The Youngest Dowager Page 11

  ‘Far more magnificent than you deserve. You have soon recovered from your broken heart, have you, you minx?’ Marcus asked, smiling despite himself.

  ‘You were quite right,’ she said seriously. ‘Mr Ashforde and I would not suit, I see it now. What is that?’ She pointed at the letter underneath his hand.

  ‘A note from Marissa accepting my invitation for her and Miss Venables to accompany us to London.’

  Nicci jumped up, clapping her hands. ‘I am so glad Marissa is coming, and dear Jane of course.’ She regarded him from under her lashes and added with suspicious innocence, ‘What a good thing Diane is setting up her own establishment and not staying with us.’

  ‘Have you said anything to Marissa about Madame de Rostan?’ Marcus demanded.

  Nicci coloured betrayingly. ‘Well... I might have mentioned her in passing. As being one of our dear friends, you know.’

  ‘Nicci,’ Marcus growled. ‘How much have you told her? Have you said that Diane has been… very close to me?’

  ‘Marissa says I should not talk about such things,’ Nicci retorted.

  Marcus dropped his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Nicci. I really would prefer it if you would strive not to create the impression that my life is littered with mistresses. Or betray that you even know the meaning of the word.’ No wonder Marissa was so frosty. After a happy marriage she was doubtless shocked to the core to hear that he’d had an irregular liaison.

  The next day was unseasonably hot for May. The clouds seemed trapped in the sticky heat, and nothing moved in the still air other than an army of small insects which buzzed irritatingly whenever a window was opened.

  ‘The Earl and Nicci are accustomed to the heat of the Tropics and probably think nothing of this,’ Jane grumbled as both she and Marissa retreated to the shaded cool of the garden room and drew the blinds, Gyp panting in the corner, too hot to even chase birds in the garden.

  They spent a desultory day making lists of things to be done, things to be packed and, much more enjoyably, things to be purchased as soon as they arrived in London.

  ‘Oh, for some lightweight cottons and muslins,’ Jane said, fanning herself. ‘I shall be so thankful to see the last of these dark colours and heavy fabrics.’

  ‘And pretty straw bonnets and parasols and little kid slippers,’ Marissa said dreamily. She felt so restless, so full of energy despite the heat. She wanted to run, to gallop, but it was too hot to walk and it would not be fair to take Tempest out in the heat and flies. Beyond the parkland and the dunes the cool sea beckoned…

  Marissa ordered a late dinner, and it was after ten when they sat sipping their tea. Jane looked at the curtain, just stirring at the open windows, and remarked, ‘Thank heavens. The breeze is getting up at last. Perhaps we shall not have too unpleasant a night.’

  Marissa got up and pulled back the curtains. The cloud had lifted, leaving the sky clear and a full moon bathed the garden with light. The cool stirrings of the air lifted the fine hair at her temples, rekindled her restlessness.

  ‘I am going to retire now, Marissa, the heat of the day has quite sapped my energy.’ Jane got up, fanning herself at the slight exertion. ‘Don’t be too long yourself, my dear. We have so much to arrange tomorrow.’

  ‘Goodnight, Jane. I will follow you up soon.’

  Marissa stood looking at the moon-bathed landscape for some time, breathing in the scents of the night stocks and roses, enjoying the peace and the cool. Despite her words she felt no desire to retire to bed. Many times before, when her lord had been away from home, she had taken a horse out at night and ridden until she had exorcised the restless demons which possessed her and she could trot home, calm and collected and ready to resume the mantle of Countess once again.

  Peters the head groom had been her loyal, if unwilling, accomplice in those escapes and at her orders he had sent the man’s saddle down to the Dower House stables. Shaw worked for her and her alone, so if she told him to make Tempest ready he would do so unquestioningly.

  Before she knew it she was pulling her breeches and jacket from the bottom of the chest of drawers. She buttoned up the linen shirt, tugged on her boots and shook her hair free of its confining pins. As an afterthought she tossed a lightweight cloak over her shoulders and scooped up some linen towels from the washstand.

  The candle was flickering in the window of the groom’s room above the carriage house. Marissa banged on the door and, when Shaw came stumbling down the steps, ordered him briskly to saddle up her mare. ‘The man’s saddle, please.’

  Briefed by Peters, the under-groom did as she said, only his unusually wooden expression betraying his surprise at seeing his mistress in breeches. ‘Shall I saddle up the hack and accompany you, my lady?’

  ‘That will not be necessary, thank you. And there is no need to wait up for my return. I am quite capable of unsaddling Tempest and I would not keep you from your bed.’

  ‘Yes, my lady, thank you.’

  Marissa walked the mare quietly across the cobbles and past the front of the Dower House. It would never do to wake Jane. Once they were through the wood she eased out the reins and Tempest, with a toss of her head, settled into a canter that sent the wind through her long mane. The cloak flew out behind Marissa and she shook her hair free to catch the wind too. It felt as though she and the horse were one, flying over the moonlit turf of the parkland, cutting diagonally across the front of Southwood Hall. The big house lay silent and still, lit only by the dim lights of the watchman’s lanterns.

  In the master bedroom Marcus lay, hands behind his head, and gazed up at the plaster moulding of the ceiling overhead. He hadn’t moved for the last half hour and he was restless, yet unable to either get up or settle. Sleep was eluding him for some reason and he found his mind turning again to the thought of Marissa, cold and angry, so very attractive in the clinging riding habit.

  He grinned ruefully to himself, reflecting that enforced celibacy was doing nothing for his equilibrium. He and Diane had amicably ended their liaison over two years ago and since then there had been a number of charming entanglements of which, thankfully, his sister knew nothing. But those too had ended when he had left Jamaica and the provocative presence of Marissa only served to highlight his lack of intimate female companionship.

  It was no good, he had to get up and do some work. There were some suitably soporific estate accounts he had promised his agent he would look at. As he crossed the room he heard, faintly, the sound of hoof-beats on turf.

  Poachers? Smugglers? Marcus threw back the curtains and looked out on the park, so bathed in silver light that it seemed almost as bright as day. A grey horse was cantering across his view, its mane flying. On its back was a slim figure, cloak streaming behind it, a mass of hair swept back by the breeze.

  It was Marissa. There was no mistaking the rider despite, he realised with a shock, the fact that she was riding astride and clad in breeches.

  ‘What the devil?’ He stared at the wild creature who had Marissa’s form yet who could not, surely, be the same controlled, proper young widow who had spoken so coldly to him earlier that day. As he watched she turned the horse’s head towards the coast road and dropped her hands. The mare responded immediately, breaking into a gallop that swept them out of his sight in less than a minute.

  His astonishment turned to nagging disquiet. What had prompted this wild ride? Had her despair finally over-mastered her control? He remembered again her tears in the Long Gallery, the almost too-casual way she had said she did not care where she spent her time. It obviously made no difference to the depths of her misery whether she was in Norfolk or in London; she was still in hell.

  The image of that cold expanse of sea beyond the dunes was suddenly very vivid in his mind. Marcus tried to tell himself he was overreacting, but even as he told himself he was an over-imaginative fool he was tugging on breeches and boots, shrugging into a shirt.

  He ran down the stairs, across the hall and out through the front door, startling
the dozing watchman as he snored in his hooded chair. Marcus pounded into the stableyard and flung open the door of the stall that housed his hunter. He had thrown the saddle over the startled animal, tightened the girth and reached for the bridle when Peters emerged, hair tousled, eyes heavy with sleep.

  ‘My lord? What is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Go back to bed. I have a fancy to ride.’

  The groom wisely refrained from commenting on either the time or his dishevelled appearance and went back up to his rooms with a muttered, ‘My lord.’

  Marcus swung up into the saddle without putting his foot in the stirrup and was urging the big chestnut hunter into a canter before it had even cleared the stableyard arch. The park was empty when he reached it, but he guessed where Marissa was headed and urged the horse into a flat gallop, headlong down the driveway to the sea.

  On the beach Marissa sat for a moment, breathed in the cool sea air and watched the moonlight lay a path of silver across the waves. The light breeze stirred her hair, but it was not cold. The sea would be, she knew, but it was irresistible, and so shallow, even on the rising tide, that it would be safe to swim.

  She dismounted, tied Tempest to a branch and pulled off her clothes, leaving them in a heap on the cloak. The breeze caressed her naked body and she stretched luxuriously, then walked slowly down the beach, kicking the fine sand, letting it run between her bare toes.

  The water struck cold but she did not hesitate, wading out, relishing the chill kiss on her heated skin. The beach shelved very gradually that even after wading several hundred yards the water did not quite reach her waist. The moon was so big, so beautiful that she held her face up to its light and just stood relishing the tranquillity, the freedom, the aloneness.

  The chestnut hunter breasted the dunes at the gallop, plunging as it scrambled down the far slope. Marcus reined in hard, making it rear, unsettling Tempest who had fallen into a half-doze.

  Marcus swung down, dropped the reins and scanned the expanse of sea. There she was, standing like a naiad in the moonlight. Her hair cascaded down her bare back, black against the alabaster of her skin. As he watched, transfixed, she raised her hands and lifted the mass of dark curls off her neck, exposing the whole of her naked form before letting her hair drop once more.

  She was beautiful, lovely beyond the imaginings he had striven so hard to control. Her slender waist, the curve of her hip rising from the lapping waves, took his breath away. Then she moved swiftly, disappearing into the water with barely a ripple.

  Urgently Marcus ripped off his shirt, tore off his boots and breeches and plunged into the water. The shallowness forced him to run, not swim, and he felt as though he were being dragged back with every stride. The cold water splashed up his back and chest as he pushed on, conscious of nothing but the need to reach her before she sank from sight below the grey waves.

  Frustrated by the impeding water Marcus plunged into a running dive, struck out strongly to where he had last glimpsed Marissa, praying through clenched teeth that she had not already sunk beyond his reach. Half blinded by the salt in his eyes he surged forward, cutting through the water with powerful overarm strokes. His search succeeded better than he could have hoped as, with startling suddenness, he collided with a body.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marissa floated tranquilly on her back, her fingers gently fanning the water to keep her in position. The wind must be getting up because she could hear splashing, although her ears were under water which muffled everything.

  She had perhaps two seconds warning as she floated serenely, her face to the moon. The surface of the sea rocked in a sudden swell, sending little waves across her face. Before she could react, before she could feel fear, a hard body crashed into hers. The breath knocked from her lungs, she was pushed under the surface of the sea. Water flooded her nostrils, stung her eyes, filled her ears. Her bare behind grazed the rippled sand of the sea bottom and the shallowness took some of the panic away.

  She curled her legs underneath her, found her footing and stood up, coughing and spluttering as she took in air. She looked round urgently for whatever it was that had rammed her, suddenly afraid again. The local people had tales of sharks in these waters which she had always dismissed as fantasy – now she was not so sure.

  But it was not a shark who seized her from behind. Strong arms clamped themselves around her waist and she was lifted bodily from the water. Pressed against hard, cold flesh Marissa kicked, screamed and dug in her elbows. With a muffled curse her assailant dropped her. Her feet hit the bottom, she dug in her toes and spun round to face him.

  ‘Marcus!’ She was so taken aback that she fell back into the water with a splash. The realisation of her nakedness kept her submerged, crouched so that only her head and shoulders emerged. No such considerations of modesty appeared to afflict Marcus, who stood there, hands on hips and chest heaving, glaring down at her.

  ‘You must be mad. Whatever has possessed you? This is no solution.’ He caught a ragged breath and stared at her with a strange mixture of anger and concern.

  ‘I must be mad?’ Marissa was so taken aback that she half rose, then remembered her state and fell to her knees. ‘What do you think you are doing, crashing into me like that? You could have drowned me!’ Her hair hung in sodden strands across her face, dripping stinging salt water into her eyes. She pushed it back with both hands, then dropped her arms hastily to cover her breasts.

  ‘Why should you worry about me drowning you when you were hell-bent on self-destruction? he demanded furiously.

  ‘Self-destruction? Marcus, have you completely taken leave of your senses?’ Her sense of bewilderment was growing by the second. ‘I came for a swim because it has been so hot all day. I am a very good swimmer, I would have you know, and I do this frequently and quite safely.’ She looked up at the water-drenched figure. His hair was dark and sleek, pushed back to reveal the strong planes of his face. His powerfully muscled shoulders, moving slightly with his breathing, gleamed as the moonlight struck the water droplets. She did not dare let her eyes stray lower.

  He spoke slowly and deliberately, as though his relief fired his anger as he realised just how badly he had misread the situation. ‘Swimming? You are here in the middle of the night, all alone and you tell me you do this often? If you do not care for the risk you put yourself to, do you not have some concern for the impropriety of it? You have a position to uphold. You are the Dowager Countess of Longminster. What if someone were to see you? What do the servants think of you riding around in men’s clothes?’

  ‘My servants are loyal to me and do what I tell them,’ Marissa retorted.

  ‘In that case I shall speak to Peters in the morning and have your horse brought back to the stables at the Hall. We will have no more unsupervised riding.’

  ‘You will, will you? How dare you try to control my life?’ Marissa suddenly, and very satisfyingly, lost her temper. ‘I am neither your sister nor, thank heavens, your wife. You cannot command me, my lord. Take Tempest back if you wish to be so petty-minded. I will buy my own horse. And Tom – who, if you need to be reminded, is my groom – will look after it for me. I ride when and how and where I please.’

  It was as if two years of subservience, of fearful obedience to her lord, had dissolved in a flash of anger. All her life men had controlled her. Well, now she was free, independent, able to do what she liked. She was so exhilarated by the thought that she stood up, forgetting her nakedness.

  Marcus’s eyes widened as his gaze travelled down her body and he became, suddenly, very still. Marissa gulped, lifting her hands to cover as much of her chilled body as she could. ‘I have had quite enough of this nonsense. Turn away. I want to go back to the shore.’

  As though her words had released him Marcus moved slowly to present her with a view of broad shoulders, a long, supple back tapering to narrow hips and taut buttocks. Marissa swallowed hard and turned away as abruptly herself. Too abruptly. Her foot caught one of the rare stones on t
hat sandy shore and she stumbled, falling with a cry back into the cold water.

  Instantly he was beside her, lifting her up in his arms and holding her tight against his chest. ‘You are frozen. You foolish woman, are you trying to catch pneumonia?’

  Marissa could only shiver in response. Now she was out of the water, her wet skin fully exposed to the breeze, she was colder than ever. But it was not only the cold that was making her shiver, it was the nearness of this man, the strength of him, his obvious concern for her that had generated that outburst.

  And there was something else, something that was dangerous insanity: she was falling in love with him. So this was what it was like, she thought as he made his way through the water, slowly, hampered by his burden and the dragging shallows. She had heard about love but had never felt it, never expected it, and now she recognised the months of thinking, dreaming about Marcus for what they were.

  Instinctively Marissa snuggled closer into his arms, and was rewarded by a tightening of his grip. The, as they neared the beach, she began to think more clearly. This was a fatally stupid thing to do, to fall in love with this man. He was her husband’s cousin, so like him to look at that they could be twins, one dark, the other blond. And, however different his behaviour appeared to be on the surface, all men were driven by the same urges, the same dark passions, she had no doubt of that.

  Marcus had made it quite plain that he was going to look for a wife in London. And men did not expect love in marriage, she knew that too. They sought duty, a good alliance, obedience and subservience. If he even guessed she was falling in love with him he would be embarrassed at best, appalled at worst.

  As soon as Marcus’s feet touched dry sand Marissa wrenched from his arms and ran to where she had left her clothes and towels piled under a bush at the foot of the dunes. She snatched the largest rectangle of linen and swathed it round her shivering body, keeping her back turned to him. Between chattering teeth, she said, ‘Will you please go away?’