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She turned her head away but she was still conscious that he studied her averted profile. ‘I know no such thing.’
‘Fishing for compliments, my lady?’
The sheer audacity of it brought her head round. ‘Certainly not!’
‘But no woman appears at a social occasion with a new hairstyle unless she is well aware of how well it becomes her.’
She could hear the laughter in his whispered teasing and it only served to add to her indignation. ‘I am not a young lady. I am a Dowager.’
‘Surely the youngest and loveliest in the land.’ He broke off to applaud the end of the ballad. ‘Well done, Miss Ollard, a very pretty air indeed. Will you not favour us with another?’
Miss Ollard blushed and began to rise from the pianoforte. ‘You are very kind, my lord, but I believe it is time to make way for someone else. Miss Woodruffe, if I were to play, will you not sing?’
Having restored peace with her friend she struck up an Elizabethan love song. Miss Woodruffe warbled away, causing Marcus to moan softly in anguish.
‘Marcus, you are impossible,’ Marissa hissed, struggling to maintain her appreciative social smile. ‘You will have to get used to this sort of thing.’
‘Remind me to have the pianoforte chopped up for firewood,’ he retorted, low-voiced.
Marissa could not help but smile. ‘Miss Sophie Woodruffe plays the harp and she often brings it with her.’
‘Oh, my God.’ He dropped his head into his hands in mock despair. ‘Must I stuff my ears with sheep’s wool?’ The air came to an end and before they could embark on another he was on his feet, leading the applause. ‘Ladies, thank you, that was delightful. It almost moved me to tears.’
Jackson forestalled any further entertainment by ushering in the footmen with the tea tray, much to Marissa’s relief.
She dutifully circulated around the room, exchanging pleasantries with the guests, admiring Aunt Augusta’s winnings at the whist table where they were playing for penny points and congratulating the young ladies on their musical performance.
Seeing that the Earl was within earshot, she added wickedly, ‘And I do hope you will bring your harp to the next soirée here, Miss Sophie. The Earl has just confided in me that it is quite his favourite instrument.’ She looked him across at him, managing, somehow, to keep the smile from her face.
As he passed Marissa Marcus bent his head and whispered, ‘Touché, my lady.’ He watched her, admiring her elegance as she moved around the room, gracefully putting everyone at their ease, taking the opportunity to thank Jackson for the success of the arrangements as she passed him.
No, it would be no hardship being married to Marissa, and the contrast with the immature younger girls only pointed up her obvious advantages. He would find an opportunity to speak to he
r alone and ask her to marry him tonight.
He found Sir Henry at his side and realised that the older man also watching the Dowager Countess. ‘Good to see her enjoying herself again,’ the baronet said. ‘I’ve missed seeing her out riding, you know. Damned fine seat on a horse. Of course your cousin would never permit her to ride with the hounds. Great stickler for decorum, the late Earl.’
‘Tell me, Sir Henry, I am not familiar with the fine details of English social niceties yet, but would it be considered inappropriate for Lady Longminster to be seen riding at this stage in her mourning?’
‘Good grief, no. It’s been well over a year, hasn’t it? Perfectly acceptable, and it seems a shame to deprive her of something she enjoys after all she has been through.’
Marcus clapped his guest on the shoulder. ‘Sound advice, Sir Henry. I am obliged to you.’
Marissa accepted a cup of tea from Jackson and went back to her place on the sofa. Marcus, waving aside the offer of refreshment, joined her. ‘Tell me, Marissa, do you miss riding?’
‘Oh, yes, very much. I used to ride every day when the weather permitted.’
‘Surely it would be acceptable for you to ride again now?’
‘I suppose so. Yes, I must think about buying a horse.’
'You must have had a horse. Is it not still in the stables here'?'
‘Not one specific one, no. My lord preferred me to ride a variety of mounts, depending on the occasion and the season.’ She bit her lip as though puzzling over how to explain something. ‘My lord viewed a rider in the landscape as part of the composition of the parkland.’ Seeing his puzzlement, she said, ‘In autumn, for example, against the backdrop of the newly ploughed fields and reddening foliage, I wore a chestnut-brown habit and rode the red roan. In winter, he wished me to ride in garnet-red on the grey.’
Her face was serious as she explained the late Earl’s detailed rules for creating a landscape almost Palladian in its perfection, in order to set off the house like a jewel in its box. Marcus would have laughed out loud if he had not been so fearful of offending her. Wherever he went he had heard murmurings of his late cousin’s eccentricities, but had put them down to the whims of a dilettante rich enough to indulge his every desire. Now he was beginning to wonder if the third Earl had not been actually unbalanced.
He kept the thought to himself. ‘I will send instructions to the stables that any mount you choose should be at your disposal.’
