The Youngest Dowager Page 9

  He kept the thought to himself. ‘I will send instructions to the stables that any mount you choose should be at your disposal.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Marcus. That would be wonderful. I shall so much look forward to that. I have missed my rides out about the estate. Oh, I see Aunt Augusta waving, I believe she wishes to speak with me. Will you excuse me, please?’

  Marissa crossed to where the older woman was rising from the card table, ready, it seemed, to depart.

  ‘I’ll be leaving now, my dear. I can’t get used to the French fashion of late dining, it plays havoc with my digestion. But I’ve had a splendid time, particularly when the footman dropped the fruit, eh? Didn’t get that sort of entertainment with Charles, the stuffy old dog.’

  It was as though a bank of freezing fog had swept into the room. Marissa had forgotten that incident and the memories it had evoked, the fear of her lord’s cold, studied, anger. Yet here she was, surrounded by friends, admiration, laughter. It was madness to be afraid of Charles now when she was beyond his reach and his retribution. She was free now, free to rebuild her own life, and she never need be in the power of another man again as long as she lived.

  The guests had begun to leave. Marissa detached Nicci from a rather too intimate conversation with Mr Ashforde and the two of them joined Marcus at the head of the staircase to see the guests off to their waiting carriages.

  Marissa was still mulling over the words she had heard pass between the young couple as she had approached them. It had sounded suspiciously like the arrangement for a tryst, but when the curate had shaken hands with Nicci Marissa had been unable to detect a trace of anything other than normal courtesy.

  Jane put a hand on Marissa’s arm. ‘Will you wait for me for a few minutes? I have just remembered that Mrs Wood promised to give me a chicken pie for Widow Smith down at the woodcutter’s cottage and if I take it now it will save me the extra journey tomorrow.’

  Marissa smiled back at her. ‘Of course, Jane. Now, Nicci, you should be off to your bed.’

  ‘Indeed, my lady,’ Jackson agreed, coming up behind them. ‘You will get black circles under your eyes, Miss Nicci.’

  Nicci sighed theatrically, but did as she was told, kissing Marissa affectionately before skipping off to recount the highlights of the evening to her patiently waiting maid.

  Marcus had descended the stairs for a last word with Sir Henry and was still below, talking to one of the footmen. Marissa took a deep breath and made a resolution: she would lay the ghost of her lord once and for all. She would stare that portrait in the face, exorcise her fear. She only had to convince herself that he was not coming back and had no power over her life any more.

  In the Long Gallery all was still, quiet, dark. She set down the branch of candles she had snatched up from the corridor and for a long moment stared at the painted likeness over the door. There, she told herself. It is nothing but pigment on canvas and that is all that remains of his cruelty and control.

  ‘I am free of you, Charles,’ she said out loud. ‘There is nothing you can do to me now.’

  As she spoke the candle flames flickered in some draught, and the painted eyes glinted as if alive. Shadows chased across the thin mouth as though the lips were forming words, chill, unemotional words calculated to wound and crush her spirit.

  All her defiance dissolved in the instant. His cold diamonds encircling her throat seemed to tighten as though long fingers had seized them. She was not free, she would never be free, the fear and the guilt would live on in her heart for ever.

  Behind her the door clicked shut and she whirled round. But the room was empty. She turned her back on the portrait and walked steadily from the Gallery. Behind her the painted eyes seemed to follow her exit.

  Sunshine flooding through the muslin drapes at her bedchamber window roused Marissa from a deep but surprisingly dreamless sleep. She wriggled up against the pillows, gazed out at the burgeoning fresh green of the Home Wood and chided herself for the state she had got herself into the night before in the Long Gallery.

  Why, it was perfectly Gothic, worthy of a sensational novel. She could not spend the rest of her life dwelling on what had gone before, what was over. There had been darkness in her marriage to Charles, but it was spring, and time for a new beginning. And on a beautiful day like today the best remedy for the megrims was fresh air and exercise.

  ‘Mary!’ Marissa called. She swung her legs out of bed and stretched. ‘Put out my green riding habit. I shall walk up to the stables after breakfast.’

  Glowing from the brisk walk, Marissa arrived in the stableyard as Peters emerged from the tack room. He wiped his hands on a rag as he strode across to meet her, his weather-beaten face alight with pleasure. ‘My lady. This is a welcome visit after so many months.’

  ‘Not a visit, Peters – I have come to ride. The Earl has kindly put a horse at my disposal.’

  ‘Well, my lady, you know them all, none better. Do you have a fancy for a particular one, or shall I have some led out for you?’

  ‘Oh, lead them out, please, Peters. I have missed them so much.’

  Minutes later she was taking chunks of carrot from the groom and feeding the roan, its soft muzzle nibbling gently at her hand. She ran her hand over the arched neck, enjoying the strength and vitality beneath the warm hide. The grey mare, jealous of the attention its stablemate was being paid, nudged Marissa none too gently and she laughed.

  ‘Yes, you may have some too, Tempest. I remember you well, you greedy thing. Is she still such a handful, Peters?’

  ‘Indeed she is, my lady. Had young Ned off three times yesterday, just because she took agin that herd of cattle in the Long Meadow. Very wilful she is, ma’am, but as I recollect you never had any trouble handling her.’

  Marissa ran her thumb down the centre of the grey’s nose, managing to tickle the most sensitive spots and reducing the animal to a state of docility that belied the flash in its eye.

  ‘She tried to unseat me once or twice in the beginning, before we came to an understanding, didn’t you, you wicked thing? I’ll take her, Peters. After all, I do not think it would be wise for Lady Nicole to ride her and she is not up to the Earl’s weight. There is no reason why the Dower House stables cannot house her, is there? Shaw can take care of her along with my carriage horses. I will take her out now and perhaps you would be so good as to have the rest of her tack and so on moved down this morning.’

  ‘Certainly, my lady. Ned! Sim! Come and saddle up Tempest and Ned, get the rest of her tack shifted down to the Dower House stables as soon as may be. Tell Shaw to make up a loose box.’

  Marissa touched his arm. ‘Both saddles, please, John.’

  The head groom’s grizzled eyebrows drew together in a worried frown. ‘Is that sensible, my lady? His new lordship’s not going to like that.’

  ‘His new lordship is not going to know, any more than my husband did.’

  ‘Yes, but, ma’am, his late lordship was away as often as not and this one isn’t. What’s he going to say if he finds out you are riding at night, by yourself and astride?’

  ‘Do not worry, John, I will take care.’

  ‘If you say so, ma’am. I’ll see to the saddle myself. And I’ll have a word with Shaw. He’s a good lad, he’ll keep his mouth shut and not go gossiping.’

  Marissa let Peters toss her up into the saddle and held Tempest with a firm hand while she arranged the long skirts of her habit to her satisfaction and the groom adjusted the girth and stirrup leather.

  The mare was skittish and determined to see what she could get away with. She took exception to the muck barrow which Sim was wheeling across the yard, behaved as though the stable cat was a dangerous tiger and tossed her head impatiently at being made to stand.

  Deliberately Marissa forced her to walk out of the yard and across the spread of gravel before the house, concentrating hard on the horse, on ensuring that her seat on the side saddle was perfectly balanced after long months when she had not
ridden.

  ‘She hasn’t seen me.’ Nicci stopped waving from the window. ‘Oh, see, Marcus, doesn’t Marissa look fine? I wish I had a habit like that.’

  ‘I wish you had a seat on a horse like that,’ Marcus retorted as he watched the slender figure in the fir-green habit. ‘I hope Peters knows what he is about, letting her out on that mare and without even a groom.’

  ‘Is that the one you said I must not ride because it was so wild? It seems very docile this morning.’

  As she spoke a pheasant erupted with in panic-stricken flurry right in front of Tempest. Marcus grabbed at the edge of the window frame as the mare threw up her head and backed rapidly in a crab-like movement. Marissa sat tight and calmly brought the mare under control, urged her into a trot and disappeared from sight round the curve of the drive.

  He relaxed his grip. ‘That is why, my dear Nicci, I said you were not to ride Tempest.’ Even though Marissa was out of sight he remained at the long window, his eyes fixed on the spot where he had last seen her. The sight of the slender figure in green controlling the animal with such ease and grace had stirred something deep within him. Instead of going down to the estate office to spend an hour reviewing leases, what he really wanted to do was send to the stables for his stallion and follow Marissa into the park.

  ‘What are you doing this morning, Nicci? I have to see Poole for a while, but I can take you driving later.’

  She gave him a brilliant smile, ‘Oh, thank you, Marcus, but there is no need. It is such a lovely morning, I thought I would take a walk.’

  She’s up to something, Marcus thought as he crossed the courtyard to the steward’s office, although what the devil it could be, he had no idea. The sooner they were in London and that little madam saw the importance of behaving herself, the better. Although for the life of him he could not think who he could get to chaperone her.

  If he hadn’t seen what he had the night of the soirée he might be betrothed now and Marissa would be the one launching his sister into Society. The shock of seeing her standing there in front of the portrait, the tears running down her cheeks as she gazed up at her dead husband, kept coming back to haunt him. He had stood stock-still, his hand on the doorknob, the slight draught he caused in opening it still eddying around him.

  Somehow he had checked his instinctive desire to gather her in his arms, kiss away her pain. But he had no right, he had known that as he had known that she would not welcome his intrusion into her grief. How could he have been such a fool as to think that the mere passage of time had healed the loss? And how could he ask a woman who was so obviously in love with her dead husband to marry him?

  He had backed quietly away, cursing himself for a fool. He could not offer her anything to make up for the love she had lost and it seemed cold-blooded in the extreme to suggest to Marissa that a marriage between them might be mutually convenient.

  He shook off the feeling of depression that settled on him every time he recalled those moments and opened the steward’s room door.

  One of the footmen was setting out a tray with sherry as he entered. ‘Please send to the stables and tell Peters to bring round my horse for eleven, James.’ He would have his ride after all and combine it with a visit to look at that drainage ditch Poole had been worrying about.

  Chapter Ten

  An hour later, after a long gallop through the park, Marissa reined in on the rise which gave her a view across the back of the house and the formal gardens. The golden stone shone in the spring sunlight, the gardens lapped green at the foot of the terraces and the garden boys were out raking the gravel walks into a perfection that would be entirely lost on their new master.

  How her lord would have disliked her riding without an escort. How he would have disapproved of her habit, just the wrong shade of green against the new foliage. And how wonderful it was not to have to care what anyone thought. Tempest snorted and shook her head, but Marissa kept her standing, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her back, uncaring that her hair was coming down and that her cheeks were flushed with the exhilaration of the ride.

  As she surveyed the distant gardens she became aware of a black-clad figure, small in the landscape, making its way through the rose garden. As the man came within sight of the house the doors from the small salon opened and Nicci ran down the steps and joined him.

  It was Mr Ashforde, Marissa realised, screwing up her eyes against the light. The two began to walk up and down the rose terrace between the still-brown beds of pruned bushes.

  How very odd that he should have come to the back of the house, Marissa mused. And it was almost as though Nicci had been waiting for him. She did hope this was not a clandestine meeting – it would be fatal to the young couple’s hopes if Marcus discovered such a tryst had taken place. She was more than ever convinced that Crispin Ashforde would be the ideal husband for Nicci, but this was not the way to go about it.

  She collected up the reins and urged the mare into a trot, following the track worn by the sheep and the deer until she reached the fence around the pleasure grounds. The young couple were now easy to make out and she was close enough to see the distress on Nicci’s face as she broke away and ran into the house.

  Marissa threw her leg over the pommel, slipped to the ground and tied Tempest’s reins to the fence. Mr Ashforde was standing gazing into an ornamental pond, a dispirited sag to his shoulders.

  ‘Mr Ashforde. Good morning.’

  The curate was so startled that he nearly dropped his hat into the water. ‘Lady Longminster. Good morning to you. A fine day, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, it is. But never mind that.’ Marissa was in no mood for social chit-chat. ‘What is the matter with Lady Nicole? She seemed distressed.’

  Mr Ashforde smoothed back his hair from his brow and his handsome face creased with worry. ‘May I be frank with you, Lady Longminster?’

  ‘I wish you would. You must know I regard Nicole in the light of a sister.’ She smiled encouragingly at him.

  He fingered the brim of his hat, much of his normal air of quiet confidence dissipated. ‘I must confess to having formed an attachment to Lady Nicole and I have the honour to believe that my feelings are reciprocated.’

  Marissa felt a momentary impatience with his formality. ‘You are in love with each other?’ she demanded.

  ‘So I believe.’ He blushed rosily. ‘I must confess that I have never before felt an attachment of this nature, so I can only assume it to be the tender passion which animates me. You must believe that I only wish the best for Lady Nicole,’ he added earnestly.

  ‘I do believe that, Mr Ashforde, although I must warn you that the Earl is likely to take a less charitable view of your meeting Nicole unchaperoned like this than I do.’

  The young man’s blush deepened. ‘I too am deeply conscious that such a meeting could be construed as improper, but Lady Nicole was in such distress last night that I felt I should meet and talk with her where we could be private.’

  That was puzzling. She had no recollection of Nicci being in anything but great high spirits at the dinner party, but perhaps the eye of love had seen a deeper emotion. ‘Why is she upset now?’

  ‘Because I told her that I did not feel we should declare our feelings for each other until she had come out into Society. She is very young,’ Ashforde added, somewhat ponderously.

  ‘I am certain that the Earl would look kindly upon your suit,’ Marissa assured him. ‘You are so well connected and suitable in every way. And, young though Lady Nicole is, surely a settled attachment with a long engagement would not be unacceptable to the Earl?’

  Ashforde looked startled. ‘If you are certain, then I will be guided by you. I had resigned myself to a longer wait, but in view of your advice…’ They had been walking as they talked and rounded the corner of the house. ‘There is the Earl now.’

  Marcus was cantering across the park from the direction of the Home Farm. Marissa gave the curate a little push. ‘Strike while the iron is hot. Speak to h
im now. I will go in to Nicole.’

  She found Nicci pacing up and down in the Salon, traces of tears on her cheeks. ‘I am in such despair!’ She ran over and grasped Marissa’s hands. ‘Crispin is so noble, so good, but he is ready to sacrifice our love for convention… for prudence.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake. Nicci.’ Marissa was aware of a sudden feeling of irritation with the young lovers. ‘Do try for a little moderation. You are not going to win your brother round with histrionics, it will only serve to vex him. Men hate such displays of sensibility.’

  ‘But you do not understand. It is hopeless. I cannot convince Crispin that he must speak to Marcus, declare for me. He says we must wait until I am older.’

  ‘Do not worry, Nicci. Mr Ashforde is speaking to your brother now, asking to pay his addresses. I am sure all will be well if you will only – ’

  The front door crashed open like a thunderclap. ‘Nicole!’ Marcus roared.

  They instinctively clutched each other, and were gazing at the door, a picture of guilt, Marissa thought distractedly, when Marcus strode in.

  Nicci gave her brother a weak smile. ‘Why, Marcus, whatever is the matter?’

  He had tossed off his hat, his riding coat was open and he stood tapping the riding crop against his booted leg. The steady noise, as regular as a heartbeat, was unnerving.

  ‘You little minx. You know perfectly well what the matter is. You have cajoled that poor boy of a curate into believing himself in love with you and what must the besotted wretch do but ask me for permission to pay court to you. If it were not so absurd it would be laughable.’ Marcus strode across the room, irritation in every step.