by Mary Balogh
Chloe’s breath caught, and she whirled about to gaze entreatingly at Marianne, who nodded. With a joyous cry, Chloe ran to fling her arms around her neck. “Thank you! Oh, thank you! And you too, Sir Piers,” she added, turning to smile at him through her tears.
Jerry took Marianne’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I am very grateful to you, Miss Cromwell, especially as the fault was entirely mine. Believe me, I would not have dreamed of knowingly placing either of you in this embarrassing position.”
He cleared his throat, and gave a rather uneasy smile, almost as if he were guilty of a small fib. And yet that could not be so, thought Marianne, a little curious. She smiled at him. “Please do not feel obliged to apologize again, Sir Jeremy, for there is no need. I came here to help you and Chloe, and that is what I will do.”
Chloe composed herself. “It is settled, then. We proceed as if Sir Piers were Maxwell. I will have someone arouse Father’s valet to inform him that our other guests have arrived a little earlier than expected.” She clasped her hands before her, her eyes shining. “Oh, this must go well! It simply must.”
Jerry nodded. “I echo that sentiment. Well, we will know at breakfast tomorrow whether or not we are to achieve our purpose. If we carry it off then, we’ll no doubt be able to carry off the whole thing.”
Marianne felt Piers’ gaze upon her, and reluctantly she looked toward him. He didn’t look away.
———
The following day was that of Saint Valentine’s Eve, and it dawned bright and wonderfully clear. From her bedroom window at the front of the house, Marianne gazed down through the open park toward the river, which sparkled in the sunlight at the foot of the hills. To her right, yellow dogwood bloomed against the high wall that shielded the kitchen garden from view, and beneath the ornamental trees close to the house there were sheets of snowdrops and early crocuses. Farther away, huge drifts of tightly budded daffodils would soon be in full spring glory. Dense woodland tumbled down on either side of the park, and half a mile away she could see Newnham on its small hill above the grand sweep of the Severn.
She wore her cream merino gown, and her hair was swept up into a knot on top of her head, leaving soft curls around her face. The strain of the night showed on her face, and she had had to resort to rouge to give herself a little color. Chloe had already called in briefly to see her, to be sure that what had been agreed in the small hours still held good in the cold light of day. Marianne felt she had been able to reassure her, and now could only pray that the reassurance was soundly based. It wasn’t going to be easy to pretend that nothing had ever happened between Piers and her, but she would call upon every ounce of acting ability if it would help Chloe.
She drew a long breath, and turned from the window. What was it going to be like? They would both behave amiably toward each other, but all the time they would know it was a sham. Why had fate chosen to be so cruel? She had feared all along that Chloe’s machinations would lead to a scrape, but, it hadn’t occurred to her that she herself would be the one involved. After a year of trying to get over Sir Piers Sutherland, here she was, not only staying beneath the same roof, but also pledged to be all smiles and agreeability toward him. It made her promise to her father almost impossible to keep, for how could she give sensible and balanced consideration to the match with Brandon when all she could think of was the match she had lost?
The clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. It was time to go down. Steeling herself for the ordeal ahead, she left her room. But fate was bent upon making things as awkward as possible, for. Piers reached the top of the staircase just before she did and, to her dismay, he waited so that they could go down together.
Sunlight from a nearby window shone on his golden hair, and upon the signet ring on his hand as it rested on the topmost newel post. He wore a gray-green coat and cream corduroy trousers, with Hessian boots and a gray silk neckcloth. As he looked at her, she knew that he could not have failed to observe the way her steps faltered for a moment before she reluctantly continued toward him.
He gave a faint smile and inclined his head. “Good morning, Marianne.”
“Good morning.”
He glanced around to see if anyone could overhear, and then continued in a low tone, “I know that our meetings so far have proved prickly, to say the least, but I sincerely hope we can forget our differences. Jerry is an old and good friend of mine, and it is clear that Miss Pendeven is very close to you, so we must unite in order to help them. I promise that I will do everything in my power to see that this visit is all they wish it to be.”
He smiled into her eyes, and her foolish heart turned over, but she managed to conceal her inner disarray by responding with a small smile of her own.
His gaze wandered over her for a moment, and she instinctively put a hand up to her hair, thinking a pin was loose.
“Is… is something wrong?” she asked.
“No, nothing at all. I had merely forgotten how very delightful your smile is.”
She colored. “We have agreed to behave amiably toward each other, sir, but you do not have to compliment me.”
“My observation had nothing to do with our pact, Marianne.” He looked at her; “I know that in London you requested me to address you formally as Miss Cromwell, but I’m afraid that I find that difficult. I think of you as Marianne, and I can’t help addressing you as that. In our conversation we are bound to convey the fact that we have known each other for some time, and so I think it best, under the circumstances, if we use our first names. It will avoid awkwardness should I slip up.”
She nodded. “Very well.”
His eyes were very clear in the sunlight from the window. “Very well, Piers,” he said in correction as he offered her his arm. “Shall we go down?”
She placed her hand on his sleeve, and together they descended the staircase to the hall. There was something very strange about being at his side like this. It was almost as if she were still asleep, still in the happy past, as on the day she’d given him the valentine card. She could almost believe it possible that at any moment he would put his hand over hers…
The others were already at the breakfast table, and Marianne detected an awkward atmosphere the moment she and Piers entered. An odd silence hung over the sunny room, making the delicious smell of food seem almost oppressive.
Chloe was very pretty in green gingham, with matching ribbons fluttering from her little lace morning cap, and opposite her, Jerry was uncomfortable in dark blue, with a gold pin in his voluminous neckcloth. Mr. Pendeven was seated at the head of the table, a displeased expression on his face. He wore a maroon coat, and a napkin was tucked beneath his chin as he applied himself to a hearty breakfast of crisp bacon, sausages, kidneys, eggs, and tomatoes.
Chloe’s plate was untouched, and as she looked up into Marianne’s eyes, it was clear she was close to tears. Jerry tried to eat, but was really only pushing the food around the plate. Things were evidently not going at all well with Mr. Pendeven.
Marianne smiled brightly. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully, going to the sideboard to select from the line of silver-domed dishes.
Piers uttered a similar greeting, and as he followed her along the sideboard, he glanced over his shoulder at Chloe’s father. “Mr. Pendeven, I understand from Jerry that you own a shipyard in Newnham, and that a new vessel is soon to be launched?”
Mr. Pendeven’s interest was kindled. “Er, yes, indeed it is. Newnham has been a shipbuilding town for centuries, because of the coal and iron in the forest. A trow is to be launched tomorrow.”
Marianne sat down on the chair the butler drew out for her. “What is a trow?” she asked.
“It is what we call the vessels peculiar to the Severn,” Mr. Pendeven explained. “They have to be very sturdy to cope with the strong tides, of which the Severn boasts some of the fiercest and highest in the world. I shall be going to the yard later this morning to see that all is coming along as it should.”
M
arianne smiled at him. “May we come too?”
“Of course you may, my dear,” he replied, bestowing a warm smile upon her in return. “Maybe you can be of assistance, for I fear I have yet to think of a suitable name for the new vessel.”
“If she is to be launched tomorrow, perhaps she should be called Saint Valentine,” Marianne offered.
“I would, were it not that I like all my trows to be of the feminine gender.”
Chloe strove to enter into the conversation. “Sabrina would be appropriate, for it is the Roman name for the Severn.”
“There is already a Sabrina operating out of Lydney,” Mr. Pendeven replied.
Jerry cleared his throat suddenly. “I, er, have a suggestion,” he began.
Mr. Pendeven gave him a look that was eloquent of a complete lack of interest in anything he might have to say, but Jerry persevered.
“I, er, believe there are to be northern lights tonight, and that they will be seen as far south as this. Would not Aurora be a suitable name for the vessel?”
Mr. Pendeven’s face changed. “Upon my soul, what an excellent notion,” he declared. “Northern lights, eh? Yes, indeed, I think Aurora is the perfect name.”
Chloe’s face was a picture of relieved delight, and suddenly she found her appetite. Jerry looked as if he could hardly believe his tentative remark had borne such fruit.
Piers sat down next to Marianne, and under the pretense of leaning across for the saltcellar, he whispered to her, “You and I are oil upon troubled waters.”
“So far,” she replied, picking up the saltcellar and giving it to him. Their fingers brushed, and she drew her hand quickly away again.
The rest of the day preceding St. Valentine’s Day went well, with Jerry and Mr. Pendeven on almost amicable terms as they all went to the shipyard in Newnham to see the new trow.
Marianne found it easier than she’d expected to behave amiably toward Piers. Perhaps it was because she was sure that he would respond in kind, and therefore there was no need to be constantly on the defensive—or the offensive, as he himself might regard it.
Chloe and Jerry conducted themselves perfectly, with just the right amount of intimacy, and Mr. Pendeven, in spite of all his dire warnings, seemed to be pleased enough with the way things were going. He wasn’t sharp with his prospective son-in-law, neither was he all that encouraging, but all the same the general impression seemed to be that the visit so far was a success.
That evening they all enjoyed an agreeable dinner of celery soup, followed by roast duck and then cherry pie. The meal was accompanied by fine wine, and was ended with fruit, nuts, and sweet liqueurs, so that they were all aware of a certain inner glow as they went out into the night to observe the aurora borealis.
The sky seemed to be on fire, with a broad band of shimmering light stretching across the sky from west to east. There were balls of brightness, and fiery sparks, as if flaming spears were being brandished by huge invisible hands. It was this impression which gave the lights one of their other names, Burning Spears, but Marianne preferred to call them the Merry Dancers, which was the name she had learned in her childhood.
After watching the magnificent display for a long time, Chloe, Jerry, and Mr. Pendeven went back into the warmth of the house, but Marianne and Piers remained outside.
Beneath her fur-lined cloak, Marianne wore a peppermint silk gown, and there was a diamond flower ornament in her elaborately dressed hair. More diamonds trembled from her ears, and the precious stones flashed and winked in the dancing light from the night sky.
Everything was silent except for the hooting of an owl somewhere in the woods to the north. The sunset had been splendid, with an open, crimson sky, and there was gossamer in the bare branches of the trees.
After a moment Piers spoke. “An auspicious omen for Saint Valentine’s Day, is it not?” he said, gazing up at the display overhead.
“I trust so, for Chloe and Jerry’s sake,” she replied.
“And what of you? Do you have plans for Saint Valentine’s Day?”
“Me? No.”
He glanced at her. “Isn’t Forrester about to become your valentine?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” she replied truthfully.
“Is it fair to keep him dangling?”
Her hazel eyes swung to meet him, for the question pricked her. “And what, pray, would you know about fairness?” she inquired.
“I have become an authority, believe me.”
“I trust that that bodes well for your wife-to-be, whoever she is.”
He smiled a little. “Oh, yes, I think it bodes well for her.”
She turned to face him properly. “Are there still obstacles? Or can you name her now?”
“There are still obstacles.”
“Do I know her?”
“Yes. Very well indeed.”
“How mysterious you are. Could it possibly be that the obstacles include an inconvenient husband?”
“No, it couldn’t, for I do not count wife-stealing among my sins, although no doubt you would prefer not to believe that.”
“Believing what you tell me is a risky business, sir, as I’ve found out to my cost.”
“So you persist in reminding me.” He drew a long breath. “Marianne, I thought we’d agreed to conduct ourselves in a friendly manner.”
“So we did, but that agreement did not include giving you the freedom to remark upon my match with Mr. Forrester.”
“You are pleased to remark upon myforthcoming match,” he pointed out reasonably.
“That was after you started it.”
“How very childish.”
She was stung. “If you find me childish, sirrah, I suggest you keep well away from me, apart from when our obligations require the contrary!”
“What a vixen you are, to be sure. Perhaps I am well out of it after all.”
“I’m certainly well out of it,” she countered, her eyes bright with anger and hurt.
“Indeed? There was a time when you were pleased enough to contemplate a future with me. In fact, there was a time when there was quite a flame between us.”
“Your lamentable conduct doused that flame,” she replied coldly.
“Did it? I wonder.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
He held her gaze. “It means that you would try the patience of a saint, Marianne Cromwell, and I am most definitely not a saint. Pretend that it is over between us if you wish, but I know better. There will always be a flame, Marianne, and I intend to prove it.”
Before she realized it, he had pulled her into his arms. His lips were hot and searing upon hers, and he gave her no quarter as he held her so tightly that she could not do anything but submit. He pressed her body against his, his fingers twining sensuously in her hair as he employed all his considerable skill. It was a knowing, passionate kiss, designed to storm her defenses, and in spite of herself she felt her treacherous body succumbing.
The desire she had striven to conquer now came rushing back to overwhelm her. All she had to do was surrender. To her senses. And to him. Oh, what ecstasy would await her in sweet submission. But, oh, what a betrayal it would be of her pride… With a huge effort, she suddenly pulled sharply away from him.
He gave her a cool, mocking smile. “So the flame is extinguished, is it? I think not. Marry poor Forrester if you wish, but you’ll always be mine, whether you like it or not.”
A choked sob caught furiously in her throat, and she dealt him a stinging blow to the cheek. Then she gathered her skirts to run into the house.
Rubbing his cheek, he stayed where he was, but when he glanced up at the dancing sky again, there was the ghost of a smile on his lips.
———
On Saint Valentine’s morning, Marianne was awakened by her maid, who had discovered a valentine gift outside the bedroom door.
“Oh, Miss Marianne! Look!” she cried, hurrying toward the bed with a posy of snowdrops and early violets.
> Still sleepy, Marianne sat up in the bed, pushing her tangled hair back from her face. She stared at the posy. “Who is it from?” she asked.
“It’s anonymous; it has to be if it is a true valentine,” the maid replied, giving her the flowers. “Snowdrops for hope and violets for sincerity. I wonder if it could be from—?” Biting her lip, she fell abruptly silent.
Marianne held the posy to her nose and inhaled the fresh fragrance. “I doubt it very much,” she said dryly. “If that particular gentleman were to give me a posy, it would most likely be of weeds. My suspicion is that the posy is from Sir Jeremy, and is actually meant for Miss Pendeven, but that in the darkness he mistook the door.”
“Do you think so, miss?”
“Yes, I do.” Marianne smiled at her then. “You seem in excellent spirits this morning. Do I take it that you have had a valentine gift?”
“No, miss, but the first man I saw this morning was the handsomest of the footmen, and he did give me a smile.”
“Then I wish you well, but take care, for handsome footmen can be the very devil with unwary maids.”
“I know, Miss Marianne, but I mean to lead him a merry dance.”
Marianne glanced out of the window at the sunny morning sky, for the maid’s words reminded her of the Merry Dancers last night. She could feel Piers’ scornful lips upon hers, and hear his last words. Marry poor Forrester if you wish, but you’ll always be mine, whether you like it or not.
“What gown will you wear this morning, Miss Marianne?” the maid asked.
“Mm? Oh, the lavender-and-white muslin, I think.”
“Will you pin the posy to your hair?”
“I think not, since I am convinced it wasn’t intended for me. I’ll do my best to return it secretly to Sir Jeremy.”
“But what if he didn’t put it there?”
“He did.”
Shortly afterward, Marianne was dressed and ready to go down to breakfast, which this morning would consist of traditional valentine buns. As she walked toward the staircase, she again saw Piers just ahead of her. He heard her light tread upon the polished floor, and turned. Their eyes met for a long moment, and then he went on down the staircase without waiting for her or even greeting her.
