“And yet, he must have known she is not up to riding that mare.”
“Perhaps…” Helen said slowly, relishing the thought, although it didn’t really say much for her either. “Perhaps he is simply an imbecile.”
A bark of laughter escaped him. “Oh, that, certainly!”
She didn’t quite understand the breathlessness that took her as he straightened and stretched down his hand to her. She took it, very aware of the strong fingers closing about hers, drawing her to her feet. Everyone was moving to their horses once more.
“Time for luncheon,” Sir Marcus observed, releasing her hand. “The inn is only about ten minutes’ ride from here.”
Her skin seemed to tingle within her glove, and she could not help being very conscious of his long, easy stride beside her. His movements were all economical and decisive, those of a confident man. An interesting and attractive man, she allowed, although why she should be quite so aware of his body and how it moved was beyond her—uncomfortable, yet secretly thrilling.
It was he who boosted her into the saddle once more. His nearness during this mundane operation should not have caused those peculiar flames within her. She hid her agitation by fussing with the reins and keeping the wicked mare in order.
Sir Marcus, surely unaware of his growing effect upon her, merely cast her a grin. “Good luck,” he said as he strode off to his own horse.
Helen was no longer a young girl to become stupidly obsessed with a man’s appearance. She was no longer the impecunious, lonely young lady, frightened by her father’s illness and fooled by the handsome face of a worthless man like Philip Marshall. Sir Marcus might have been a very different kind of man, but she refused to allow herself to think of him in that way. Instead, she turned her mind to what he had said about Philip.
Could he wish his stepdaughter harm? Surely there could be no reason for him to seek her hurt. In fact, both he and his wife seemed to be pushing her into Sir Marcus’s path, a prospect which clearly appalled her.
Oh, dear. Surely Philip would not have deliberately put her on the mare just to provoke the incident which did, in fact, happen? To force Anne and Sir Marcus into each other’s company… Relying on Sir Marcus’s quick thinking and quicker reactions, but risking Anne’s terrible injury.
Philip had always spoken well, especially about subjects that interested him, like painting and sculpture. But with the benefit of time and maturity, she could now see that he had never been the sharpest tool in the box. He was a man of instinct and impulse, ignoring consequences he did not wish to think about—or being completely unaware of them.
The inn expected them for luncheon, and they were shown into a large, private room where they were served some very decent dishes. Helen sat with the children at one end of the table, keeping half an eye on them, but they still seemed to be on their best behavior, committing no worse a breach of manners than calling several places up the informal table to address some question about gardens to Lady Verne. After which, they went on to regale Anne, who sat on the other side of the table from Helen, with tales of Finmarsh House hauntings and sneaking into the grounds to catch a glimpse of the Sinister Baron—now Lady Cecily’s husband and clearly not sinister at all.
Anne actually seemed like a different person when she was talking to the children, fun and full of interesting facts, happy to listen to each of them and make wondering noises at the appropriate places. The contrast between this Anne and the nervous Miss Marshall in adult company was notable.
“How old are you, Anne?” Eliza asked. She didn’t speak often, but when she did, it was generally to the point.
“Sixteen,” Anne replied, appearing to see nothing odd in the question.
“Richard is sixteen,” Eliza told her. “He’s only allowed to be grown-up sometimes. Is it the same for you?”
Anne’s smile seemed regretful, almost tragic. “No, I think I’m grown-up for good.”
“We’re nearly eleven,” Eliza offered. “But already, Horry has to go away to school.”
“Not yet, I don’t,” Horatio said at once. “Got another three weeks!”
Mindful of her place, Helen took the children outside as soon as they had finished luncheon to let them explore. Anne made to rise with them, only then some movement further up the table distracted her, and she sat back down again. Helen glanced back as she closed the door and saw that Sir Marcus and Sydney Cromarty had risen, too. Clearly Anne wasn’t going to risk running into them.
And as it turned out, she was right, for after admiring the hens and pigs at the back of the house and visiting the stables where George held a long conversation with one of the young ostlers, they walked around to the front of the inn and discovered Sir Marcus and Mr. Cromarty sitting on a wooden bench enjoying the wintry sunshine. Inevitably, the children ran at their brother-in-law, who was a great favorite with them, and appeared to regard Sir Marcus quite without awe.
Both men stood up as she approached.
“Don’t let us interrupt you,” she said hastily.
“Too late,” Cromarty said, turning Horatio upside down, much to the boy’s delight. He jerked his head toward Sir Marcus. “Besides, I was achieving nothing with this lunkhead.”
Helen blinked, though Sir Marcus seemed to see nothing wrong with the insult, merely twitching the corners of his mouth into a tolerant smile.
“What were you trying to achieve?” she asked mildly.
Mr. Cromarty grimaced. “Sensible discussion about the idiocy of traveling to Russia on a whim.”
“A whim?” Helen repeated startled. “I don’t believe anyone would go there right now upon a mere whim.”
Cromarty’s eyebrows flew up. “By God, you’re right. What are you not telling me, Dain?”
“Whatever is not your business,” Sir Marcus said irritably. “I made a promise to a friend. That is not a whim.” He seemed about to stalk away into the inn, but Mr. Cromarty stayed him.
“By the way, I forgot to mention. I heard Isabelle de Renarde had got married.”
If the information was meant to be a barb, to throw Sir Marcus, or trick him into admitting something, it fell wide of the mark. He did glance back, but a sincere smile flickered across his face.
“I knew she would. But I’m glad to know it’s happened.”
“Drat the man,” Mr. Cromarty muttered as his friend vanished inside. “Then it isn’t Isabelle.”
“What isn’t?” Eliza asked.
“That’s making him so determined to k—” Cromarty broke off with a quick glance at the children. “Risk himself,” he corrected.
“Perhaps you should just take him at his word,” Helen suggested. “He’s keeping a promise to a friend.”
“A friend would not expect him to keep such a promise in such circumstances,” Cromarty snapped. He forced a smile. “But there, I have said enough to him and to you! Shall we go back inside? We’ll be leaving soon.”
Oddly enough, the best part of the ride back to Steynings was the time she spent in Sir Marcus’s company. Henrietta had dropped back to ride with the children, so Helen urged the mare on in order to make way, and a few moments later, she found Sir Marcus beside her.
Again, sheer awareness of his large frame, his strong hands easily controlling his lively mount, took her breath away. Covering it, she rushed into speech.
“Will this be your first visit to Russia?”
As soon as the words were out, she would have given anything to unsay them. But without any show of irritation, he replied merely, “No, I have been there several times over the years.” He paused, as though almost forcing himself to speak. “Actually, I spent most of my life abroad. I grew up mostly in France before the revolution. My mother was French. War might have put a stop to the traditional Grand Tour, but as an adult, I made my own variations and kept going. I would come home for a year and then my feet would itch, and off I’d go again, somewhere new and different.”
“Which other countries have you seen?” she asked.
&
nbsp; It seemed to her he had been most of the way around the world, catching European countries in moments of peace, but also going beyond the Ottoman Empire to the east, as far as India and China. He had spent time in North Africa, including Egypt, and sailed west to the United States and South America.
“I would love to see even a fraction of the places you have,” she said enviously. “I have not even been to Scotland! And so, you have been home for a year now?”
“Four years. I had to come home when my father died and put his ramshackle estates in order.”
“I am guessing that has irked you unbearably?”
“Actually, no, I rather enjoyed it. I had almost decided to settle only…” He trailed off with a shrug.
“Only you have a restless spirit,” she said lightly. “And a friend in need.” Remembering he did not want to talk about that, she hastily asked instead about Egypt and for the next twenty minutes listened, rapt, to his descriptions of that fascinating land and several others. He answered her eager questions with great patience and interspersed it all with humorous stories that made her laugh.
In those moments, she was transported from the too-familiar countryside of Sussex to places entirely new and exotic, exciting her wonder and fresh desire to travel there for herself. She could have happily listened to him for hours and was only dragged back to reality when Henrietta brushed past her to the group in front.
“Oh dear, I’ve let myself be distracted,” she said in dismay. “I would love to hear more some time, but…”
With an apologetic shrug, she fell back to rejoin the children. In truth, they had hardly been neglected, with both their sister and Anne riding among them, while she was only a few yards in front. But she knew she must have brought unwelcome notice on herself by such a long conversation with Sir Marcus. She would be accused of encroaching or even, God help her, flirting, both ideas which made her cringe. A governess’s living depended upon her spotless reputation, and while Lady Overton was a tolerant employer, Helen was only too aware she could not stretch that good nature too far.
“Thank you,” Anne breathed, bringing her horse closer to Helen’s, which snorted and tried to toss her head.
“For what?” Helen asked, uncomprehending.
“For keeping him occupied.”
Helen blinked. “My dear Miss Marshall, he is not an ogre waiting to pounce upon you!”
“Of course not.” Anne flushed and apologized, but Helen could see that was still exactly what she thought.
Only as they all dismounted at Steynings, did she find herself face to face with Sir Marcus once more.
“I hope I did not bore you with my excessive reminiscences,” he said shortly.
“Quite the opposite,” she muttered. She had time, before she fled, to see his frown vanish and his eyes smile. As she hurried after the twins—George would inevitably hang around the stables for as long as he could—she folded her arm across her chest, as though that could calm the rapid beating of her heart.
What is the matter with me? Why does he affect me so?
Of course, he meant nothing by his careless attention. He was probably still, in his own way, apologizing for his rudeness at the Hart. But she needed to look after herself. She would have to avoid him until either he or the Overtons left Steynings.
Chapter Five
Retreating to her bedchamber to change for dinner that evening, Helen appreciated the solitude. She needed it to calm her foolish agitation and give herself a severe talking-to until she returned to her sane and sensible self.
However, as she sank on to the bed, her gaze on the window, her mind focused stubbornly on the narrow balcony from where she had spoken yesterday to Sir Marcus. It would not be so unlikely for another such encounter to occur.
She rolled off the bed and jumped to her feet, marching to the slightly damaged mirror on the dressing table.
She was nine-and-twenty years old and to earn her living, she had always contrived to look older. Pulling the pins from her hair, she dragged her fingers through it, letting it bounce and cluster around her face. Instantly, she looked younger, softer. Thinking of Sir Marcus, she let her lips tremble into a smile that almost broke her heart.
She was not so old or so ugly. If things had been different, surely she would not have been such a very terrible match.
Shocked at herself, she broke away from the glass, almost relieved to have her solitude disrupted by a peremptory knock on the door. It was bound to be one or more of the children, so she merely grabbed her hairbrush and began gathering the mass of her hair back from her face. “Come in!”
But it was not the children. Lady Sydney, Lady Verne, and the superior maid she recognized as Lady Verne’s dresser swept into the chamber.
In astonishment, Helen’s hands fell to her side, and her hair tumbled back around her shoulders.
“What beautiful hair you have!” Henrietta beamed. “You should not wear it so severely scraped back.”
Helen stared at her. “I’m the governess. It’s appropriate.”
Henrietta waved that aside. “For governess days,” she allowed. “Not for the ball.”
Helen frowned, mystified. “What ball?”
“My ball,” Henrietta said drily. “Here at Steynings tomorrow evening.”
“Ah! I meant to speak to you about that. The children would like to see the splendor of the ballroom. Is there somewhere they could watch just for a little while, without being in the way? If Lady Overton approves, of course.”
“Of course. I’ll speak to her this evening, but I know she won’t object. However, they will be seen, and so will you, so we thought you might like to wear this gown. Cranston will alter it to fit, of course.”
Helen closed her mouth, gazing from the green gown in Cranston’s arms to Lady Cecily Verne.
“It’s mine,” Lady Verne agreed.
“But I cannot accept this,” Helen said, distressed.
“Nonsense, I have far too many of the wretched things. You will be doing me a great favor taking it off my hands. And you will not feel comfortable in your plain evening dress among all the opulently dressed—”
“Forgive me,” Helen interrupted. “But I shall not feel comfortable whatever I wear. Nor should I. I am the governess, attending the ball for half an hour to chaperone my charges.”
“An hour,” Henrietta said without heat.
Helen frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I think we should give the children an hour,” Henrietta said. “And I wish you would try the gown on. It is not overelaborate, and I think you will find it strikes just the right balance between your position and my mother’s requirements,”
Helen was silenced. Somehow, they had her out of her dull, old riding habit and into the ball gown which did indeed fit almost perfectly.
“A tiny alteration at bust and hem,” Cranston said, eyeing her critically. “It will take me less than half an hour. Off, if you please.”
Before she had even seen herself, the gown was removed again, and Henrietta politely handed her the evening gown she always wore. Helen could not shake off the feeling that her employer’s daughter was up to something, for Henrietta was a mischievous soul who generally had a plan or two in motion at any one given time.
But Helen was given time to do no more than thank Lady Verne and her maid before Henrietta swept them all out of her chamber again, leaving her alone and bemused.
*
As she descended the stairs to join the guests in the gallery before dinner, other footsteps, heavier than her own, hurried down behind her. Her heartbeat quickened. She both longed and feared for it to be Sir Marcus eager to speak to her. Oh yes, she ridiculed herself, that is very likely! Stop being such an ass, Helen Milsom.
And, of course, it wasn’t Sir Marcus. It was Philip Marshall, which was fortuitous.
He smiled and fell into step beside her. “Helen! What a delightful surprise.”
“I don’t see why,” she said prosaically. “We met
yesterday. But I’m glad to have a moment to speak to you.”
His smile broadened, “You are?”
“Indeed. I was with Miss Marshall in today’s expedition, and I do want to advise you that she is not an experienced enough rider to manage spirited horses such as the mare you chose for her this morning. To be blunt, sir, it was downright dangerous. The mare bolted, and she could have taken a terrible fall.”
Philip seemed to be waiting for more. After a few moments, he said encouragingly, “But she did not.”
“No, thank goodness, but probably only through the quickness of Sir Marcus Dain.” Which, of course, was what he wanted, as he confirmed by the slightly smug smile on his lips. Irritated, she said more crossly, “Seriously, sir, if your daughter had been injured or worse—”
“She isn’t.”
Helen stared at him. Had he always been this single-minded? So criminally careless? “Do you know,” she said, “I wish Richard had rescued her instead!” With that, she hurried downstairs ahead of him, without waiting to see his reaction.
*
“What do you mean, you wish it had been Richard who rescued Anne?”
Philip had been forced to wait until after dinner, but as soon as Lady Overton moved across the drawing room to admire some embroidery work, he sat in her place in front of Helen and twisted around to speak to her. “Who is Richard?” he added.
“Lord Overton’s heir. He is the same age as Anne. But I was being facetious,” she added hastily. She lowered her voice. “It is none of my business, only I cannot be silent when you endanger her in such a way. And to be honest, since we are old friends, I will say I believe you are pushing her in the wrong direction.”
“You are probably right,” he agreed unexpectedly.
She blinked. “Then you will stop?”
He shrugged. “It is not up to me. Anne is not my daughter.”
“It was up to you to choose the horse,” she retorted.
He spread his hands. “And there my authority ends. My Phoebe is a singular woman, but I have missed your sound good sense.”
Her jaw dropped.
The Weary Heart Page 5
