The Youngest Dowager Read online

  ‘Marissa!’ It was Jane’s voice, approaching from the direction of the drawing room. ‘Marissa, my dear, are you out here? You will catch your death of cold.’

  Marcus seized her hand and pushed through the door of the gazebo which stood at the end of the terrace, closing it swiftly behind them. They stood entwined in the wood-scented gloom until they saw Jane pass by the cobwebbed window and vanish around the corner of the house.

  ‘Now, where were we?’ Marcus murmured, bending once more, catching her around the waist and imprisoning her in his embrace.

  ‘No, Marcus, stop,’ Marissa protested shakily. ‘I must go in. Jane will be worried about me. And we should not be doing this.’

  ‘Why not?’ he said, his voice muffled as he nibbled delicately at her earlobe. ‘I fully intend doing this – and more – all the time when you are my wife.’

  ‘Oh, yes… I mean, no, stop it. You make it so difficult,’ she added weakly, pushing him away.

  ‘You are right. The wooden floor of a gazebo is hardly the right place for the first time – any more than a sandy beach was.’ He opened the door for her to slip through adding, as she turned to run along the terrace, ‘But do not make me wait too long for you, Marissa.’

  Those words sounded almost threatening in her ears as she slowed to a sedate walk and re-entered the salon through the long windows which opened down to the ground. Fortunately Nicci had gone up to bed, but Jane was waiting for her.

  ‘There you are, dear. I have been to look for you. I was worried you might get chilled, the evening air is so treacherous. Did you not hear me call?’

  Thinking of the circumstances under which she had heard Jane, Marissa felt herself blush. Jane, after a searching look at her heightened colour and escaping hair, said sharply, ‘Marissa? Have you been alone again with his lordship? Is there anything you wish to say to me?’

  ‘Er, no.’ Marissa felt like a naughty schoolroom miss caught kissing the music master. ‘I just happened to meet Marcus in the garden. The roses are most delightful. We must pick some for the breakfast table.’

  She should have known that Jane had not been a governess for over ten years without being able to detect prevarication when she heard it. ‘Really, Marissa, do you think I was born yesterday?’ she demanded. ‘I am not lecturing you and Heaven knows I am not responsible for your morals. After all, you have been a married woman and are old enough to conduct your own affairs. But do consider the proprieties, please. I will retire and say goodnight now.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The thirtieth of May dawned clear and bright and the ladies breakfasted in their rooms to speed the business of getting ready. At ten o’clock Jane, magnificent in bronze twill with an almost jaunty bonnet of moss-green silk and feathers, looked around Marissa’s bedchamber door.

  ‘Are you almost ready, my dear? Oh, now, that is nice,’ she said approvingly. ‘I knew you were right to choose that simple fern-green jacconet cloth – it sets off the lines of your new pelisse to perfection. Understatement is the very essence of elegance, especially when one has the height and figure to carry it off, as you do.’

  Marissa smiled her thanks at the compliment as she took her seat at the dressing table to allow Mary to set the dashing O’Neil hat, with its high crown and curving brim, on her head. She had heeded Marcus’s plea not to have her hair cropped, and the maid had piled up the luxuriant mass on her crown and allowed only the little curls around her hairline to peep out from under the arc of the brim.

  ‘How very fashionable, dearest!’ Jane exclaimed. ‘When did you buy that?’

  ‘Last season in Norwich. I could not resist it, even though I knew I could not wear it for some time.’ She bent to give Gyp one last caress and a stern warning not to bother the footmen too much. ‘Is Nicci ready?’

  ‘She was so excited last night I doubt she has been to bed, so she had better be. Her brother warned her that if she were not down by ten he would leave her behind – and I fear he was not speaking in jest.’

  Marissa had pushed thoughts of Marcus firmly to the back of her mind, determined that nothing should spoil her day at the races. She would face up to breaking her betrothal later that week. She pushed to the back of her mind the fact that the evening before she had quite made up her mind on her course of action and it had only taken a second in his arms for her resolution to crumble utterly.

  The clock struck ten and they picked up their reticules and sunshades and stepped out onto the landing as Nicci’s door opened.

  For a moment both were speechless, then Jane’s cry of dismay echoed round the landing. ‘Nicole. You cannot go out dressed like that. Go and change immediately. Where did you get that hat?’

  ‘It is a lovely hat and I am not going to get changed and I think this will be the most striking outfit on the course.’ Nicci stamped her foot and refused to move.

  Marissa gazed thunderstruck from deep purple pumps, up the length of what had begun as a simple white cambric gown but which was now transformed by an abundance of dark ribbons and braid, to Nicci’s crowning glory, a bonnet of midnight-purple ruched silk, edged, trimmed and lined in white satin with an abundance of white bows.

  She finally found her voice. ‘You bought that in London when Madame de Rostan left you with the Misses Richardson, did you not, Nicci? How you could have thought for a moment that this would be suitable for a young girl…’

  ‘What is going on?’ Marcus ran up the stairs. ‘The carriage has been at the front door these last fifteen minutes and I do not care to keep my horses waiting… Good grief, Nicci, you look like a magpie! Marissa, whatever possessed you to allow her to rig herself up like that?’ Despite his words he sounded more amused than annoyed.

  ‘My lord, I believe you may lay this unique outfit at the door of your friend Madame de Rostan. I can claim no credit for it. Nor do I intend to make any further comment – doubtless you can prevail upon your sister to change into something more suitable. It seems that neither Miss Venables nor I have that sort of influence any longer.’

  Marissa swept downstairs with a faintly clucking Jane on her heels. She had surprised herself at the sudden wave of anger that had swept through her. In the carriage, listening to the raised voices issuing through the front door, she examined her mood. Annoyance with Nicci, of course, but also, maddeningly, annoyance with herself, that Marcus’s attention had been entirely on his sister’s outrageous outfit and not on her. She had wanted to look good on his arm, to do him credit, to be seen and admired with him on this one day before she broke off the betrothal. And to be blamed for the effects of Diane de Rostan’s influence was the very last straw.

  Five minutes later Nicci swept triumphantly out of the door, her outfit intact. Marcus, on her heels, caught Marissa’s eye and shrugged. She returned the look frostily and averted her face.

  Jane was still protesting as the doors of the barouche were shut behind him and he took his seat. ‘But, my lord, you cannot possibly permit Lady Nicole to appear in public in such an unsuitable outfit.’

  ‘Why not?’ he enquired laconically. ‘Do you fear some gamekeeper will mistake her for a magpie and shoot her? Quite frankly, Miss Venables, I am just thankful that she is decently covered. And when people laugh at her she will soon learn her lesson.’

  ‘Ha! Much you know about it,’ his sister riposted. ‘All eyes will be upon me.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Marcus said drily, and looked out at the passing countryside.

  Derby Day was one of the highlights of the Season and the ton was out in force. The racecourse was already a sea of colour from the fashionable gowns and parasols, the uniforms of the many officers, the silks of the jockeys and the gay bunting on the pavilions. The barouche drew up alongside ranks of other elegant carriages and Jane exclaimed with pleasure at the sight of so many acquaintances.

  Nicci was bouncing in her seat with excitement. ‘Come on, come on, we are missing everything! We must promenade.’

  ‘Calm down, Nicole,’ Ja
ne chided as the footman helped them to descend. ‘Too much excitement is so unsophisticated – surely you do not wish to appear gauche?’

  Effectively quelled, Nicci fell in beside the others and began to stroll meekly along, casting looks from under her bonnet-brim to see what effect her outfit was having.

  Marcus shepherded them through the entrance into the Royal Enclosure and found a place by the rail where they could assess the horses being led around the ring. He had acquired race cards for them all and began to describe the runners and riders.

  ‘There were fifty-one entries, but only eleven are running. That is not unusual,’ he explained, as Marissa tried to separate what seemed at first sight to be an indistinguishable crowd of horses. ‘The favourite is Nectar, owned by Lord Cavendish – see, over there, the bay colt. He looks very well, does he not? And he has already won the Two Thousand Guineas.’

  ‘It does look a very fine horse,’ Jane observed. ‘What are the odds, my lord?’

  ‘Ten to six, so hardly worth putting money on at this stage, I would have thought. Let us choose horses with longer odds – it will be more exciting. How about Lord Stawell’s chestnut, Pandour? It is from the same sire as the favourite, but it is at sixteen to one.’

  Both Jane and Nicci agreed to place a guinea each on Pandour, but Marissa was feeling perverse and was in no mood to take any advice from Marcus that morning. ‘Which is that?’ she asked, pointing at a large bay as it passed them close by the rail.

  Marcus checked the colours against the race card. ‘That is Prince Leopold. It is running in the colours of Mr Lake, the Duke of York’s Master of Horse, but I believe it is owned by His Royal Highness himself. First time out, and the odds are long – twenty to one. With no form to go on, I would not hazard your guinea on him, Marissa.’

  ‘A guinea? Why, nothing so paltry,’ she declared with a toss of her head. ‘I shall place five guineas on Prince Leopold. Here.’ She felt in her reticule and handed him the money. ‘Will you place the bet for me, please?’

  ‘You are an inveterate gambler, it seems, Cousin Marissa. I had not suspected it.’

  He collected the bets from the others and went to find a bookmaker while the ladies continued to view the parade of horses. Jane now held the race card and pointed out the Duke of Grafton’s horse, Alien, and Mr Blake’s John of Paris. ‘What a magnificent animal,’ she declared. ‘Perhaps I should have put my guinea on him instead.’

  ‘Good day, ladies.’ They were greeted by Lady Valentine, who joined them at the rail. She was dashingly attired in fawn twill, her new scarlet half-boots peeping from under the hem. On her head she sported an outrageous toque of Ionian cork, cut like mosaic and adorned with scarlet tassels and plumes. Nicci’s jaw dropped until she was jabbed sharply in the ribs by Jane.

  ‘My dear Lady Longminster. You do look… well,’ she remarked, leaving everyone in no doubt that she considered Marissa’s tasteful outfit to be dull. She merely raised an eyebrow at the sight of Nicci’s magpie magnificence, commenting only that she thought her hat to be, ‘So droll.’

  ‘Oh, I am forgetting myself. Let me make Mr Templeton known to you. Captain Cross you know already, of course.’

  Mr Templeton bowed to the ladies as they were introduced, but his attention was obviously all for Lady Valentine who hung onto his arm possessively. He was a remarkably well-set-up young man, with broad shoulders, muscular thighs and a handsome profile under dark brows. Captain Cross gave the distinct impression of a man whose nose had been put out of joint and he lost no time in making eyes at Nicci whenever he thought her chaperones were not watching.

  Lady Valentine’s party took up position on the rails a few yards farther along and Nicci almost imperceptibly drifted along until she was in a position to chat with Captain Cross. Marissa decided there was no harm in it, provided they stayed where they were.

  Jane, who would normally have spotted such a manoeuvre, had been diverted by the arrival of her new friend Sir Frederick Collier, with whom she had been visiting museums and galleries ever since Diane de Rostan had introduced them. The distinguished banker bowed gallantly over her hand and Marissa thought she had never seen Jane look so handsome. Skilfully he drew her off to one side and Marissa found herself alone, fondly thinking that dear Jane might have found a little romance of her own in her middle years.

  Marissa felt the smile freeze on her lips when she saw her father pushing his way aggressively through the crowd towards her. Her heart sank then rose as she saw Marcus, Diane de Rostan on his arm, cross his path. There was a brief conversation of which she heard nothing, but she saw her father’s expression become a scowl and he turned abruptly and stomped off.

  Marcus uttered a few words, obviously explaining the uncouth stranger to the Frenchwoman. To Marissa’s relief Diane released Marcus’s arm, patted his cheek and made her own way towards the pavilion.

  ‘Here is your betting slip,’ Marcus said as he joined Marissa at the rail. ‘Put it safely in your reticule, although I doubt you will need it – the more I look at that horse of yours, the less I like it.’

  Tension was growing as the horses lined up at the start. The starter dropped his flag and they were off. Nectar took the lead and stayed there, running strongly, the rest of the field bunched behind. Marcus groaned at the performance of his choice, then gave a great yell as, a furlong and a half out, Pandour and Prince Leopold took up the challenge.

  ‘Come on, come on, Prince Leopold!’ Marissa screamed, her unladylike behaviour lost in the sea of noise all around them.

  ‘Pandour!’ Marcus shouted, but Nectar was holding them. Marissa found she was jumping up and down on the spot, her hand gripped tightly onto Marcus’s sleeve. Suddenly, with the winning post only five lengths away, Prince Leopold sprang forward, straining under his jockey’s whip. The leaders ran neck and neck for a few strides, then they flashed past the post, Prince Leopold in the lead by half a length.

  ‘He has won, he has won!’ Marissa shrieked, and threw her arms round Marcus, kissing him on the cheek. In response, hidden by the milling crowd of excited racegoers all intent on the track, he bent his head and kissed her full on the lips. Instinctively she kissed him back and suddenly it was as if they were alone in the garden again.

  ‘God, I want you,’ he growled.

  She felt dizzy with the thrill of winning and the tension of the race. All she knew was that she loved Marcus and she wanted him too. Mutely she nodded.

  Marcus looked around, spotted Sir Frederick with Jane, and, leaving Marissa by the rail, crossed to speak with them. ‘Sir Frederick, may I beg a favour of you?,’ she heard him say. ‘Lady Longminster is quite overcome by the crowds and I must take her back to the Lodge. Could I ask you to escort Lady Nicole and Miss Venables for the rest of the day? Lady Longminster would be so distressed to think she had destroyed their pleasure.’

  The baronet agreed immediately, took charge of the winning betting slip with a word of congratulation and could be heard reassuring Jane. ‘No need to worry, Miss Venables. Your friend is in the best of hands and would not wish to mar your day. Now, a little luncheon, some champagne, perhaps…’

  Marissa felt dazed as Marcus swept her out of the Enclosure into the press of other racegoers. They were soon seated in the barouche and with a word of explanation to the groom and coachman the carriage began wending its way slowly out against the press of vehicles still flooding onto the course.

  ‘Marcus,’ Marissa whispered. ‘We should not be doing this.’

  ‘Yes, we should,’ he murmured back. ‘I am going to make you mine, and then we will name the day.’

  The journey back to the Lodge seemed frighteningly short to Marissa. She loved Marcus, she wanted him – far too much to even think about impropriety. Yet she dreaded the moment he discovered that she could not respond to him as a lover, as his wife should do. But for the moment it was enough to be with him and one corner of her mind told her that it was better he discovered the truth now rather than when they
were married.

  They sat close together, outwardly totally proper in the open carriage, the footman standing behind. But through the fabric of her skirts Marissa could feel the heat of his hard thigh pressed against hers. Her mouth still burned with the intensity of that last kiss, of the sweet invasion of his tongue. Despite her apprehensions she was tingling with anticipation and longing.

  As the footman let down the folding steps Marcus said, ‘Take the rest of the day off, both of you.’

  ‘But, my lord, all the servants are at the races, there’s only the watchman left in the gate cottage. Who will wait on you?’

  ‘We will wait on ourselves. Today is a festival – go and enjoy it.’

  Marissa saw the glint of gold pass from hand to hand before they took the barouche round to the stable.

  ‘Now, my lady,’ Marcus said as he bent and lifted her up into his arms, shouldering open the door and kicking it closed behind him. Marissa was conscious of the strength of him as he carried her up the stairs and into the master bedroom. She could hardly breathe as he laid her on the bed, hat, parasol and all. Crossing to the windows, he threw them open, then tugged the billowing white drapes closed, filtering the hot sunlight across the polished boards.

  He shrugged off his coat and tugged loose his neckcloth then stilled as he stood looking down at her. For a long moment neither moved, then Marcus tossed her reticule and parasol to one side and eased off her hat, releasing her hair to tumble down across the snowy white pillows. Marissa lay still and watched as he unbuttoned and pushed off her pelisse. His hands found the ribbons tying her kid pumps and his fingertips tickled her ankles as he untied each one and tossed the shoes off the bed.

  Her heart was thudding so hard she could hardly breathe. She wanted him to hurry and yet for every moment to last for ever. Now he raised her in his arms so he could reach the row of little buttons securing her gown and with surprising skill he removed it, and the petticoats under it, to join the rest of her clothing on the floor. Left naked except for her stockings, tied by their ribbon garters above the knee, Marissa was swept by self-consciousness and tried to pull the sheet over to cover herself.