by Louise Allen
Another silence ensued. Madame de Rostan unfurled her own parasol. ‘It is strange to see Nicci – and Marcus, of course – away from Jamaica. Do you not find it odd when one encounters people out of the milieu one is accustomed to seeing them in?’
‘I really could not say,’ Marissa replied indifferently.
‘I have known them both for such a long time,’ the other woman said, with a hint of gritted teeth.
‘So I believe.’
‘Of course in any relationship things change over the years. Feelings alter and mature, passions mute into friendships. I always think it is a wonderful thing when friendship survives when other, more intense emotions wane.’
Marissa stopped abruptly and stared at the Frenchwoman, who smiled at her.
‘You understand what I am saying to you?’
‘You are telling me that you are no longer Marcus’s mistress.’ She could feel the heat in her cheeks at the frankness of her own words, but it was said now. ‘I do not understand why you should tell me that.’
‘Do you not?’ The blue eyes sparkled quizzically. ‘Well, perhaps this is not the time or place to say more. Let us just leave it that I thought things would be clearer between us – more comfortable, shall we say?’
Marissa blushed furiously. Were her feelings for Marcus so transparent that in such a short space of time this woman – even though she had never set eyes on her before – should realise that she needed to be reassured? And if Diane, not knowing her, could see it, was it blindingly obvious to Nicci, to Jane – to Marcus himself?
Madame de Rostan was still smiling. ‘Do not upset yourself, cherie. You are afraid you are being obvious, non? But you are not. Sometimes, perhaps, it takes an outsider to see what those who are close to us cannot.’
‘You think I am in love with him?’
‘Well?’ The Frenchwoman raised an eyebrow. ‘You are, are you not?’
‘Certainly not. I am, after all, in mourning for the late Earl.’ Her fingers were twisting the strings of her reticule and she stilled them with an effort.
‘Mourning?’ The other woman looked up and down the stylish primrose-yellow outfit, the frivolous bonnet and the jaunty parasol.
‘I have only just resumed wearing colours. And Marcus is my late husband’s cousin.’
‘And that makes him no relation to you,’ Diane interposed smoothly.
‘I like him very well. He has been kind to me during a very difficult period in my life.’
‘Kind?’ Diane de Rostan seemed to be considering the word. ‘So that is how he strikes you? Well, if I have misinterpreted the situation, please accept my apologies, Lady Longminster.’
Marissa turned and began to walk back to the barouche. When they had passed the waiting footman and were safely out of earshot again, she said, ‘Indeed, you have misinterpreted my feelings. I do hope I can rely on your discretion to say nothing of this conversation to the Earl of Longminster?’
They reached the carriage. Madame waited until the door was closed and Marissa seated. ‘I would never gossip to Marcus.’ She smiled. ‘Goodbye, Lady Longminster. I have enjoyed our little chat.’
As the carriage drove out of the park and into King Street Marissa reflected uncomfortably that those parting words had hardly been the reassurance she had requested.
Chapter Eighteen
By the time she reached Grosvenor Square Marissa’s unease had turned into a strong suspicion that Madame de Rostan had been laughing at her for being naive. The entire conversation had been shocking and improper. Diane was obviously fast, Marissa concluded, and must have taken delight in scandalising someone she saw as a prim and proper dowager.
Sweeping across the hall, untying the ribbons of her bonnet as she went, she had one foot on the bottom stair when she heard the study door open and Marcus demand, ‘Where have you been? I thought you were resting in your room.’
Marissa spun round, her already warm cheeks flaming in embarrassment at seeing him so soon after Diane’s improper references to him.
‘Look at you,’ he exclaimed. ‘Your colour is up, you are positively flushed. Are you sure you are not running a fever?’
Marcus took a hasty step towards her and Marissa’s temper snapped. ‘No, my lord, I am not running a fever. And I was not aware that I had to seek your permission before going out. I am, naturally, extremely grateful for your assistance this morning, but that does not give you the right to order my comings and goings.’
Jackson, who must have heard voices, came through the green baize door and hastily withdrew again.
‘I am not your little sister, my lord.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Marissa, come into the study – the whole household can hear you.’ Marcus took her hand to lead her into the room and inadvertently touched her bandaged wrist.
‘Ouch! There is no need to manhandle me, my lord.’
Gently, but firmly, Marcus propelled her through the study door and closed it behind them. ‘What is the matter with you, Marissa? And, please – ’ as she opened her mouth ‘ – will you stop calling me my lord every second sentence?’
Marissa paced across the Turkey rug in front of Marcus’s desk. She could hardly tell him that the source of her irritation was a conversation she had just had with his mistress – or, if Madame de Rostan was to be believed, his ex-mistress. ‘Oh, I do not know. It has been a horrid day. No one wants my company, you all have something better to do. And then my father arrives, and now you are shouting at me. I think I will go home to Norfolk.’ She shut her mouth abruptly on the lament. I must sound just as young and silly as Nicci in one of her tantrums.
The next moment she was in Marcus’s arms. He was smiling down into her face, clearly amused by her outburst, his blue eyes sparkling like the sun on the waves.
‘You are laughing at me,’ she said indignantly. If she had had any space to do so she would have stamped her foot, but he was so close, holding her so tightly, that she could not. ‘Marcus, that is not fair. I feel so miserable.’ And she gave up struggling and buried her face in the fine wool of his coat. It was so very comforting, being held against his chest, warm and reassuring, yet with a hard strength that excited her strangely.
He had stopped laughing, and his breath stirred the fine hair at her temple. ‘Poor Marissa. Poor darling.’ Her heart leapt at the endearment. ‘You are having a miserable time, are you not?’
‘I am all right,’ she said faintly. ‘I am just being silly.’
‘No, I keep forgetting that you must feel so alone. You have been used to being protected and cherished by Charles.’ She was so close that the words seemed to echo in his chest. Was she imagining it, the constraint in his voice as he spoke of her late husband? If only he knew the truth. But she could never tell him.
Marissa put her hands on Marcus’s chest and pushed him away slightly. ‘That part of my life is gone. I must put it behind me, stop dwelling on it. I was being foolish just now. I am tired and my father upset me. You were right; I should not have gone out.’
‘Marissa, look at me.’ When she did he said, ‘Marissa, if you mean it, if you can put the past behind you, will you make a future with me? Marry me, Marissa.’
For one long moment she looked at him, unable to speak, overwhelmed by the rush of love for him, by the sensation of joy that he too might love her. But, no, she could not do it, could not promise herself in marriage when she could not be a proper wife to him.
He must have seen the doubt in her expression. ‘It would be an entirely suitable match – you are young, beautiful, educated. You are already the perfect chatelaine for Southwood Hall, you have proved that. My cousin made a wise choice.’ Marissa threw up one hand as if to ward off the words. ‘No, wait, Marissa, do not dismiss the suggestion too hastily. There are great benefits for both of us in this suggestion.’
‘You do me great honour, my lord, but I cannot agree to marry you, as I told you once before. Thank you for your flattering offer, but let us speak no more of it
.’ Marissa turned from him and took a hasty step towards the door, fighting down the impulse to throw herself into his arms and tell him how much she loved him and wanted to be his wife. But it was because she loved him that she could not assent and blight his life by tying him to a woman who could not share his bed or bear his children.
If she thought her words would rebuff him she was wrong. ‘Wait, Marissa – I will not take no for an answer unless you will tell me why. Surely we are good enough friends, you and I, for you to give me an explanation?’
Marissa turned, cornered. How could she explain, even if she could find the words for the fear and the pain she had always encountered whenever Charles demanded that she do her wifely duty? Marissa bit her lip, avoiding Marcus’s searching gaze as he stood patiently but implacably waiting. She could not give him a reason for saying no, so finally she said, ‘Yes, very well, if you insist. I will marry you, Marcus.’
The coldness of her words seemed to take him aback and she saw the animation in his face freeze into formality. He took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. ‘Thank you, Marissa. I am honoured by your acceptance. I shall do everything in my power to make you happy. I know our friends will be delighted for us.’
‘Oh, please, no, Marcus, do not tell anyone, not yet. Can we not keep it our secret for a little while, at least until I have become more accustomed to the idea?’ Until I can think of an excuse to change my mind that you will accept.
‘Of course, if that is your wish. I am yours to command, as always. Now, will you not go and rest?’ He made no move to touch her, let alone kiss her as she had both hoped and dreaded.
Without another word Marissa slipped out the door and fled upstairs.
The next week was Derby week and, in the flurry of activity as the household prepared to move down to Epsom for the races, Marissa managed to avoid being alone with Marcus. She swung wildly between elation at the thought of marrying the man she loved and utter despair when she realised that she could not go through with it.
Unable to sleep, she paced her room into the small hours, frantically seeking for a way out. How could she have been so stupid to allow herself to be cornered into saying yes? Now she could think of a dozen reasons for turning him down: unfortunately all had eluded her at that critical moment when he had pressed her to be his wife. And whereas they were all perfectly acceptable reasons for refusing him in the first place, none of them were convincing excuses for going back on her word after the passage of several days. And the longer it went on, the more impossible it became.
Whenever she caught Marcus’s eye she saw a question in it, but would only smile and shake her head slightly. Heaven knows what he thought her reasons were for wanting to keep their betrothal a secret, but she made sure they were never alone for him to press the point. Her appetite waned until even Nicci, usually so preoccupied with her own concerns, noticed that she had lost weight. Pressed by Jane to eat more, Marissa murmured vaguely about the heat and the noise of London, assuring her that all would be well in the peace of the countryside.
Marcus had taken a lodge within five miles of Epsom racecourse for a week and they set out, Nicci in a high state of excitement, on the Wednesday morning. They intended to attend the Derby on the Thursday then spend the rest of the time rusticating before another flurry of balls and parties.
The grooms had gone ahead with the riding horses, the barouche and most of the luggage. The ladies would follow in the travelling carriage and Marcus intended to drive himself down. He refused point-blank his sister’s pleas, demands and cajoling to be allowed to ride in the curricle with him and take the reins once they were out of London.
‘No, Nicci,’ he said firmly for the fourth time as he handed the ladies into the travelling carriage. ‘And I do not care if any of your acquaintances are allowed to drive on the public highway – you are not. And that is an end to the matter. And do not sulk and make Miss Venables and Cousin Marissa regret that we did not leave you at home.’
‘Now then, Nicci,’ Jane said firmly. ‘Surely you do not wish to drive all that way on dusty roads, ruining your complexion? Why, you would end up sadly freckled, like Miss Richardson, and that would never do.’
The thought of the unfortunate Miss Richardson’s complexion was enough to stop Nicci’s grumbling. She settled willingly enough in the seat opposite Jane and began to prattle about hats, wondering aloud if she would have the prettiest bonnet at the races or whether a last-minute shopping trip to the Epsom milliners would be necessary in the morning.
Marcus took the opportunity to exchange a few words with Marissa, catching her hand to restrain her as she began to step up into the carriage. ‘We have much to discuss. We must find time to be alone at the Lodge.’
‘Yes, certainly,’ Marissa said, forcing a smile, before settling in her seat and tucking her reticule safely beside her. Mary, her dresser, was waiting patiently to take her place beside Nicci with their back to the horses, so Marcus was forced to step aside and make no further attempt at conversation. Mary was almost beside herself with self-importance and excitement as she sat, straight-backed, her mistress’s jewel case held tightly on her knees.
The journey was uneventful, if rather stuffy, as Nicci repeatedly pointed out. The latter half of May had been exceedingly warm and dry but the countryside was still green and burgeoning except where the chalk dust from the highway coated the leaves.
‘Diane is taking her barouche down,’ Nicci complained. ‘And she will be able to have half the roof down and not be so stuffy. Why could we not have taken the barouche today, Marissa? This is such an unfashionable coach and I have the headache.’
‘Then take some sal volatile,’ Marissa said, quite sharply. She did not want to discuss Diane de Rostan, whom she had not met since that encounter in Hyde Park, nor did she want to be reminded that the other woman was staying with friends in Epsom and was sure to be much in evidence at the races. Marcus’s low-voiced comments about discussing their future filled her with unease. Sooner or later matters would come to a head, and she would either have to tell him the truth – which was impossible – or find a convincing excuse to cry off.
The Lodge turned out to be a charming small house of only eight bedrooms, secluded from the road behind high beech hedges and with a fine view of the Downs. The air was fresh, the house well aired, the servants were already installed and everyone soon felt at home.
The small party dined early, fatigued by their journey and in readiness for an early start on Derby Day. After the ladies left Marcus to his port, Marissa slipped out into the garden and began to wander along the grass paths. The garden, sloping away from the terrace which skirted the house, had been laid out with beds of scented roses under-planted with lavender. Now, in the very last days of May, they were in full bloom, their perfume almost drugging in the still evening air.
As she strolled, twisting a rosebud between her fingers, Marissa felt soothed and calm. Away from London things seemed simpler: she must tell Marcus that she had made a mistake and that she had decided to stay single for the rest of her days. There was no need to give him an explanation for that decision. It would be best to speak now and, after all, only his pride, not his feelings would be hurt. He had never pretended to be in love with her and it had formed no part of his declaration. Thank goodness she had not let him announce the engagement.
It cost her heartache to come to this conclusion but Marissa knew, deep down, that any hope of happiness with Marcus was doomed.
It all seemed perfectly clear and simple, if painful – until she came round one corner of the lawn and saw him leaning on the balustrade of the terrace, an unlit cigarillo between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the darkening Downs beyond the trees. The late sun glinted on his blond head, the dark blue superfine of his evening coat sat perfectly across his broad shoulders and his face was thoughtful and relaxed. His name escaped her lips before she could step back behind the sheltering rose bushes.
Marcus’s face lit up
with pleasure when he saw her and he tossed aside the cigarillo, vaulted the balustrade and with two strides was by her side. He stood for a moment, looking at her, then gathered her in his arms and kissed her.
Every sensible resolution that Marissa had reached evaporated at the first touch of his lips. She melted into him. Her nightly dreams becoming reality as she returned his kiss with ardour. If only, she thought hazily as his tongue parted her lips and teased the tip of her own. If only this was all there was to marriage. If it only stopped here, on this tide of sensation and pleasure, and went no further... If the only invasion was that of his tongue, the only violence the strength of his arms holding her to him.
It was Marcus who finally broke the kiss. He spoke huskily into her hair, his hand caressing over her nape exposed by the low-cut gown. ‘Thank heavens you are still of the same mind. I thought you had grown cold towards me this past week. But that, my darling Marissa, was not cold.’
She shivered against him as he bent and began to feather soft kisses down the slope of her shoulder, his progress impeded only by the cap of her sleeve. His right hand slipped from her other shoulder and grazed subtly down the curve of her breast to stroke her peaked nipple through the silk of her gown. Marissa gasped and arched towards him. Encouraged, his fingers explored further under the fabric, both the silk and the fine cambric of her shift beneath.
‘You are so beautiful,’ he said against her neck. ‘Ever since that night by the sea I have been haunted by the memory of your perfect white body in the moonlight, of the way you opened to me on the beach.’ His voice was not quite steady, his breathing ragged. ‘I cannot wait until our wedding night, when we can finally find each other.’
Marissa was suddenly chilled by the thought of that wedding night, of the pain and recrimination that would surely follow.
