by Louise Allen
And his cousin’s widow, so young, so beautiful, so vulnerable and now his responsibility too. She appeared to have no family to support her, no friends to comfort her in a grief that must be devastating. And he, Marcus, was in the position her own child should have occupied. What a bitter reminder he must be to her, not only of her childlessness but, in his astonishing likeness, of the husband who had been taken from her so abruptly.
But the die was cast. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it and he had never been a man to rail against the inevitable. His duty was clear. Marcus pushed himself away from the window, absently rubbing his chilled hands, and straightened his shoulders. Tomorrow he would send for the steward…
The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was in the room with him, watching him. He spun round, his right hand reaching instinctively to where his knife would have been, then froze in amazement.
For one mad moment he thought a ghost had appeared. The figure poised for flight in the doorway was almost elemental in its whiteness, save for the cloud of black hair framing the face and the shadowed eyes. Then he recognised her.
‘Lady Longminster. Please… Do not go, I am sorry to have startled you.’ He held out a hand to arrest her movement and saw the tension in her body relax slightly. ‘I should not be wandering about the house at this hour, but I confess I could not sleep,’ he added lightly, searching for a way to make this extraordinary encounter ordinary.
‘Why should you not wander as you will? It is your house,’ she said in a voice that held the faintest tremor. To his surprise she stepped into the room, when propriety ruled that she should bid him goodnight and return to her chamber immediately.
Marcus came to meet her halfway, noting the tinge of colour in her cheeks, the rise and fall of her breast. Why, he must have scared her half to death, she was breathing as though she had been running for her life. No wonder she was acting unconventionally.
‘I hope your room is warm enough, my lord. I do appreciate how chilly you must find it after the warmth of the Caribbean. Let me ring for a servant to make up your fire’ She made as though to tug the bell-pull.
‘At this time of night? Surely no one is awake.’
‘But of course. There is always a footman on duty throughout the night in case anything is required.’
Marcus laughed down into her face, imagining the staff at White Horse Cay if he demanded that they sat up all night just in case he wanted some small service performed. His father had freed his slaves. much to the scandal of the surrounding planters. The field slaves were smallholders now but all of the household staff had stayed, but, of course, on wages. Most of them had known Marcus since he was a child, and still tended to treat him, at the age of twenty-eight, as a faintly irresponsible boy.
Lady Longminster smiled back up at him, somehow catching the warmth of his mood.
Marcus caught his breath at the transformation. The hazel eyes sparked green, the serious little face was suddenly warm and full of life, the dark cloud of hair seemed to crackle with vitality. Without thinking he took her face between his palms, bent his head and kissed her full on her smiling mouth.
It was so unexpected, so startling, so pleasurable, that he took himself completely by surprise and, in that brief, shameless moment, she kissed him back with soft, generous lips.
The realisation of what they were doing seemed to hit them both simultaneously. Even as she began to pull away Marcus opened his hands to release her and, shaken, took two rapid steps back.
‘Ma’am, I cannot begin to apologise for my outrageous behaviour,’ he began. Her eyes were enormous with shock, her lips, the lips that had quivered against his, were parted in dismay. Without a word Lady Longminster turned and ran.
Marcus strode to the wall and hit his fist hard into the unyielding wooden panel beside him. ‘Damn, damn, damn. You bloody insensitive fool.’ How could he have succumbed to a moment of weakness like that?
She was his cousin’s widow and only hours before she had buried her husband. He had already scared her into a faint by his unexpected appearance, had witnessed her humiliation at the reading of the will. He must be a constant reminder of the loss of her husband and the absence of an heir. And then, instead of offering her his brotherly support, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her.
And she, shocked, grieving, without affectionate friends at her side had, for a brief moment, gone into his arms seeking consolation. Marcus stalked back along the corridor to his bedroom, ignoring the pain in his bruised fist, furious with himself. ‘You bloody fool, what are you going to say to her in the morning?’
On the other side of the Inner Court, Marissa slammed the door behind her and leaned, panting, against the panels. She pressed her fist against her mouth and struggled to think calmly. What had she done? She had wanted to kiss Marcus Southwood, to be held against that warm strong body, to have those gentle lips on hers. She ran to the mirror, turning her face anxiously, expecting to see the marks of his fingers branded on her skin. There was nothing to show, yet she could feel them as if they still cradled her face.
How could she feel like this? It was improper, humiliating, shameful. Not only had she let him kiss her, but she had kissed him back, like a wanton. Even if she had, however briefly, accepted his embrace, she should never have answered it. No lady should ever allow herself to show passion in any form. Two years of marriage had reinforced that lesson well. How could she have felt so safe in his arms? How could kisses as gentle as those lead, as she knew they did, to the reality of the marriage bed?
Marissa fell into bed, dragged the covers tight around her ears as if to block out her own tumultuous thoughts. How could she face him tomorrow?
But face him she had to. With the house full of guests, Marissa made a special effort to be early at the breakfast table, but even so the new Earl was before her, sitting in a patch of the weak sunshine that streamed in through the parlour windows. Whiting removed a plate bearing the remnants of a large beefsteak and placed a basket of fresh rolls in front of his lordship.
‘My lady. Good morning.’ Whiting moved to pull out Marissa’s chair as the Earl rose to his feet and waited courteously for her to take her place at the oval table.
Marissa arranged her black skirts into order, then made herself sit with perfect deportment, quite still, head up, back straight. As if I am carved in marble.
‘Good morning, my lord,’ she remarked calmly. ‘I am sure Whiting has been looking after you. No, Whiting, I will just take tea.’
‘Chocolate will be more sustaining,’ Whiting coaxed. ‘And a sweet roll, my lady. It is a bitterly cold morning, ma’am.’
‘Very well. I will take a roll. But no chocolate, Whiting.’ The thought of the rich liquid made her stomach roil. She could crumble a roll without the butler noticing she was scarcely eating a morsel. She knew perfectly well that he would report exactly what she had eaten to Mrs Whiting, his wife, the housekeeper, who would worry.
Across the table the Earl buttered a roll, although she could sense he was watching her. Would he feel he had to say something about last night? She prayed he would not.
‘My lord…’
‘Will you not call me by my given name?’ he asked abruptly. There was a sharp indrawn breath from Whiting who was standing immobile by the sideboard. ‘After all, we are related, if only by marriage, and I am not used to this formality.’ She bit her lip and he added, with a charming smile, ‘Won’t you take pity on a stranger in a foreign land?’
Marissa doubted if his lordship was ever out of countenance, but once again found herself yielding to the charm of that smile. ‘Very well then, Cousin Marcus.’
The door opened as she spoke and Whiting busied himself with seating Mr Hope and some of the less elderly second cousins who had decided against taking breakfast in their bedchambers.
Marcus stood up and bowed. ‘If you will excuse me, Cousin, gentlemen, I have an appointment with the steward.’
Marissa manage
d to maintain a flow of polite small talk for a few minutes, before excusing herself to go and talk to the housekeeper. She should ring for her, she knew, but the thought of sitting passively in her morning room was suddenly intolerable. As she made her way towards the green baize door which separated the servants’ quarters from the main house she reflected that she had never been so glad to see Mr Hope as when he had come into the breakfast parlour just then.
How assured Marcus had been. He seemed not to have the slightest self-consciousness about his behaviour last night. And as for asking her to call him by his given name… She should never have agreed so readily, but how could she have snubbed him in front of Whiting?
Marissa’s heels clicked on the stone floor as her pace increased to match her growing irritation with both herself and Marcus. That smile, the glint of white teeth in his tanned face, the slight exotic accent. Oh, yes, he was charming all right, and he used that charm very easily, too easily. Doubtless young women fell into his arms with such facility that what had happened last night was nothing remarkable to him.
She had worked herself up into such a state of righteous indignation that when she rounded a corner and found herself face to face with the object of it she made no attempt to hide her frown.
‘Cousin Marissa. As you can see, I have become lost looking for the estate office.’ His smile was apologetic, inviting her to laugh at his inability to navigate the big house.
‘If you retrace your steps to the first door into the courtyard, cross the courtyard itself, then it is the green door in front of you,’ she directed briskly. Finding herself alone with him again was embarrassing and she was aware of a tightening knot of anger in her chest, though whether at herself or him she had no idea.
‘Cousin, is something wrong?’ Marcus moved closer, his expression puzzled.
‘You can ask me that after last night?’ she demanded. She could feel the colour rising in her cheeks, which was mortifying.
‘I had thought perhaps I had been forgiven after you agreed to call me cousin this morning,’ he began.
‘Oh, forgive me, my lord, if I have misled you. I foolishly believed it would be better not to discuss our encounter in front of Whiting. I should, of course, have regaled him with the entire episode. As it is, you put me in a position where I have scandalised him by agreeing to a form of address which can only be regarded as quite inappropriately informal. But doubtless in the West Indies you do things differently, so we must all learn to make allowances for the new Earl.’
‘Why, you little cat!’ Marcus Southwood stood and stared at her, amazed irritation replacing his look of rueful apology. ‘I thought you were in need of friendship and some brotherly support – ’
‘Brotherly? What you did last night was not brotherly.’
‘I did? It was only your good manners, I suppose, that led you to kiss me back?’
Marissa drew herself up to her full, unfashionable, five feet six inches, furious. ‘Why, you... you... you may be the fourth Earl of Longminster, but you are no gentleman.’
The Earl stared down at her through narrowed eyes. ‘If you were my sister I would have an answer for that. I have no time for spoilt young women whose every whim has been indulged by doting middle-aged husbands. I am truly sorry for your loss, but do not think you can twist me round your little finger as you did my cousin.’
For a long moment she stared at him, speechless, and something changed in his eyes. But before he could say anything there was the sound of footsteps in the corridor and he turned to reveal Poole, the steward, hurrying towards him.
‘My lord, I do apologise that I was not in the hall to show you to the office.’
‘Not at all, Poole.’ He clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘I was irritated with myself for losing my bearings. I swear a man needs a compass to navigate this place. Come, we need to get down to business, we’ve much to talk about.’
Marissa swept downstairs to the housekeeper’s room on a tide of hurt anger. So, he thought her an indulged child, did he? A bitter laugh escaped her at the unfair irony of the accusation. One thing she had never been was indulged. Left motherless at an early age, she had been raised by a father whose irritation at being saddled with a daughter had been eclipsed only by his determination that she be brought up in a manner that would ensure she would marry well and as quickly as possible. Her own preferences, not that she had ever been asked to express them, had been entirely irrelevant to her father’s plans for her.
But she could not hold on to so much bitterness as she entered the cosy parlour. This place held familiar warmth and comfort.
‘There you are, my lady.’ Mrs Whiting was scanning linen lists. ‘Now, you should have rung for me, but you’ll be more comfortable down here, I’ve no doubt.’ The housekeeper pulled up a chair by the fire. ‘You sit down there, my lady, and warm your hands. I know you didn’t eat your breakfast: even if you can fool Whiting, you can’t fool me. Just bide there and I’ll cut you a slice of my fruit cake and pour you some of this tea.’
Mrs Whiting was always absolutely scrupulous in maintaining Marissa’s dignity in front of the other servants but in private the housekeeper treated her like a granddaughter. Her late lordship had not been easy to live with, or work for, Marissa knew that all too well. His exacting standards demanded not a speck of dust to be seen, not a vase out of place, not a servant out of line. And woe betide the Countess if it was.
Mrs Whiting had known that any shortcomings would be visited not on her head, but on Marissa’s and she made sure that everything within her purview was as near perfection as she could make it.
‘Now you eat that up, my lady, while I finish this inventory.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Whiting. But there is so much we must discuss. Mmm.’ She broke off to take another appreciative bite of the cake. ‘This is delicious.’ And it was the first thing that had not turned to sawdust in her mouth over the past week.
The older woman eyed her, then began to work round to the subject that would have been uppermost in her mind for days. ‘It must have been such a shock, his lordship’s accident. I don’t suppose you’ll have had a chance yet to think about what you want to do now. And his new lordship arriving like that out of the blue, and everyone thinking he’s off in those foreign parts and wouldn’t be here for months yet.’
‘I know exactly what I am going to do,’ Marissa said. ‘I have sent for my cousin, Miss Venables, and as soon as she arrives we will move into the Dower House. His lordship can then do as he pleases without needing to refer to me.’
Mrs Whiting pursed her lips at the hint of irritation in her voice and Marissa forced a smile. It would never do to let the servants think she was, in any way, opposed to the new Earl. It would be appalling if they started taking sides.
‘Had you thought about staff for the Dower House?’ The housekeeper’s voice was carefully neutral.
Marissa pulled herself together and gave the question her full attention. She had wanted to speak to the Whitings about this, even if the conversation was taking place earlier than she had planned. She knew, however much she disliked formality, that as the Dowager Countess of Longminster she had a duty to maintain a proper household.
‘I will need a butler and a housekeeper, three footmen, kitchen staff, chambermaids. Mary, of course, will come with me. But it is the butler and housekeeper who are the most important to decide upon. What a pity that Matthews from the London house is not married. His lordship will not want to keep it fully staffed while he is out of the country and he could have come to me, if he had been.’
The two women discussed the possibilities half-heartedly. No-one seemed appropriate, but Marissa knew that because of her youth she would need to select her senior servants carefully. Even with a respectable companion like Miss Venables she needed the dignity of experienced and mature upper servants.
Eventually the housekeeper cleared her throat and ventured, ‘I know Whiting was going to raise this with his lordship, but as we’re tal
king about it, my lady… He and I feel we’re getting on in years. This house is a big responsibility, and his lordship’s bound to want to bring his own people in. Would you like it if Whiting and I were to come with you to the Dower House?’
It was the perfect solution. ‘Oh, yes, that would be ideal.’ Then doubt crept in. ‘But you have a position here. This is one of the great houses of East Anglia – surely you would not want to descend to looking after a mere manor house?’
‘I’d like nothing better,’ said Mrs Whiting. ‘And my poor old joints aren’t what they used to be.’
‘Then I will be delighted if you will come with me.’ Marissa hugged the housekeeper, hiding her face as she added, ‘I will speak to his lordship about it.’
Chapter Four
The sooner I speak to the Earl about leaving, the better, Marissa thought as she walked back to the small parlour that did duty as a morning room. As she opened the door Gyp, her Cavalier King Charles spaniel, jumped down from the window seat with a sharp bark and danced around her feet, plumed tail waving. Marissa scooped up the little dog, rubbed her fingers through his silky hair and laughed as he tried to lick her face.
‘There’s a good boy. Has James taken you for your morning walk? We will have a run after luncheon, I promise. Now, sit down while I look at the accounts.’
Gyp, recognising that he was not going to be taken out just yet, settled down in front of the fire with a sigh and promptly fell asleep. Marissa sat at her little French bureau in the bay of the window and opened her account book. But she made no attempt to total the columns of figures, or to puzzle out why the cost of wax candles had become so high.
As she had thought, she could see clearly across the frosty courtyard into the estate office window. If she kept an eye on it, she would be able to intercept the Earl when he left and speak to him before luncheon. After all, she reasoned, biting the end of her pen, she could hardly speak about the Whitings moving to the Dower House in the presence of the butler himself. And one or two of the relatives who had come for the reading of the will had decided, in view of the inclement weather, to wait a few days for the harsh frost to thaw, so they too would be at the table.
