AllFreeNovel
Share Us
cape from its tight chignon but it became her, she realised, emphasising her cheekbones and softening the curve of her brow. ‘Now, the diamond set, I think, Mary.’
The maid fastened the necklace, then began to secure the coiled hair on her crown with matching combs.
Marissa adjusted the cold stones on her throat, then lifted the drop earrings and fastened them to her lobes. She had never particularly cared for the set, although her husband had insisted she wear it often. Now, against the severity of black silk, the stones sparked with a hot fire she had never seen before.
Mary helped her with the long white kid gloves, clasped a diamond bracelet around her wrist then, as she stood, bent to tweak out the heavy flounce around the hem. She puffed up the little sleeves before draping a white silk stole with a long fringe over Marissa’s elbows.
With a tap on the door Jane entered, resplendent in a new plum satin gown. ‘My dear, you look lovely. The carriage is here, and we must be off. It is six o’clock and we promised the Earl that we would be there to help him receive.’
The shadows were lengthening in the park as the barouche pulled up at the front door and Marissa was seized by the strangeness of arriving as a guest at what, until so recently, had been her own house. She was looking forward to this dinner party, she realised. For the first time she would not have to sit in constant fear that some detail would be found wanting, a shortcoming that would be visited upon her later by her lord. It was not the only reason for her anticipation, but it was the only one that she was prepared to acknowledge to herself.
The door was opened by Jackson, dignified in evening black, but still managing to look dangerously out of place. He bowed the ladies in, handed their cloaks to a footman, conducted them past a small string ensemble who were tuning up on the landing and into the Salon.
‘Lady Longminster, Miss Venables, my lord.’
For a moment Marcus did not recognise the dazzling young woman in the doorway. He felt his jaw drop and pulled himself together with an effort. He had seen Marissa virtually every day for the last fortnight but she had always been the Marissa he had come to know: poised, rigidly groomed, controlled, friendly yet distant.
But this was a different woman. Her hair sparkled in the candlelight, her skin, always so white, seemed creamy against the diamonds and, with a shock, he remembered that she was not much older than his sister.
Nicole, who was wearing a simple gown of midnight blue appropriate to a young lady who was not yet out, gasped audibly. ‘Oh, Marissa, how pretty you look.’ She dashed over, caught Marissa’s hands in hers and turned to appeal to him, ‘Do you not think Marissa looks pretty, Marcus?’
‘No, I do not,’ he drawled. His sister gasped indignantly but, before she could protest, he said, ‘I think she looks beautiful.’ Marissa blushed rosily and he turned to her companion. ‘Miss Venables, may I be so bold as to compliment you on the elegance of your gown?’
Miss Venables responded with a gracious inclination of the head as Jackson announced, ‘There is a carriage approaching, my lord.’
Hastily the party assembled themselves to receive their guests and before long the Salon was alive with the sound of chattering voices and the swish of silk.
When they had constructed the guest list Marissa had been apologetic about the lack of distinguished company. ‘With the start of the Season so close our more fashionable neighbours are up in Town,’ she had explained. ‘The Blackwoods, the Exeters… I wonder if the Scotts have left yet.’ In the end the guest list had included the local squirearchy and professional people, with a touch of aristocratic eccentricity in the form of Lady Augusta, who now had Sir Henry Ollard trapped next to the mantelpiece and was berating him over the state of his coverts. ‘How you expect to enjoy a decent run if you cannot provide the cover for the foxes I do not know.’
Sir Henry, a mild man. was protesting faintly that his keepers were doing their best, but was making no headway.
He saw Lady Ollard, who was making polite conversation with Mr and Mrs French, raise her eyebrows but she passed no comment. Doubtless, he thought, she was well used to Lady Augusta. He saw with some sympathy that Mr and Mrs French, more recent arrivals on the local scene, tended to start nervously when Lady Augusta approached them. Mrs French, having moved from the bustling heart of the City where her husband had made a substantial fortune, was finding it difficult to adjust to an entirely new social scene, he thought, making a mental note to set her at her ease.
He scanned the room, on the look-out for any guest left without someone to talk to. Miss Catherine Ollard was attempting, not very successfully, to engage young Stephen French in conversation but, as both he and his brother were more interested in Mr Ashforde’s description of a recent shooting trip, her efforts were wasted. The Misses Woodruffe were chattering to Nicci about clothes, but she was only half listening, he saw. Following the direction of her gaze he saw that her shining eyes were fixed on the perfect Classical profile of the young curate. What’s his name? Ashton?
Marcus politely extracted himself from a discussion of a local political scandal which was engrossing Dr Robertson, Mr Hope and Miss Venables and strolled across to where Marissa was standing by herself, watching the group of young people.
‘And what is my little sister up to now?’ he enquired softly.
‘Oh, nothing.’ Marissa smiled tolerantly. ‘She is enjoying the party, which is only natural. I am afraid it has been so very dull for her at the Dower House this past year and she really has been very good.’
Her lips curved in a soft smile and Marcus, seeing where she was looking, frowned. ‘Is that the curate? What's his name, Ashton?’
‘Ashforde,’ Marissa corrected. ‘He is very much a favourite hereabouts, considered quite an embellishment to local Society. He is the second son of Viscount Bassingbourn but very unlike his elder brother. Mr Ashforde is dedicated to his calling, and is very erudite.’
‘Popinjay,’ Marcus muttered.
‘Oh, no, not that. I admit his quite extraordinary good looks draw more attention to him than he would wish, but it has not turned his head in the slightest.’
‘You think him good-looking, then?’ Marcus eyed the white skin, Classical features and elegant figure of the curate with distaste and an uneasy feeling that, with his black hair and cultured manners, Mr Ashforde must offer a reflection of the late Earl to a woman who was still mourning her husband.
Marissa turned to stare at Marcus. ‘Good-looking? Why, certainly, he is perhaps the most handsome man I have ever seen: he could take his place on a pedestal here in the sculpture gallery and rival Adonis.’
Marcus’s expression mystified her. What had Mr Ashforde done to displease him? It was so much accepted that the curate combined excellent manners with physical perfection that it seemed quite natural to discuss him as one would any other beautiful phenomenon. He did not cause her heart to flutter but she could understand the effect that he had.
Marcus still seemed strangely out of humour to Marissa when Jackson announced that dinner was served. He offered Lady Augusta his arm and Marissa found Sir Henry, who would sit at her right hand. Gradually the party sorted themselves out and processed past the string quartet into the Small Dining Chamber, a cavernous room only slightly less imposing than the Grand Dining Chamber. Marcus, having viewed the larger room, had announced flatly that he would not use it and had instructed Jackson to move the best silver to the Small Chamber.
Huge fires blazed at either end of the room, despite the mild weather outside, and a myriad of candles reflected off the polished mahogany and massed silver. Marissa took her place at the foot of the table facing the new Earl. She had protested when he had asked her to act as hostess, but Nicci was not yet out and Marcus had flatly vetoed her suggestion that he ask Lady Augusta to preside.
