Oddly touched by something she saw in his eyes and heard in his voice, Alice’s anxiety for her young charge lessened. ‘Thank you. I would like that. I have no wish to leave Catherine now.’
Despite his promise to Alice, as he rode back to London Marcus’s anger increased. After years serving King and country, now he had decided to retire from military life and spend his time at Saxton Court with his wife and raising children, wasn’t it time for some peace and quiet in his life? By the time he reached London his anger was reduced to a state of deadly calm as he contemplated a variety of extremely gratifying ways of teaching this outrageously wilful young woman a badly needed, unforgettable lesson in how a wife should behave. He was remorseless and arrogant in his certainty that in the future she would obey him.
Marcus’s enquiries had brought him to this large, fashionable house in The Hague, where a ball was being given by a wealthy political exile in honour of James Scott, the Duke of Monmouth. The majority of the guests were those who supported him in his desire to oust his uncle, King James, and to seize the English throne for himself.
The floor was full with dancers whirling and gliding around without the slightest effort to the music played enthusiastically by the orchestra. Marcus observed the undeniably handsome young duke dancing with his mistress, Lady Henrietta Wentworth. In appearance he had markedly Stuart looks, with that slight heaviness of chin and sensuality of mouth with which many of his family were endowed. Marcus walked slowly on the perimeter, looking on with cool disdain at the frenetic scene of gaiety—and then there she was.
He stopped, mesmerised by the picture his wife presented. When he looked at her it brought up some elusive emotion, the same feeling evoked by an exquisite work of art. She had a face that was full of contradictions, a face that was the most compelling he had ever seen.
Marcus was unprepared for the barb of resentment and jealousy that pricked him to a painful depth when a young man he assumed to be Harry Stapleton led her into the dance. With a toss of her head she followed him, her face rapt, frozen in perfect pleasure. Stapleton’s eyes smiled into hers and never left her laughing face. She danced well and was as light on her feet as a lark. Harry Stapleton was a youth still, bright and beautiful in his masculine way. When he looked at Catherine she basked in his admiration and seemed to bloom as Marcus watched her. There was no denying the melting love in her eyes, and as she held Stapleton’s hand it was as if she was his most treasured possession—which at that moment she was, for had she not left everything behind to come with him to Holland?
Marcus slowly began to pace once more, never taking his eyes from his wife. Despite his experience with women, Catherine was the most beautiful young woman he had ever set eyes on. Her long hair, caught back from her face in a gold band, shone like black silk in the bright candlelight. She was dressed in a gown of gold satin, the skirt overlaid with stiff gold lace. The bodice was low, revealing the soft, upward thrust of her breasts and the sheen of her skin. The becoming flesh had filled out in her transition to womanhood. She was completely female and womanly, sensual and beautiful, and she belonged to him.
When they had stood together in the chapel he had smelled a scent from her like roses, and when he had held her hand in his own, it had felt cool and fragile. Now she held that same hand out for Harry Stapleton to take and Marcus noticed that a ring with a green stone glittered on her finger. He looked at her face to see if the stone matched her eyes, but in the brightness and with her head half turned, he could not tell. Of her wedding band there was no sign.
Marcus continued to watch her dance with an air of polished graciousness and a lift of her proud head, noting the straightness of her elegant back. There was a certain air of sauciness about her—in the suggestion of the dimple in her cheek, the curl of her lips and the faint lift of one sleek black brow that seemed to say she found the occasion amusing and not to be taken seriously.
His contemplation of his young wife was interrupted when someone came to stand beside him.
‘Why, Marcus!’ Sir Roger Danby exclaimed when he came upon his brother-in-law idly contemplating the dancers. Pleasure creased his face. ‘Surprised to see you. How long have you been at The Hague?’
Noticing for the first time the presence of his sister’s husband, a wealthy cloth manufacturer also from Somerset, Marcus dragged his gaze away from his wife and clasped the other man’s hand. ‘Twenty-four hours, no more,’ he replied with amiable cordiality. ‘And you, Roger. What brings you here? I hardly expected to see you among this nest of malcontents.’
‘I’ve been in Rotterdam on business. I return to England tomorrow—and I won’t be sorry,’ he added gravely. ‘This place is nothing but a melting pot of political exiles—it resembles an ant heap with so many of them crawling all over the place. There’s trouble brewing, mark my words.’
Marcus shrugged, his expression showing little interest. ‘There has always been trouble and doubtless there always will be. My own reason for being in Holland has got nothing to do with politics, but I have to say the acts of these political exiles have made them irreconcilable enemies of King James.’
‘Aye, that is so, Marcus, and since his brother King Charles was in excellent health prior to his death, suspicion has sprung up among the anti-Catholic fugitives eking out their days in Holland that he was poisoned by James. These men are desperate and eager to return to England with a Protestant king on the throne, and who better than King Charles’s bastard son—if indeed he is illegitimate. Although I do not believe it myself, many believe that Charles was secretly married to Monmouth’s mother, Lucy Walter, and therefore their offspring is legitimate and a true heir to the throne.’
‘I too believe the allegations are false,’ Marcus commented with disdain. ‘In any case, indulged and spoiled as he has been all his life, Monmouth would not be an improvement. He is of an uncertain quantity—reckless and lacking in judgement, without the substance of his father or the constancy of his uncle the King. It is his Protestantism that appeals to the anti-Catholic backers in the succession stakes, and nothing more.’
‘Nevertheless, Monmouth heeds these men and he is encouraged to do so by the Earl of Argyle, who is to return to the Western Highlands in an attempt to raise an opposition to King James while Monmouth invades England. Argyle is hot for revolt—in contrast to Monmouth, who has little stomach for it. He’s acquired a taste for a retired life, and enjoys the delights of dallying with his mistress, Lady Henrietta Wentworth, who rashly believes his hopes. Despite the fact that he already has a wife—unhappy though his marriage may be—Lady Henrietta dreams of one day being Queen of England, and has sold her jewels to fund his cause. Monmouth has been encouraged by assurances from supporters in England, and is putting together an expeditionary force to invade.’
Marcus was frowning as he regarded the dancers. Sensing that he did not have the younger man’s full attention, Roger fell silent. After a moment he remarked, ‘So, Elizabeth informs me that very soon you will no longer be a military man, Marcus. What then? A gentleman’s life at Saxton Court, or are you to be one of the smooth courtiers who surround King James?’
Marcus grimaced with distaste at the latter suggestion. ‘Being at Court does not suit me. I have no taste for it. With all this talk of insurrection I cannot remain away from London and military matters for too long, but in truth I am weary of the army. As soon as I am able I fully intend returning to Saxton Court and familiarising myself with estate matters—which have been in the capable hands of Mr Fenton for the past couple of years. I’ve been away too long, Roger, far too long. I am impatient to settle down and turn my mind to the pleasurable matter of raising a family—and to seeing more of you and Elizabeth. How is my sister, by the way? I last saw her with your three offspring in London a month ago, on a visit to your mother.’
‘Elizabeth is well, the children thriving. It will be good to see more of you when you take up permanent residence at Saxton Court. That great house needs a family living in i
t, Marcus. You get on well with Fenton?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘I’ve had little to do with him. I do not dislike him. The truth is that I have no particular feeling for him at all. My father employed him—he came well recommended and seems to run Saxton Court like clockwork. I know from regular reports that the estate is prospering. I have no complaints.’ There was a quizzical slant to Roger’s lips, which prompted Marcus to add, ‘Your thoughts appear to be unpleasant, Roger.’
Roger’s face hardened quite dramatically as he eyed Marcus. With a strict military background and ruthless in his dealings with others, Marcus was sharp and brilliant in his ability to judge people and circumstances. He would set about any business that needed attending to with clear-cut strategy, sweeping aside difficulties that might have unnerved a lesser man. Roger wondered how he would deal with the likes of Fenton when he became better acquainted with him, because, as far as Roger was concerned, Jacob Fenton was as despicable a specimen of the human race as the imagination might conjure.
‘To be frank, Marcus, I never did quite like the man. In fact, in all the years I knew your father, the first time I had to question his judgement was when he set him on. Mr Fenton is too ambitious for his own good—or for the good of Saxton Court. The servants murmur against him, and because of the trust your father placed in him, against him, also. Have a care, Marcus. Fenton needs watching.’
Unwilling to commit himself further and observing Marcus’s hard mien as he watched one of the young ladies dancing, Roger wondered at his intensity, until he recognised her. ‘You watch the Barrington girl with a good deal of interest, Marcus—but that is hardly surprising since you suspect her father of being behind the murder of your own.’
‘It is more than a suspicion, Roger. I am certain of it.’
Roger’s eyes were drawn to the gold ring on Marcus’s finger. For a moment the young woman on Harry Stapleton’s arm was forgotten. ‘You wear your father’s ring, I see. Tragic business, that,’ he uttered softly. ‘Tragic. Are you any closer to finding the man who murdered him?’
‘No, but I will.’
Roger nodded, his expression sombre, for he knew the younger man would leave no stone unturned to find the man who had killed his father. He had known Marcus’s father well. They had been good friends and he remembered the brutal manner of his death. He himself felt his loss deeply, but for Marcus and Elizabeth the murder had been shattering. Roger had not thought Marcus would wear a mental hair shirt, but he had been wrong. Would he never stop blaming himself? Upon learning of his father’s murder, Marcus had suffered a shock of such magnitude that Roger knew a part of him would never get over it. He was racked with guilt because he had not been at home to help his father, and that his absence had contributed to his death.
‘Barrington died recently—a rabid Protestant, as I recall, whose anti-papist views were as strong as anyone’s and well known to most. His daughter is a lovely young thing—high-spirited, too. She arrived at The Hague with young Harry Stapleton recently. Raised a few eyebrows at the time—young lady travelling in the company of a young man alone. Quite unseemly, of course. I believe she is living at the home of an acquaintance of his in Rotterdam.’
Marcus nodded. ‘Sir Percival Tippet and his wife. I called on them earlier and they told me she was here. Mistress Barrington is mistress no longer, Roger. She is Lady Reresby, my wife,’ he revealed quietly.
Roger’s eyes widened in amazement. ‘Your wife? Good Lord! Is she, by God! And might I ask for how long?’
‘A year last February.’
‘That long? Strange choice of wife, Marcus—in fact, it would be funny if it were not so tragic. Good God! I shudder to think what Elizabeth will make of this. She doesn’t know?’
‘Not yet. I shall leave that to you—since you will no doubt see her before I do.’
‘Do you mind me asking how marriage to Barrington’s daughter came about?’
‘The issue is complicated.’
‘I seem to recall that Barrington was implicated in a treasonable act and branded a traitor, and the expectation of traitors is to be lodged in the Tower and duly executed.’
‘True, Roger, but when I discovered Barrington to be behind my father’s murder—because what he knew of Barrington’s involvement in the plot to murder King Charles and his brother would have sent Barrington to the block—I dealt with it in my own way.’
‘How? By marrying his daughter?’
‘Not before I had ruined him. I then laid a final wager. If I won, he would confess his treason. If he won, I would let him enjoy his property for the rest of his life, but I would take his daughter as my mistress.’
Roger was surprised. This was not like Marcus. His tone was reproving when he spoke. ‘I would not have expected such base behaviour from you, Marcus. ’Twas not an honourable act.’
‘No, I agree, it wasn’t. Barrington turned the tables, making a wager of his own. He told me that, if he lost, he would give me the name of my father’s murderer. If he won, he insisted that I marry Catherine.’
‘And being offered the name you wanted so badly, you gambled and lost.’
‘That is obvious. I do not have the murderer’s name and the lady is my wife.’
Roger shook his head slowly, unable to understand what had possessed his brother-in-law. ‘You have a hard way of dealing with things, Marcus. Revenge is a poor master. Justice must be dealt with in a court of law.’
‘I dare say you’re right, but I did it my way, and,’ Marcus murmured, looking at his wife as she tripped a circle round Harry Stapleton, ‘no matter how much distaste we both feel for the marriage, we are bound to each other and will have to strive to make the best of things. I parted from Catherine after the ceremony and I have not set eyes on her since—until now.’
‘Then you have some catching up to do. It will be amusing to see how people who know you will react when they find out—especially in the light of her behaviour with young Stapleton.’
‘Only you and Elizabeth know of Barrington’s involvement in Father’s murder, thank God.’
‘And you don’t give a damn what people think, anyway.’
‘Not in the least,’ Marcus said, but in this case it was not the truth. Marcus was furious at the idea of being made to look like a public laughing stock who couldn’t control his own wife.
‘She does seem taken with Stapleton.’
Marcus absently took a step forward, a reluctant smile replacing his frown. ‘Catherine is very young, very foolish and impressionable. In no way do I condone her behaviour in coming here to The Hague and I fully intend making her see her error in doing so. I am sure that when I take her to Saxton Court and keep her there, out of the public eye, I will succeed and that she will behave herself in the future.’ Marcus spoke with supreme confidence.
‘And if she imagines herself to be in love with young Stapleton,’ Roger ventured, ‘will you be assured that it is all in her imagination? For if not—then you have a battle on your hands. How will you deal with the young man?’
‘I will hear him out and see how well he can defend himself.’
‘If you’re in a mood for it, Marcus, dine with me later, will you? I’ll be glad of the company.’
Marcus smiled ruefully. ‘Forgive me, Roger, but I have a wife to chastise. I have several choices on how to go about it, and right now they’re all appealing.’
‘Ah, well, some other time. I return to England tomorrow—and not a moment too soon. I am a Protestant and confess I too would be best pleased if a Protestant king sat on the throne, but I feel distinctly uneasy in this particular Protestant camp, and occasions such as this do little to ease my discomfort.’
‘You leave tomorrow, you say.’
Roger nodded. ‘I travel to Antwerp in the morning. There’s a vessel leaving for Lyme. I intend being on it.’
‘Indeed. Then we’ll meet, Roger. I too intend leaving for England at the earliest opportunity. Tomorrow will be splendid.’
As she danced with her beloved Harry, Catherine was unaware of her glowing, happy face and the youthful, joyous movements of her body that had attracted her husband’s attention. Since coming to The Hague, she had enjoyed the social life in which they had become involved, and on one occasion had driven out to the Dutch palace at Honselaarsdijk, where the prince and princess commonly kept open house.
Gazing at Harry, she thought how incredibly handsome he looked as he laughed at some remark made by a fellow who brushed past him. As he turned his attention back to her, his youthful face creased into a smile and his deep blue eyes softened with his love for her. As always he was charming and entertaining, and Catherine was scrupulously careful not to say anything about her married status that would jeopardise things between them. But the closeness they had shared for so many years was about to come to a shattering end.
She turned, and met the sardonically accusing dark eyes of Lord Marcus Reresby—the epitome of her worst nightmare, the man with the power to blot all happiness from her future.
Her eyes became riveted in alarmed horror on the tall, daunting figure and she felt the world rock and tremble beneath her. Attired in a splendid midnight-blue loose-fitting surcoat over a long, beautifully embroidered dove-grey satin vest, with a cravat of delicate French lace at his throat, he was every inch the fashionable, expensively dressed gentleman, the sort she imagined graced the royal court.
He was just as she remembered him—darkly handsome, aggressively virile, stalking on the edge of the floor like a predator, a sinister, dangerous, malevolent spectre. There was an uncompromising authority about him, an arrogance in his stance and the firm set of his features that was not at all to her liking. He was looking straight at her, impaling her on his gaze, leaving her in no doubt that he intended to seek her out the moment she left the floor. The music faded in her ears and she felt the trembling begin in her suddenly weakened legs.
She felt sick with horror. She felt like a small bird snared by an eagle’s sharp talons—tender bait for devouring. What was she going to do? How was she going to get out of here? she frantically asked herself, alternating between anger, despondent misery and desperation as she looked around for a safe place to conceal herself. The steps of the dance caused her to turn from him, and she could feel his eyes boring into her back, making it impossible for her to behave naturally with Harry.
His Rebel Bride Page 4
