The Youngest Dowager_A Regency romance

by Louise Allen

  Marcus kicked the door shut behind him and made for the bed. For one giddy moment the passion swept her along, then, despite her desire for him, instinct froze her, made her limbs rigid, the breath catch in her throat. Marcus stopped and looked down at her questioningly then turned to the chaise and sat down, holding her on his lap.

  He held her against his chest, stroked her hair and waited until she relaxed a little. ‘Now, what was that about?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, trying, failing, to keep her voice steady.

  'Just now you wanted me to kiss you, you answered me with equal passion, yet you froze in my arms. And on the beach you were the same. Tell me what is wrong, Marissa.’

  In that instant she wanted to pour out everything to him. How she loved him. how she wanted him. He had shown her it was possible for a man to give pleasure to a woman, even if that was only before the act itself. But two years with Charles had destroyed her ability to give herself, even to a man she loved, she knew that. If Marcus took her to his bed she would either freeze again or break down – and no man, however understanding, would tolerate that from his wife.

  Marcus waited patiently as she struggled for the words to describe to him something so intimate she could hardly even allude to it to a female companion, never mind a man. His fingers lifted the curls at the nape of her neck and stroked the sensitive skin beneath with mesmeric slowness.

  No, it was impossible. She could find no way to explain to Marcus that she could never respond to his lovemaking, that the very act was so abhorrent to her that, even loving him as she did. The words, when she finally spoke them, were true, but not the whole truth.

  ‘Charles… You look so like Charles it is a constant reminder.’ She struggled, failed, to say aloud the words in her head. He treated me so coldly, used me so badly, that I can never give myself to you as I crave to.

  Marcus became very still, his fingers arrested on her skin. When he spoke his voice was dry. ‘I understand. You are trying to tell me that you are still in love with your husband. I am sorry that my attentions give you so much pain. I am afraid I can do nothing to alter my outward appearance, but believe me, I shall no longer trouble you.’

  Marissa shivered, buried her face against the lapels of his coat. Marcus gritted his teeth and resisted the temptation to kiss away her tears. Of all the damnable luck. No wonder she responded at first to his lovemaking. She had fallen into his arms seeking the husband she had lost. Well, that was a salutary lesson to his pride – he was a poor substitute for Charles, and if he had not looked so like his cousin Marissa would not have given him a second glance, let alone let him glimpse the passion that burned within her.

  ‘Marissa! Marissa, dear, where are you?’ There was a tap on the door and without waiting Miss Venables bustled in. ‘Have you lost that scarf? I thought I saw it – ’ She broke off, her face scarlet with embarrassment.

  He loosed his hold and Marissa scrambled to her feet, blushing. ‘Jane… er, his lordship was just…’

  ‘Quite… That is I will go back to Nicci. Oh, dear…’

  Miss Venables could be heard retreating along the landing, muttering, ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear.’

  It broke the tension between them. Marcus caught Marissa’s gaze and broke out laughing. ‘Poor Miss Venables. Will she ever recover?’

  ‘It is no laughing matter.’ Marissa said with something between a sigh and a giggle. ‘She will think me quite beyond redemption. I will tell her that we… Oh, dear, I cannot think of anything to tell her that is not thoroughly improper.’

  Marcus got to his feet, the laughter dying out of his face to be replaced with a rueful gentleness. ‘Forgive me, Marissa, I would not have embarrassed you for the world. Tell Miss Venables what you will. I promise I will stand any amount of lecturing from her on the subject of my morals.’ He smiled as he left her.

  As she entered Nicci’s room, carefully avoiding Jane’s eye, Marissa thought, I do like Marcus: he is so very kind, and he does make me laugh. It had never occurred to her that she could have that sort of friendship with a man, least of all one she was in love with. Perhaps she could learn to accept that friendship and keep her other thoughts, her love for him, a secret always.

  ‘Marissa, you have forgotten the scarf,’ Nicci said, staring at her. ‘And what have you been doing? You are quite pink in the face and your hair is half down.’

  ‘Oh, is it? I thought the scarf might have dropped down behind the blanket box so I leaned over to look. I expect that made the blood rush to my face.’

  Jane cleared her throat reprovingly and stared out of the window. She was clearly shocked to the core to have found them in such a compromising situation. And now Marissa had added an untruth to loose behaviour. She could expect a lecture later when they were alone.

  A discreet tap at the door, answered by Nicci, revealed Jackson, a broad smile on his face. ‘Miss Nicci, Madame Diane has arrived.’

  ‘Diane, here in London?’ Nicci jumped up in a shower of paper patterns, her eyes sparkling. ‘But we did not look to see her for several weeks.’

  ‘The winds from Jamaica were good, I understand,’ Jackson said, still grinning.

  ‘But where is she staying? Has she opened up her London house?’ Nicci demanded. ‘She must come to dinner.’

  ‘You can ask her yourself, Miss Nicci, she is below in the hall. I must find his lordship. Have you seen him recently?’

  Jane cleared her throat again and Marissa said, ‘No. Perhaps he is in his study, Jackson.’

  She and Jane followed across the landing to where the sweep of banisters gave a view of the hall below and the lady who waited there. From above Marissa gained the impression of extreme elegance, of superbly coiffed honey-blonde hair, just visible under the brim of a hat in the very latest mode, and of a woman no longer in her first youth but with a mature beauty that was still dazzling.

  Then footsteps sounded on the marble floor and the woman swung round, threw her arms wide sending furs and parasol flying across the hall and was swept up into the bear-hug of Marcus’s embrace.

  Marissa stood open-mouthed as he kissed Madame de Rostan full on the lips without restraint. And the embrace he received in return was just as uninhibited and generous. So Nicci had been right and this woman had been – still was, surely? – Marcus’s mistress.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Chéri, I have missed you so much,’ Madame de Rostan cried when, after what seemed like minutes, they broke the kiss. ‘You look so handsome, Marcus – I thought you would have become all pale and uninteresting after a few months in this soggy country!’ She ran a proprietorial hand down his lapels and across his chest.

  Marcus caught her hand in his, laughing down into her face. ‘Behave, Diane, we are not alone.’ The low-voiced words, caught by the acoustics of the hall, were like a stab to Marissa’s heart. Thank goodness she had not succumbed to the desire to tell him everything, especially how much she loved him.

  Nicci, never one for subtleties, ran down the stairs, crying, ‘Diane! Diane!’ and threw herself into the Frenchwoman’s arms. ‘I have missed you so much. Are you well? Was the voyage dreadful? But you look beautiful, so you cannot have been seasick.’

  Madame de Rostan patted Nicci’s cheek. ‘You are prettier than ever, ma petite, but I regret to see that your manners have not improved one jot. You must introduce me to these ladies.’

  Marissa reached the bottom of the stairs and found herself caught by the warmth of the Frenchwoman’s personality. Smiling deep blue eyes regarded her from a face lightly coloured by the sun but virtually unlined, even after years in a tropical climate.

  Marcus stepped forward, a trace of colour on his cheekbones. ‘Lady Longminster, may I make known to you Madame Diane de Rostan of Jamaica, an old friend of the family? Diane – the Dowager Countess of Longminster, my cousin by marriage, who has graciously consented to act as hostess for me and help bring Nicci out this Season. Miss Venables – Madame de Rostan. Diane – Miss Ve
nables, Lady Longminster’s companion.’

  The ladies exchanged polite bows and the entire party moved into the drawing room, followed by Jackson and a footman with a tray of refreshments.

  Marissa studied Diane while the footman handed out glasses of ratafia and almond biscuits. Madame de Rostan was tall, almost willowy, but with a full and voluptuous bosom which the high-waisted fashionable afternoon dress showed off to perfection. The fine wool cloth was a soft, deep blue, the colour of periwinkles, in the highest kick of fashion and unmistakably French-cut. The overall effect was to make Marissa feel washed-out and provincial in the pale green twill which had pleased her so much that morning when she had put it on.

  For a tall woman Diane had delicate hands, now sheathed in fine kid gloves just a shade paler than the blue of her gown. Below the braided hem of her skirts peeped fine blue kid slippers. Sipping her ratafia and maintaining a polite flow of conversation, Marissa struggled with the unworthy feeling that she disliked this woman on sight.

  Nicci was chattering on, demanding news of mutual friends and of old servants. Marissa let her attention wander until she suddenly realised that Marcus was watching her intently from across the room. Bringing her gaze up, she met the look with one of bland but polite indifference.

  Madame de Rostan broke off from a description of someone’s new plantation house to say, ‘But, Nicci, you must stop asking me about Jamaica. We are discussing matters and people that are of no interest to Lady Longminster and Miss Venables.’ Nicci immediately apologised prettily to Jane and Marissa.

  It was difficult not to be piqued by this instant obedience from Nicci, with none of the wilfulness she could show when in Marissa’s charge. She felt her brows drawing together into a frown and hastily rearranged her expression, ashamed of herself. She was jealous of Diane de Rostan, jealous not only because she was Marcus’s mistress but also because she was so beautiful and Nicci held her in such affection.

  It was a thoroughly unworthy emotion, Marissa chided herself, but she could not shake from her memory the way Marcus and Diane had clung together in the hall. The history of past passion had shown in that embrace. Or was it past?

  Marissa felt a great weariness, as if all her vitality had drained away. So much for her hope that she and Marcus could be friends, that she could still be part of his life, even if she could not marry him. Now he had Diane, who would doubtless take a discreet step back when he found a wife, but for now seemed more than ready to resume her former role as his mistress. With her and with his sister for female companionship Marcus would not need Marissa and her tiresome emotions.

  Suddenly she could not bear to sit there any longer. ‘Madame, I do hope you will join us for dinner this evening? If you will all excuse me I must leave you, I had promised I would call on Lady Valentine this afternoon. I look forward to seeing you later.’

  Nicci’s voice carried clearly after her. ‘That is strange, I was not aware that Marissa had an engagement this afternoon, were you, Jane?’

  Marissa came down to breakfast at eight, expecting to have the room to herself. Normally Jane would have taken a slice of bread and butter and a cup of tea early and gone out for her daily constitutional in the gardens in the centre of the Square. Nicci never rose before ten and habitually took breakfast in her room. Marcus, who had still not shaken the habit of rising early in order to take advantage of the cool of the morning in Jamaica, would have breakfasted by half past seven and be dealing with the day’s business in his study.

  To her surprise they were all three at the table, deep in animated conversation. They broke off politely as she entered. Marcus rose, but the moment she was seated and they had exchanged good mornings they carried on their conversation around her.

  After last night’s dinner, where Diane de Rostan had been very much the centre of attention, Marissa was feeling in need of reassurance. Madame had been stylish and effortlessly charming, the room illuminated by her personality. To Marissa it had seemed that the Frenchwoman had broken into the circle of friendship and intimacy which had begun in Norfolk and had flourished in the family atmosphere of the Grosvenor Square house.

  Diane, as she had insisted Marissa call her, had been charming to her, and had been at pains to include her in all the dialogue over dinner, but none the less she had felt excluded and lonely, as though she were no longer the hostess.

  Jane had revealed a fascination for the flora of the West Indies and had been delighted to discover that Madame de Rostan was a passionate horticulturalist who had designed a large garden on the island. With Jane constantly asking questions, everyone except Marissa had been drawn into the discussion of the great houses and estates of Jamaica.

  ‘Would you pass the chocolate, Jane, please?’ Marissa prompted as her companion, deep in conversation with Marcus, had failed to notice she was waiting for it. ‘What shall we do today?’ she asked, with a brightness she did not feel, once she had their attention.

  ‘I am going shopping with Diane,’ Nicci said. ‘She has promised to take me to her glove-maker and to buy me a pair to go with my evening dress. My very first pair of long kid gloves.’

  ‘But I thought we had agreed that we would buy your gloves at Schomberg House,’ Marissa said.

  ‘But anyone can buy gloves at Schomberg House,’ Nicci protested. ‘Diane knows a French glove-maker – very exclusive.’

  Marissa waited for an invitation to join the shopping party, but it did not come and she did not care to invite herself. The lid of the chocolate pot rattled slightly as she put it down on the table. ‘Well, that sounds very nice, Nicci. Do not forget to take a sample of the dress fabric with you. Jane – shall we go to Hatchard’s this morning? I believe they have a recent book by the author of Waverley called Guy Mannering. I recall you saying how much you enjoyed Waverley, when it came out three years ago.’

  ‘Oh, did I not say last night, dear? Madame de Rostan has offered me an introduction to an old friend of hers who is an expert on the flora of the West Indies and has the most wonderful collection of native species in his conservatory here in London. Madame de Rostan promised to drop me off to visit Sir Frederick Collier and his sister this morning, on her way to the shops with Nicci.’

  ‘I see,’ Marissa said, stung that everyone appeared to have their morning well planned without any thought of her. She turned to Marcus and said with a forced smile, ‘It seems there is absolutely no call on my time this morning. Shall we visit those furniture warehouses you were speaking of and look for suitable items for the dining room and salon?’

  There was a silence, broken only by the clink of cutlery as Marcus’s long fingers played with his knife and fork on his now empty plate. ‘Please do not be troubled with that. I was being very selfish asking you to give up your time in that way when you must have so much to do and so many friends to visit. Besides,’ he added fatally, ‘Diane has already offered to assist me.’

  ‘She has wonderful taste,’ Nicci enthused with a crashing lack of tact. ‘She chose all the draperies for our house at White Horse Cay.’

  I am sure she did, Marissa thought acidly, unreasonable anger burning within her. Diane had been so pleasant to her, yet she found herself disliking her more and more. And the knowledge that this was entirely unworthy and due to jealousy did nothing to improve her mood.

  She retreated to her chamber before Madame de Rostan arrived to collect Jane and Nicci, but she could not resist watching from behind the curtains as the stylish barouche drew up. The sun was shining from a vivid blue sky, gleaming on the railings around the formal central gardens and causing ladies on foot to raise their parasols like so many bobbing flowers. From above all she could see of Diane de Rostan was a dashing plumed hat in chip straw worn with a costume of eau-de-nil. Marissa craned to see details but could make none out, and withdrew hastily when Nicci and Jane came down the steps and were handed into the carriage by the groom.

  When they had gone Marissa paced her room. There were many things she could do on s
uch a lovely morning: she could walk to Hyde Park, order her carriage to take her for a drive in Green Park or to visit Hatchard’s to buy Guy Mannering. She could call on Lady Valentine, but her languid manner and the presence of ever-attentive Captain Cross would only irk her in her present mood.

  And it was all very well for Marcus to suggest she visit friends when all she had was casual acquaintances. Her father had never brought her up to London before her come-out, she had been educated by a governess so had no school friends and, after her swift marriage to Charles, her husband had made it plain that close companions were unacceptable to him. ‘You have your duties as my wife,’ he had said, ‘What more should you require?’

  But at least Charles had left her financially well-provided for. Marissa knew it was shallow, and showed a weakness in character, but the only occupation that appealed to her that morning was to go shopping – and as extravagantly as possible. Diane had succeeded in a very short space of time in making her feel colourless and provincial. She rang the bell for Mary. ‘Please arrange for Mr Hall to call tomorrow to give me a new crop,’ she said. ‘I really cannot be seen with this mass of hair, it is quite unfashionable.’

  Mary looked shocked. ‘Oh, but, my lady, you have such lovely hair, so thick and curly. It’s a crime to cut it off.’

  ‘Nonsense. Now. get ready to accompany me, and order the carriage for half-past. I am going shopping.’

  Marissa was just drawing on her gloves when the knocker sounded. Matthews came in. ‘Sir George Kempe, my lady.’

  ‘My father? Matthews, I am not at home – ’ But it was too late, her father was striding into the room on the under-butler’s heels.

  ‘Not at home? Nonsense, you cannot deny your own father. Come, kiss me, child.’