The Youngest Dowager Read online

  ‘Back to the Hall. One of the footmen overheard her orders to the coachman.’

  ‘No, she would never go back there. But she will go back to the Dower House, the only place where she has no memories of him.’ Marcus stopped, thinking. ‘Pack a saddlebag and send to the stables for the new bay. It is fresh enough to get me a good distance before I have to change.’

  ‘Yes, Marcus, but I’m coming with you.’ Jackson tugged the bell-pull with such force that three footmen arrived simultaneously and were sent off at the run to obey his orders.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  It was dark when Marcus and Jackson, stiff, tired and travel-stained, trotted into Newmarket and reined in in the yard of the Three Crowns. ‘Look, Marcus.’ Jackson pointed to the travelling carriage standing horseless, its empty shafts on the cobbles.

  ‘Thank goodness. This is a respectable house, she will be all right here tonight.’

  ‘But aren’t you going in to talk to her?’ Jackson furrowed his brow in perplexity as Marcus dug his heels in and trotted out of the yard.

  ‘Not here, man. This is hardly the place for the sort of conversation we are going to be having. Here’s the King’s Head, let’s hope they have beds for the night. Tomorrow we’ll follow, just out of sight.’

  It was a long day, but Marissa insisted that her coachman keep going, changing horses whenever he saw fit, but she refused his pleas to stop and rest for the night. Even though it was June the sun had set before the Hall came in sight. Marissa averted her gaze and waited, with sudden impatience, for the Dower House to appear.

  For the long journey she had sat silent, frozen and almost immobile, responding automatically to Mary’s worried attempts at conversation until the girl had finally given up and fallen silent. She supposed she’d had something to eat the night before, but could not remember what. Nor could she remember sleeping, although there seemed to have been moments of unconsciousness.

  Lights were twinkling as though in welcome in the windows of the old house. At the sound of carriage wheels on gravel Whiting threw open the front door and when she saw his familiar, kind face Marissa felt the ice that had been covering her break. Life, and with it pain, flowed back into her limbs and mind. Seconds later Mrs Whiting appeared at her husband’s side, exclaiming with mixed worry and delight at the sight of her mistress.

  Marissa half tumbled from the carriage into the housekeeper’s arms, hugging her convulsively, determined not to cry.

  ‘It is all right,’ she explained. ‘I have not been very well – London is so hot and noisy. I just need to be back in the country for a while.’

  The Whitings broke off from their worried greetings at the sound of hoof-beats on the still night air. ‘Who can that be at this time?’ Whiting asked, then his jaw dropped at the sight of the two riders.

  ‘Marissa!’ Marcus’s voice reached her clearly through the twilight.

  She took to her heels and ran, through the hall, up the stairs, into her chamber and slammed the door. Marissa twisted the key in the lock and leaned back against the panels, her breast rising and falling with her panting breaths.

  What was Marcus doing here? How had he managed to follow her so closely and what did he want with her? She braced herself for the sound of pursuing footsteps, expecting at any moment that he would pound on the door, demand that she come out.

  It was not that she feared him. Even after yesterday’s awful revelation that he was visiting the same house of ill-repute as her husband had, she knew in her heart that Marcus would never raise a finger to her. A sob rose in her throat and Marissa stumbled away from the door to throw herself across the four-poster bed. If only she could make any sense of it. Marcus had always been so kind, so patient, so considerate to her. In his dealings with his sister he was loving and indulgent and even after Nicci’s worse excesses in Epsom he had not punished her in any way.

  All this, and her instinctive love for him, was totally at odds with the sort of man who frequented that sort of place. Marissa stiffened as the sound of muted voices reached her through the heavy door, then there was the scrape of moving furniture. Puzzled, she sat up, scrubbing her hand across her wet eyes, but all was once more silent.

  How long she lay curled up on the bed, fully dressed, before she fell asleep she did not know, but she was woken by the chorus of dawn birdsong and fitful sunshine through the undraped east window.

  Marissa swung her legs off the bed and stood up stiffly. What time was it? She rubbed her eyes and looked around the room, listening for sounds that the servants were up and about their business.

  All was still, but on the washstand stood a jug of cold water, perhaps overlooked, and soaps and towels were laid out ready. Pulling off her travel-stained clothing, Marissa washed swiftly, wincing at the chilly caress of the water, but grateful to feel clean and fresh once more. She pulled the remaining pins out of her tangled hair and brushed it hard until the dust was gone and it clouded out from her head in a dark mass.

  All her clothes were still in the travelling cases, presumably in the hall. Marissa pulled open drawers in the dresser and found a nightgown and peignoir of pale biscuit-coloured lawn. Clean and clothed, she climbed back into bed and prepared to wait patiently until the servants were up and about.

  There was no chance she would fall asleep again, her head, now she was properly awake, was spinning with thoughts of Marcus. Where was he? Presumably he had gone back to the Hall to spend the night, but she had no doubt that he would be back at the Dower House soon after breakfast to demand an explanation for her precipitate flight. And what could she possibly say to him? I love you, but I know you patronize a house where… No, she could not even think the words, let alone say them.

  If she had not seen Marcus with her own eyes she would never have believed he could share any of her late husband’s tastes, for Charles had been a cold, cruel man in thought as well as deed. But Marcus was warm, tender. She shivered pleasurably at the recollection of his lovemaking, of his eagerness to pleasure her before himself. No, that did not sit with the picture of a man who indulged in secret vices, closet cruelties.

  A realisation that she might have been too hasty in her conclusion was dawning on Marissa. I love him, how can I believe this of him? I love him – and I should trust him, have the courage to put my fears aside and talk to him. She caught her breath, sitting up, her heart racing with sudden hope. There must be another explanation for his presence on that doorstep on Panton Street. And, that being the case, she owed it to the man she loved to ask him what it could be.

  Seized with hope and optimism, Marissa felt her stomach growl and, for the first time in what seemed like days, smiled. How ridiculous, after all this heartbreak and drama, to feel something as mundane as hunger. But she was starving. The sound of the hall clock striking five came faintly through the panels. It was no good sitting here waiting for another hour. She decided to make a foray to the kitchen to see what the larder held.

  Marissa climbed out of bed and padded silently to the door. She did not want either Mary or Mrs Whiting fussing over her, or feeling that they should get up and attend to her needs. Using both hands, she eased the key round in the lock, starting as it clicked. Then she opened the door and stepped out onto the shadowed landing, her eyes fixed on the corridor to her left where the servants’ wing lay.

  All was still and silent so she turned towards the stairs – and almost cried out in alarm. A heavy carved armchair had been pulled up and blocked her way. It was occupied by the sprawled, sleeping figure of Marcus. Coat off, cravat loose at his neck, boots discarded by his side, he slept deeply.

  Marissa found her hands had flown instinctively to her chest to still her thudding heart, but he did not wake. She gazed down at him, at the relaxed, stubble-shaded face, the thick dark eyelashes fanning his cheekbones, at the firm mouth now faintly smiling, perhaps at some dream. Instead of spending the night in his own comfortable bed he had been here all the time, sleeping across her threshold as if guar
ding her.

  Marissa reached out her hand to touch his face. But before she could his eyes opened, wide and blue, and he smiled at her. ‘I was dreaming about you,’ was all he said as he stood to sweep her into his arms.

  He kicked open the bedroom door, strode to the bed and laid her against the pillows. For a long moment he stood looking down at her, as if deciding something, then to Marissa’s surprise he crossed to shut the door, twisting the key in the lock. He brought the key across, dropped it on the bedside cabinet by her hand then went to sit on the window seat.

  Marissa met the steady, grave look he fixed on her face. ‘You spent all night out there on the landing.’ she asked, almost in disbelief. ‘Why?’

  ‘I was worried about you,’ he replied simply. ‘You ran away from me.’

  She flushed, biting her lip, and for a moment could not meet his eyes. But Marcus did not help her out. Marissa realised that this was the turning point: she could be honest, trust him, tell him what she knew and had feared, or she could prevaricate and send him away. If she trusted her instincts and she was wrong about him, then they had no future together – but if she did not grasp this nettle they had no future anyway, and she wanted a future with Marcus.

  ‘I saw you going into a house. One that Matthews told me Charles used to visit.’

  ‘Yes.’ The single syllable was like a blow: one part of her mind had been clinging to the hope that Matthews had been wrong, or that it had not been the right house.

  ‘You don’t deny it?’ she almost whispered, her hands creeping to her throat.

  ‘No, I don’t deny it – but why do you think I went there?’ His voice was even, but she could see the pulse beating in his throat and his body was tense.

  ‘At first I was shocked. I thought you were going there for the same reason as Charles had always done. I was devastated that I could have been so wrong about you. That was why I ran, because I could not bear to be close to you if that was the truth.’

  ‘At first?’ he queried. ‘What do you think now, Marissa? What do you believe?’

  ‘I believe I was wrong. Lov… knowing you as I do, once the shock wore off, I knew there had to be another explanation.’ She searched for the right words, because she had to be honest. ‘I can’t live with fear, through fear, any longer. This was the last piece I needed in the puzzle of Charles. I realised it wasn’t my fault he was like that, it was him, his nature. And I knew that you would never hurt me, or anyone else. That you could never be cruel.’

  Marcus stood and walked slowly to the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on her face. ‘You have been very discreet about Charles, very loyal, but I knew he had hurt you very badly, had frightened you to the point where I feared you could never love me.’

  Marissa caught her breath. Does it matter, then, that I love him?

  Marcus smiled at her and carried on speaking gently. ‘I had heard something of my late cousin’s tastes, but only recently. I decided to seek out the truth for myself.’

  ‘But why? Why does it matter to you? He is dead.’

  ‘But his shadow still lies over you and I love you. I want you to be free.’

  ‘You love me?’ Marissa breathed, afraid to believe her own ears.

  Marcus came and sat beside her, gathered her hands in his, a rueful smile on his lips. ‘It has taken me a long time to say it, but I think I must have loved you from the moment I saw you. For a long time I believed you were grieving for Charles, that you could never love anyone else, especially someone who reminded you so painfully of what you had lost.’

  ‘Lost? I lost only fear and cruelty. You taught me that not all men are like that, that I could love, and trust a man not to hurt me. Trust you. I am sorry that my instinct was to run, not to ask you for the truth.’

  She found herself gathered in Marcus’s arms, held so tightly against his chest she could hardly breathe. ‘You have to learn to trust again, I understand,’ he said, before he covered her face in kisses.

  When she emerged, breathless, she saw he was searching her face, a touch of doubt in his eyes. ‘You do love me, Marissa? The bastard hasn’t killed that for you, has he?’

  ‘Yes, I do love you. I knew I loved you when you went back to Jamaica and I ached for you, lived for your letters to Nicci.’

  ‘Then why would you not marry me?’ His hands were straying down her shoulders, stroking through the lace, tangling as his fingers sought the ribbons tying her peignoir.

  ‘I didn’t think I could ever be a true wife to you, that Charles had so affected me that I could never give you everything. And I believed that you would turn to Diane for comfort. I could not bear to share you.’

  ‘Diane? It has been all over between us for a long time, way before I left Jamaica to come to London. She is a true friend to me, that is all.’

  His fingers had found their way beneath the fine cotton lawn and were stroking the swell of her breasts. It made it difficult to think, to speak, to do anything except give in. ‘But, Marcus, I do not know if I can,’ she confessed. ‘I do not know if I will ever be able to love you as I want to.’

  To her shock he stopped caressing her and sat back, watching her with smiling eyes. ‘Then now is the time to find out. Make love to me, Marissa. You take control, you do what you want and only what you want.’ He shrugged off his shirt and breeches as he spoke.

  Marissa struggled to find her voice. ‘But I don't know… I mean, I’ve never… Marcus, what do you want me to do?’

  Marcus threw himself on the bed beside her and with a deft twist of his arm caught her up, stripped off the peignoir and nightdress and threw them across the room. ‘Right.’ He lay back against the pillows, pulling her against his aroused body. ‘Now, Marissa, you are in charge.’

  She sat up, stared at him. Something in the quality of the light – or was it his obvious delight and love for her? – made him look only like Marcus, not in the slightest like his cousin. Marissa took his face in his hands and kissed him, exploring the taste of him with her tongue.

  Marcus stayed quite still as she nibbled his earlobe then he gasped as her lips moved down the hard planes of his chest, teasing his nipple before, daringly, exploring further. His skin was satiny, hot with his desire for her, yet she could sense his restraint as he let her set the pace.

  Impatient with his patience, she twisted round. pulling his glorious weight on top of her, opening her body to him. ‘Marcus,’ she managed to say, ‘I cannot wait any longer. Make love to me, please.’

  And he did, gently at first, but he too was beyond restraint, swept along with the passion of her surrender, giving to her as much as he took.

  It seemed hours before they stirred, then Marissa opened her eyes to find him looking into hers with such love that she was almost unable to say, ‘Is that how it is meant to be?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Marcus’s voice shook. ‘I have never experienced anything like it. But I suggest we spend the rest of our lives finding out.’

  Half an hour later Marissa heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor and looked up into Marcus’s eyes. ‘Early morning tea,’ she whispered.

  ‘The door’s locked. Do you want me to open it?’

  ‘No. Not for at least a week.’

  ‘That, my love, is quite definitely the right answer.’ And he began to make love to her all over again.

  The End

  About the Author

  Louise Allen lives on the North Norfolk coast close to the 18th century seaside town of Cromer. She is a passionate collector of late Georgian and Regency ephemera and prints and is the author of over sixty historical romances and non-fiction works, mainly set in the Georgian and Regency period. She also blogs about Georgian life at http://janeaustenslondon.com/

  Twitter: LouiseRegency

  Full details of all her books, including extracts and buy-links, can be found at www.louiseallenregency.com

  Other Francesca Shaw titles revised and re-issued by Louise Allen

  The Master of Winter
bourne – A novel of divided loyalties set in the English Civil War

  Compromised Lady – Courtesan or lady in distress? With no memory how can she tell?

  The Admiral’s Daughter – Danger and deception on the high seas – love and duty in conflict

  Miss Weston’s Masquerade – An arranged marriage or a risky masquerade across Europe?

  A Scandalous Lady – A respectable Bath spinster or a scandalous actress. What if they are the same woman - and he wants them both?

  Miss Dane and the Duke – Dukes always get what they want – don’t they? And nice young ladies shouldn’t hanker after dukes – should they? But sometimes the rules don’t apply.

  Still to come:

  The Rebellious Bride

  I do hope you have enjoyed this book – and I would be very pleased if you would leave a review. Every review helps me connect with readers and make the next book just that bit better.

  Thank you,

  Louise