Idly, she watched the door, studying the new arrivals, in part because they fascinated her, in their overdone fashion and with all of the tangled gossip of their lives, and in part hoping to see someone arrive, with whom she might converse comfortably. There were few people that she felt comfortable with, and she still watched, all the time, for the faces of those who had tormented her at the time of Martin’s death.
She had seen one or two of them, and fear had frozen her to the spot at the time, but they had made no move to approach her. She dreaded the day when one of them might do so. She was pulled away from that thought by some new arrivals.
Lady Faith St. John, a woman who Marion was beginning to think could be a true friend, had just appeared at the door. Her mother stood beside her – at least Marion thought it was her mother, for Lady Faith had not actually introduced her, and beside them was a gentleman. She had missed, with the amount of noise in the room, the announcement of their names.
Who might the gentleman be? He was tall, lean, and almost hard looking, compared to the fops and the dissipated older men around him. His clothes were stark – black and white, unrelieved by colour, his hair longer than the fashion, and tied back by a black ribbon. He was undeniably attractive, yet she felt herself shiver a little at the sight of him, as if he brought the cold brush of danger with him. She was, she could tell, not the only one to judge him attractive – half the women in the room had turned to watch him, and a susurrus of whispers ran around the room, hidden behind fluttering fans. She wondered what they said – from what little she could discern of the voices closest to her, the word ‘sin’ seemed to be prominent.
She turned her gaze away from him, shivering again. A curl of fear ran through her, as if he had brought threat with him. She pushed that fanciful thought aside, and concentrated on the dancing, allowing her eyes to follow the couples as they moved through the pattern of the dance. Even that did not settle her, for there, amongst the dancers, was another dreaded face. A face she remembered with great clarity – the face of the man who had most tormented her, back then, the one that Perryman had felled with the marble vase. She discovered that she was shaking.
At that moment, Lady Faith appeared by her side, smiling and cheerful as always.
“Lady Scartwick! It is wonderful to see you again. I had hoped that you would be here, that I might have the certainty of tolerable conversation.”
Marion turned to her, beyond grateful for the distraction.
“Lady Faith, I also am glad to see you, for I fear that the evening was becoming surpassingly dull. It seems that, even with all of the gossip that circulates, truly, nothing of interest actually happens.”
Lady Faith laughed at her words, nodding agreement.
“That is a most accurate assessment, my Lady. Even scandal palls rapidly, when discussed every day. And so rarely is there a new face to see – I do believe that I know everyone, and they are all uninspiring. I despair of ever meeting a man interesting enough for me to consider marrying him.”
“Speaking of new faces… is that your mother, who arrived with you? I believe I have seen her with you before? And the gentleman who arrived at the same time – I do not believe that I have ever seen him before – can you tell me who he is? Eventually, I will get everyone straight, and cease to embarrass myself by forgetting people whom I have been introduced to before!”
Marion felt that shiver run through her again, even as she asked, almost as if she dreaded the answer. Her eyes followed him, where he spoke to a young woman on the other side of the room, then she dragged her gaze back to Lady Faith.
Faith laughed lightly.
“If you forget, then simply ‘my Lord’ or ‘my Lady’ is always a safe address – you have a very high chance of being correct.”
Marion smiled in response. “Well yes, I have used that ploy at times, but I would feel so much better if I could remember.”
“True, it is more comfortable to be sure. And yes, that is my mother, and the gentleman is my brother, now the Earl of Hungerwood, since my father and my older brother died. He was in the Americas when that happened, and only arrived back here in January to take up the title. Our mourning ended at the end of January, but he took a liking to the stark simplicity of black and white, and has not changed his style of attire. It does rather suit him, doesn’t it?”
Marion nearly collapsed where she stood. No wonder Lady Faith’s surname had seemed familiar! She forced herself to stay standing, to smile and nod at Lady Faith, to even agree with what she had said.
“It does indeed suit him, and the young ladies appear to believe that too.”
Marion felt physically ill, chilled and overheated at once, as if she were feverish. There stood the man who had stood Second to the one who killed Martin in that terrible duel, the man reported to have incited his killer to provoke him in the first place – a man she had believed she would never have to meet, yet there he was, and brother to a woman she had rapidly come to like. Of all those she had cause to despise, he was the foremost, yet what could she do? She wished to simply flee, to run from the room, disregarding the impropriety of it, and to never return to a society event again.
She wished that she had never left Windemere Towers. But she would not show weakness – she was no longer that scared young woman, alone in the world.
Somehow, she managed to go on, to continue to converse with Lady Faith – although she had no memory, later, of what they had discussed. Not long after that, a gentleman approached her, and requested her hand for the next dance set. He was an older gentleman, a friend of the Duke’s and a man she trusted. She accepted, grateful for the distraction. He did not expect conversation, letting her stay in her thoughts, and she found, after a while, that the structured movements of the dance were soothing, that her heart had slowed to normal, and that she could face, just, the rest of the evening. Lady Faith had been swept away by one of her gentleman admirers, and Marion smiled as they passed in the dance – she could not find it in herself to dislike Lady Faith, no matter who her brother was.
The set ended, and her partner offered to fetch her a drink, which offer she gladly accepted. She stood alone, waiting for him to return, and concentrating on remaining calm – she need only avoid that man, for the next few hours, and she could go home. Surely she could do that. Even as that thought passed through her mind, another gentleman appeared before her. In an instant, fear filled her. It was the man she had glimpsed earlier, the one that Perryman had floored with the vase, all those years past.
“Good evening my… Lady… I am quite sure that you remember me, we are old, old acquaintances, after all. I am Lord Frederick Cardston, heir to the Marquess of Waterhampton.” His eyes ran over her body, pausing at her breasts, and he licked his lips. “You are, my dear, even more… attractive… than you were then. A woman like you must be… lonely… for I hear that you have not… taken up… with anyone since the unfortunate death of your… husband?”
And there was the insinuation – that he still did not really believe she had been Martin’s wife, that he thought her a woman of low morals, who would be easy pickings for a man of wealth and appearance. Her stomach rolled, and a wave of illness went through her. This was the man who had called her a lightskirt, who had tried to drag her from her home, to take her against her will. He smiled at her again, as if she should find his presence acceptable. Desperately, she hoped for the return of the gentleman with her drink, but he did not appear.
Cardston gave a small laugh, as if enjoying her discomfiture.
“My lady, it seems only appropriate that you grant an… old friend… a dance, does it not?” He offered his arm, and Marion stood, trapped. She could not simply refuse, not after dancing with another gentleman, not without a good excuse, not without causing a scene. And causing a scene was not something which would benefit Daniel. She took a deep breath – for Daniel’s sake, she would do this – what could he do, on a dance floor, surrounded by other couples? She placed her hand on h
is arm. “Excellent, my Lady – I knew that you would see the sense in accommodating me.”
He led her to where the couples were forming up for the next set, and she forced herself to move smoothly, to not flinch from him. The dance was a slower one, with more time when the couples were together, and he took full advantage of that to speak to her, there where he knew that she was trapped, and would be forced to hear him. Marion knew it, but could see no way to escape. He began the conversation simply enough, with a seemingly ordinary enquiry about how she was finding the Season, but the way he looked at her as he spoke made her feel soiled, and his hands pressed hers harder than necessary.
When she murmured an inconsequential response, he gave that slight mocking laugh again.
“Surely, my Lady, you seek a man? After so long alone – or have you been alone? Widows so often carry out affairs… the Season seems an appropriate place to seek company. Someone to warm your bed. You were easy enough with your favours with Stafford, no matter how prim you tried to be to the rest of us, back then – but surely now, there is a need… to satisfy certain desires? Yet you are alone, with none courting you – has your reputation preceded you? Perhaps you are too tarnished for many of the ton?”
The dance spun them apart for a moment, and Marion fought the urge to cast up her accounts on the floor. His insinuations revolted her, yet he seemed to think them perfectly acceptable. The dance brought them back together, and he smiled again, a wolfish expression which was not in the least pleasant.
“I believe that I have a solution for your dilemma, my Lady. Quite simply, I think that you should marry me. I am gentleman enough to offer marriage, not just take you as a mistress, for, I admit, I find a bit of… tarnish… enticing in a woman. I am sure that you understand my meaning.”
Marion eyed him, shocked to her core, and completely repelled. She drew herself up, and when she spoke, her voice was as icy as she could make it.
“Lord Frederick, I do not know what response you expected to that impertinent set of suggestions, but I have only one. What you suggest will never happen, I have no need to marry, and I certainly would not choose you, if I did wish to marry.”
He glared at her, as if shocked at her rejection of him, his eyes glittering with anger.
“We will see, my Lady. You will find that I can be most… persuasive.”
Fortuitously, the set came to an end, and Marion fled the man. He let her go, a mocking smile upon his face. She went straight to the ladies retiring room, to compose herself. She was shaking, whether from fear, or anger, or both, she could not tell. She needed to find someone, someone to speak to, to stay near, to help her avoid Cardston for the rest of the evening. Once the shaking stopped, at least mostly, she slipped back out to the ballroom, hoping to hide in an alcove or otherwise keep out of sight, but the first person she met was Lady Faith, who took one look at her, and reached out a hand to steady her, leading her to a chair behind a cluster of huge vases and potted palms.
“My dear Lady Scartwick, whatever has happened? You look so white that one might imagine you had seen a ghost. And you are shaking.”
Marion was torn – she could not help but like Lady Faith, but her brother… how could she continue the friendship? But right at that instant, she needed support, and Lady Faith’s calm caring expression pushed aside her hesitation. The tale of Lord Frederick’s appalling treatment of her came flowing out. She managed to avoid explaining exactly the circumstances in which he had been so terrible in the past, simply concentrating on his behaviour during the dance.
“No wonder you are shaking! I have never heard of anything so uncouth! He is certainly no gentleman at all, if he has said half of what you report.”
Marion gave a shaky half laugh.
“He was never a true gentleman, and I believe that he has only become worse over time. I wish that I had never come to London!”
“Don’t say that! Had you not come, I would never have met you, and I would thereby have lost a friend – for I would like to call you a friend.”
“Thank you, I am glad of that friendship, especially right now.”
At that moment, a deep voice interrupted them. A voice that somehow sent shivers through Marion, deep into her bones – not unpleasant shivers, but more like the resonance one feels from a finely tuned musical instrument. She looked up, startled.
“There you are Faith. We wondered where you had disappeared to. Oh… my apologies for interrupting.”
Lady Faith turned, smiling at her brother, and her mother, who stood just behind him.
“Ah - Drummond, Mother. I was on my way to you, after the last dance set, when I literally ran into Lady Scartwick, who was in need of aid. Lady Scartwick, may I present my brother, Drummond St. John, Earl of Hungerwood, and my Mother, Lady Hungerwood. Drummond, Mother, this is Marion Stafford, Countess of Scartwick.”
Marion knew, in that instant, that this was the worst night of her life, only save the night that Martin had died. Her eyes met his, this man who had been instrumental in the circumstances that had taken her beloved from her, and she allowed all of her anger and despair to be seen.
Time stilled, and it was as if she could see the intensity of her feelings slam into him, like the blow of a knife. He swayed slightly, then swallowed, giving her an infinitesimal nod. A nod which clearly said that he understood. Then he took her hand and bowed – elegantly, respectfully. He lifted from the bow, and spoke, that voice resonating to her very core again.
“I am pleased to meet you, my Lady. I hope that my sister has been able to provide whatever aid you needed?”
Marion’s world spun about her, the dizziness a result of over stressed nerves and an evening which had brought back all the worst parts of her life. His deep blue eyes watched her, seemingly filled with genuine concern, and an urge to laugh hysterically rose in her. He seemed so honest, so honourable, especially compared to Cardston – the contrast was stark. Yet she knew he was nothing of the sort, for he was, from what she had been told, the voice which drove Sinclair to the point where he provoked Martin to the duel. The fact that he had left the country, and run to the Americas was, in itself, damning. She could not let herself be deceived. She straightened.
“Yes my Lord, Lady Faith has been most helpful. I do feel restored enough to seek my father-in-law, and beg that we depart, before my incipient megrim becomes impossible.”
“Might I escort…”
“There is no need – they are just over there.”
She waved a hand as she spoke, her voice even icier than before, and, again, he gave that tiny inclination of his head, and a bow. Marion stood, and fled, with barely a nod to Lady Faith or Lady Hungerwood.
Chapter Seven
“I do hope that she will be all right. She looks so very pale.”
Sin barely heard Faith’s words. He felt physically ill – more so than he had since his first weeks at sea, adapting to the roll of the ocean. His eyes followed Lady Scartwick across the floor – he could not help himself.
In that instant when her eyes had met his, when Faith had performed the introductions, everything had slowed – as it did in battle, when every tiny move mattered. She had not needed words. Her eyes had conveyed everything that she felt, everything required for him to understand that she knew exactly who he was – or at least, who he was reputed to be. She was magnificent in her anger, in the cold and dignified way in which she faced him, not pretending that there was no issue between them, but not making a scene in any way.
If only circumstances had been different… if only there were not so many lies and deceptions forming a barrier between them. In that moment, he hated his deceased brother, hated himself for being honourable.
It had been easy to shoulder his brother’s dishonour when he had expected never to be seen in England again. It was not easy now, when he had to face them all. But facing this one woman was harder than facing the rest of the ton combined.
The worst of it was that, despite whatever he might
have been told about her, back then, whatever Hugh and all of his cronies might have believed, he knew now, in that first moment of seeing her, that it had all been a lie. He could see, as if a veil had been drawn away, the essence of her. She was beautiful, vibrant, strong, self-possessed, even in distressing situations. He understood then why Martin might have loved her, why he had risked society’s disapproval, and, in the end, his own life, to marry this woman, to defend her honour, even though she was born of common stock.
He did not want to like her, but he did. The desire hit him then, as she walked away, to tell her the whole truth. For surely she, of all people, deserved to know the truth of the night of her husband’s death? And he wanted, more desperately than he had ever wanted it before, to clear his name, to let his brother’s dishonour go to the grave with him, and not tarnish their lives – his, Faith’s, his mother’s, and, in truth, Lady Scartwick’s.
But it was almost certainly too late for the truth.
Yet… Lady Scartwick was obviously a woman of good character, and far kinder than he had any right to hope for. She had, after all, knowing who he was, not given him the cut direct, nor had she been unpleasant to his sister – that spoke of a just and honest character, of a woman who did not blame others for the actions of people close to them. Somehow, he promised himself, he would find a way to convey the truth to her, even if no one else.
It would be giving her the chance to destroy what last shreds of his family honour remained, yet he could not, as an honourable man at heart, do anything else but seek to grant her the gift of the truth – even if it did destroy him. He had at least to try to tell her. There was but one problem with that conclusion – if she would not speak to him, would not stay in his presence more than moments, how would he ever speak to her of it, privately?
Restoring the Earl's Honour: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 17) Page 5
