?”
Lady Lunswick’s eyes came back to her guest’s face in a considering look. “I thought you must have heard the story by now, from Andrew, or Sophia perhaps. Everyone knew, the whole world knew.”
Marianne contented herself with a negative shake of her head.
Lady Lunswick held out her hand for the glass and drained it before embarking on her tale.
“It happened over five years ago. Justin was home from the Peninsula to recover from a troublesome wound and he met Aurelie, who was one of the Incomparables of her season. Well, you may guess what effect she had on him. He was five and twenty, restless at being out of the fighting, handsome in his regimentals, and ripe for falling in love, which he proceeded to do at first sight of Aurelie. And she gave him every encouragement to do so, Marianne. They were taking bets on the date of the match in all the clubs in town. Then, just before he made the offer, Justin presented his uncle to Aurelie. When he proposed she stalled for time, said they had not known each other very long and a lot more in the same vein which I shall spare you. To end the story, within a week Aurelie was engaged to William and Justin had gone back to Spain. I got the whole story from Harry later. Justin refused all comment and he changed from an open, smiling young man to the gua
rded cynic you see now.”
“She may have found she loved your brother, Ma’am,” Marianne offered tentatively, not that she believed it.
“Rubbish! A man four and twenty years her senior and a victim to the gout into the bargain! As much as Aurelie could love another person than herself she was in love with Justin, or at least it deeply gratified her vanity to be courted by such a handsome and popular young man. Wealth and a title, weighted against a second son’s prospects, swung the decision in William’s favor. It absolutely sickens me to think she will now achieve a higher rank and greater wealth, and ruin my son’s life a second time.”
“But if she loves him and he still loves her, his life will be far from ruined.”
“Aurelie is much too spoiled and selfish to make any man happy for long. She thrives on the adulation of all men. For Justin I want a woman who will love him deeply, not one who is merely gratified to be loved by him.”
“And who shall blame you, Ma’am? But perhaps Justin prefers to marry a woman whom he deeply loves and chance that the match will prosper.”
The marchioness sighed. “You may be right, my child. In any case there is nothing I can do save put a good face on the situation. Justin is a man grown. But I had so hoped he would see...” Marianne waited but Lady Lunswick evidently thought better of what she had been about to utter and merely sighed gustily again. She rose from the chair and squared her shoulders. She smiled, albeit a trifle wearily at Marianne.
“It is high time I went back to my guests. Thank you, my dear child, for staying here with me during this time. Forgive me for crying on your shoulder as it were.”
She went out then, but the girl did not follow immediately. She dropped into the chair vacated by Lady Lunswick and rested her head against the high back. She sat there with her eyes closed for several minutes while she recovered, or sought to recover, from the effects of two dramatic events she could well have done without. It was difficult to say which had been more distressing—witnessing the embrace between the marquess and the widow, or being the recipient of his mother’s bitter confidences. She might tell herself with cool logic that it was none of her affair whom the marquess kissed or whom he married, but she was unable to carry the thought one step further and agree that it was nothing to her whom he might kiss or marry, for the uncomfortable truth was that the sight of that embrace had produced an almost physical ache somewhere deep within her that the subsequent disclosures by the marchioness had increased tenfold. It was a minor consolation to know that she had revealed none of this to Lady Lunswick. Stubborn pride had its value at times, and she could not have borne the older woman’s sympathy at that moment. Why had she not realized earlier that she had succumbed to the charm and physical attractions of her trustee? It wasn’t love, she reminded herself bleakly, because she was not even sure she liked the marquess very much, but even in the beginning when she had disliked him quite intensely there had been an equally strong awareness of his physical magnificence, which had culminated tonight in a stabbing desire to be in Lady Mauraugh’s place in the conservatory. The fact that this burning sensation was only infatuation should make it easier to overcome. And from this moment forward, the concealment and eventual eradication of this degrading infatuation would become her single-minded pursuit until she could escape from Lunswick Hall.
To this end she walked over to the mirror above the fireplace and unnecessarily straightened the black sash of her gray satin gown. She smoothed one of her silky black brows with a damp fingertip and tucked a stray lock of hair back into the braided coronet, all the while practicing her smile which would have to be judged a rather wavering effort at first. The smile became real, though rueful, as she acknowledged that these maneuvers were nothing more than a form of stalling, so great was her reluctance to rejoin the party. She promptly turned her back on her reflection and strode purposefully to the door.
Even with pride to the rescue, the remaining hour of the reception seemed to drag out interminably for Marianne. She smiled and chatted with acquaintances though she could not have told anyone the topics covered, and made a pretense of eating some unidentifiable concoctions. She noted that Lady Lunswick performed her duties as hostess with her usual grace, though her smile appeared a bit set. When she spotted the marquess’ tall figure wending its way rather purposefully in her direction, she slipped unobtrusively into the other reception room and joined a laughing group clustered around the pianoforte. Somehow she could not contemplate the possibility of a conversation on literature or politics with her trustee tonight, and as for Lady Mauraugh, who was surrounded by admiring cavaliers as usual, Marianne took care to avoid catching even the merest glimpse of that beautiful, satisfied countenance. Hopefully, by tomorrow she would be able to look at the countess without displaying the dislike and jealousy that were presently gnawing at her spirit.
By dint of careful maneuvering that would have done credit to a field general, she managed to avoid contact with the two people who could threaten her hard-won composure, but this and the effort required to produce the spurious affability with which she met all others, took its toll in nervous energy. By the time the last guest had departed she was thoroughly exhausted. The blessed oblivion of sleep was not quickly summoned, however, because she was also restless, unhappy and, despite her earlier resolutions, unsure of her ability to meet the challenge she had set herself with all flags flying. It was close to the false dawn before she fell into a heavy slumber, from which she was awakened abruptly by the maid bringing in chocolate. She eyed the drink with disfavor and the dark-colored morning gown the girl laid out with an even more jaundiced eye.
The pleasant anticipation with which she had greeted each new day during the visit had increased with Lord Andrew’s arrival and intensified further with the return of her trustee. Now it was gone, dispersed by an embrace she had not been meant to witness, and she needed something to counteract the sense of foreboding that pressed on her like a physical weight. Dismissing the maid with a smile, Marianne studied her wardrobe with a concentration she would have characterized as ridiculous two short months ago. But lovely clothes were a protective shell for a woman, and since last night’s disaster there was no denying she needed all the armor she might gather about her, especially today if there was to be a betrothal announcement. Her searching eye fell on a heavy soft cotton gown that she had ordered on impulse but never as yet worn. It was neither pink nor red but a delicious shade somewhere between, delicately patterned with a tracery of white leaves and flowers. Made in a simple style that closely followed the lines of her figure, it had long, tight sleeves dripping with snowy lace over the hands. An inserted yoke of the same exquisite Belgian lace below the high collar was allowed to take the shaping of its design over the bodice. There was no other ornamentation. Seriously considering her reflection in the silver-framed mirror, Marianne made the pleasant discovery that nothing had ever been more becoming to her coloring. It enhanced the natural color in cheeks and lips and made a lovely contrast to her dark hair. She wasted a few seconds wishing for bouncing curls like Claire’s as she secured her smoothly coiled locks. Lady Lunswick generally acceded to Marianne’s wishes regarding her wardrobe, but for some unexplained reason she was adamant about retaining the unfashionably long hair. Oh, well, since nothing would serve to change its color in any case what did it matter how she wore it? At least the smooth style spared her the necessity of resorting to nightly curl papers and irons to achieve a popular look.
The morning was well advanced before she descended to the breakfast parlor, but any hopes of avoiding the marquess who invariably ate early, or the countess who just as invariably remained in her room after a social evening, were dashed even before she had crossed the threshold, as she distinguished their voices amidst the muted sounds of china and metal. Perhaps it would be best to get the announcement over with and end the doubts—hopes?—that persisted. She raised her chin and stepped through the entrance with a serene smile and a general greeting to the assem
bled company. Evidently everyone had risen late because all residents both permanent and temporary were present.
“You win the prize for lazing today, Marianne,” quipped Lord Andrew. “Even my aunt is up before you. By Jove, I like that getup, though. You look like a nice tasty dish of strawberries and cream.”
Amidst the chuckles that followed this saucy remark, Marianne wrinkled her nose at him but could not prevent herself from slanting a quick peek at the marquess. He had already returned his attention to his plate, and she promptly hated herself for caring.
Sir Martin smiled at her warmly and pulled out the chair beside Lady Lunswick before Coleman could perform this office for the latecomer. Lady Mauraugh had given her one comprehensive narrow-eyed stare and a polite “good morning.” Sir Martin and Lady Lunswick, however, vied with each other in assuring her that she looked utterly charming in her deep-pink gown.
“Do you confine your mourning dress to public appearances only, Lady Marianne?” If there was a slight edge to the countess’ smiling inquiry, it would undoubtedly escape the masculine ear.
“That is correct,” Marianne replied, looking straight at her questioner. “I wear black in public to avoid causing embarrassment to my hostess.”
“You should wear this color more often. It suits you charmingly,” her trustee inserted smoothly, and immediately inquired everyone’s plans for the day.
The talk remained away from personalities for the remainder of the meal. Marianne contributed little beyond an agreement that she would ride with Andrew before lunch. She was forming polite phrases of congratulations in her mind as she sat tensely, awaiting an announcement that did not come. As the meal drew to a close she scarcely knew whether she was relieved to postpone the ordeal or frustrated because it was all to do over again. To her discerning eye, Lady Lunswick was experiencing unqualified relief as she rose to leave the breakfast parlor. She had been slightly abstracted during the meal and had rather avoided her elder son’s eye. Marianne noticed the marquess glancing at his mother once or twice with a faintly puzzled air, but he made no remarks of a personal nature. Since he and Sir Martin had made plans to inspect a promising colt owned by a gentleman residing some twenty or so miles away, they took their leave immediately. Marianne had caught the flash of disappointment in Lady Mauraugh’s face as the gentlemen’s plans were announced, and she held her breath lest Lord Andrew should feel constrained to invite the widow to join them. He, however, had calmly continued to eat his way through his customary sustaining repast as though he had heard nothing. The marquess had then smilingly suggested that Lady Mauraugh might enjoy joining his brother and his ward on their ride, but she had declined with cool civility.