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‘Why, our butler, of course. But he is much more than that. He has been with us for years, originally as captain of one of my father’s schooners. But no one is quite sure where he came from – he will never speak of it. And then when Marcus was seventeen he saved his life when the schooner was attacked by privateers. Jackson was terribly injured, almost given up for dead, but Marcus brought him back home and he has been our butler ever since old Peters had his heart attack. Why,’ she added disingenuously, ‘Jackson has almost brought me up. He is terribly strict, you know.’
Marissa almost laughed at Jane’s shudder. ‘I am not reassured. No doubt this Jackson is a good man, in his rough way, but he is hardly suitable as butler in a great house.’
‘Wait and see. You will get used to him,’ Nicci promised airily. ‘Oh, where is Marcus? I am starving.’
‘Nicole, dear, ladies do not speak of their appetite, it is most improper.’ Jane appeared to notice Marissa’s appearance for the first time. ‘Why do you not remove your bonnet and pelisse, Marissa?’
Reluctantly Marissa did so, sending her hair tumbling onto her shoulders and releasing a small shower of fine sand onto the polished boards.
‘What on earth have you been doing?’
‘Rolling in the sand by the look of it,’ Nicci said gleefully. ‘Marcus did not see you, did he, Marissa?’
‘I tripped,’ she said with a snap. ‘I must go and tidy myself before luncheon.’
She was very conscious of two pairs of eyes – one censorious, one teasing, and both speculative – as she left the room, and was still feeling flustered when she returned, her hair brushed and pinned and her face washed.
Marcus arrived at the door as she did. He was freshly shaven and dressed in clean riding clothes. Marissa kept her eyes down as he opened the door for her and ushered her to her place at table.
The meal was punctuated by the tale of Marcus’s journey and the many people he had brought messages from for his sister. Marissa watched him from under her lashes as he spoke. He seemed to bring warmth and energy with him and to infect everyone around him with his vitality. It was as though the warm Caribbean sea and the hot sands were just outside this chilly mausoleum of a house.
‘We must have a ball to celebrate your return,’ Nicci was urging as Marissa came back to herself with a start.
Jane coughed warningly and, with a swift look at Marissa, Marcus said, ‘I do not think that would be appropriate Nicci. We are still in mourning.’
Nicci, who Marissa knew might be impulsive, but who was never insensitive, bit her lip, clearly mortified by the suggestion that she might be upsetting Marissa. ‘Oh, I am sorry. That was very thoughtless of me. I did not mean to distress you.’
Marissa leaned across the table and touched her hand. ‘Do not worry, Nicci, I know what you meant. A ball is not suitable but it would be a pity if our neighbours did not have the opportunity to meet the Earl as soon as possible. I do not think a small dinner party would be out of place, if your brother agrees.’
‘A capital idea.’ Marcus sat back and smiled at all three of them. ‘How long would it take to arrange such a dinner, and,’ he grinned at Nicci, ‘order your new gowns?’
Chapter Eight
Laurent smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the dark blue superfine cloth across his master’s shoulders, then stood back and viewed the finished effect critically.
‘For heaven’s sake, man,’ Marcus protested as the valet made another dart forward with the clothes brush. ‘We have been at this long enough. The guests will be here shortly.’ He grimaced down at his legs. ‘Knee breeches. Anyone would think we were in London instead of the depths of Norfolk.’
‘It is à la mode, my lord,’ Laurent demurred. ‘It is expected and, after all, it will be a social event spoken of for months afterwards in the neighbourhood.’ He gave a final, unnecessary polish to Marcus’s shoe buckles and added gloomily, ‘After all, what else is there to talk of in this place which le bon Dieu has undoubtedly forsaken?’
Marcus fixed him with a stern eye. ‘If I have to learn to be a respectable earl, then you must learn to be a respectable valet, Laurent.’
‘Pah.’ He picked up Marcus’s discarded linen and stalked towards the door. ‘I will be respectable, my lord, but do not demand that I like this place. I will die of the pneumonia, sans doute, if I do not first expire from the food.’
Marcus grinned at his own reflection in the glass. The man had been with him for years. He had tried to encourage him to stay in Jamaica, knowing he would hate England, but the valet had insisted that his place was at his master’s side, although it would be the death of him.
Not that Marcus couldn’t see his point. He too yearned for the warmth, not just of the weather, but of the people. The social mores of English society came hard when one had lived a life characterised by informality, driven by the climate and the dictates of nature. And he missed the Caribbean sea. The cold, grey waves washing against the coast here bore no resemblance to the inviting blue depths of Jamaican waters, filled with fish as bright as jewels.
There was little point in dwelling on all that. It was the past and his new life as the fourth Earl of Longminster was waiting for him. Tonight’s soirée was his first foray into county Society, and for the sake of Nicci’s future – and his own – he had to make it a success.
Marcus strolled over to the window, resisting the urge to run one finger under his collar, resenting the control that the formal evening clothes imposed. But Marissa would be expecting to entertain in this style and he could not let her down. He had not failed to notice the air of rigidly suppressed excitement under her perfect poise. Like a cat’s fur in a thunderstorm, her mass of hair seemed to crackle with energy under the restraint of its pins. It reminded him of the night she had found him in the Long Gallery and the one long hair that had curled itself around his finger like a living thing was still where he had placed it, between the pages of his pocketbook.
A mile away across the park Marissa was completing her toilette. Seated in front of her dressing table mirror, Gyp curled up at her feet, she watched Mary’s deft fingers capture, twist and pin up her hair.
On an impulse Marissa reached up and teased out the short curls around her hairline.
‘Oh, that is pretty, my lady,’ Mary murmured.
‘Yes. Yes, I think it will do,’ Marissa decided, rather surprised at her own reflection. She had never permitted the slightest curl to es
