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Marissa, Lady Longminster, thanks the Earl of Longminster for his kind invitation to join his London establishment for the season. Miss Venables joins her Ladyship in accepting the Earl’s amiable offer. Doubtless his lordship will favour them with full details of his plans at his convenience.
Marcus screwed the letter up and tossed it onto the desk in front of him, anger welling. He had thought he was making progress in breaking down Marissa’s reserve. And he had thought he was offering her and Miss Venables an opportunity for pleasure and diversion after long months of mourning. The cold formality of the note demonstrated just how wrong he had been.
He reached for the crumpled paper and smoothed it out, letting his palm rest on it. Marissa was an enigma to him, and her parting words earlier that day echoed uneasily in his mind.
She had said she did not care where she spent her time. He recalled her distress in the Gallery before the portrait of her husband. Despite her calm exterior Marissa must still be deep in grief – was he being cruel in asking her to spend more time with him when his appearance must be a constant reminder of her loss?
Nicci bounced into the Salon without troubling to knock, shattering his reverie. ‘Marcus, you have quite destroyed my rosewood box! I shall have to send to Norwich for a new one – and if you expect me to pay for it out of my allowance, then I call that mean of you.’
‘I am sorry for your box, you provoking brat. You may choose yourself a new one in Bond Street – and pay for it out of the ridiculously extravagant allowance I intend making you in London.’
Nicci whirled across to sit on his lap, wrapped her arms round his neck and planted a big kiss on his cheek. ‘You are the most wonderful brother in the world! We can truly go to London? And I will have a truly magnificent allowance?’
‘Far more magnificent than you deserve. You have soon recovered from your broken heart, have you, you minx?’ Marcus asked, smiling despite himself.
‘You were quite right,’ she said seriously. ‘Mr Ashforde and I would not suit, I see it now. What is that?’ She pointed at the letter underneath his hand.
‘A note from Marissa accepting my invitation for her and Miss Venables to accompany us to London.’
Nicci jumped up, clapping her hands. ‘I am so glad Marissa is coming, and dear Jane of course.’ She regarded him from under her lashes and added with suspicious innocence, ‘What a good thing Diane is setting up her own establishment and not staying with us.’
‘Have you said anything to Marissa about Madame de Rostan?’ Marcus demanded.
Nicci coloured betrayingly. ‘Well... I might have mentioned her in passing. As being one of our dear friends, you know.’
‘Nicci,’ Marcus growled. ‘How much have you told her? Have you said that Diane has been… very close to me?’
‘Marissa says I should not talk about such things,’ Nicci retorted.
Marcus dropped his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Nicci. I really would prefer it if you would strive not to create the impression that my life is littered with mistresses. Or betray that you even know the meaning of the word.’ No wonder Marissa was so frosty. After a happy marriage she was doubtless shocked to the core to hear that he’d had an irregular liaison.
The next day was unseasonably hot for May. The clouds seemed trapped in the sticky heat, and nothing moved in the still air other than an army of small insects which buzzed irritatingly whenever a window was opened.
‘The Earl and Nicci are accustomed to the heat of the Tropics and probably think nothing of this,’ Jane grumbled as both she and Marissa retreated to the shaded cool of the garden room and drew the blinds, Gyp panting in the corner, too hot to even chase birds in the garden.
They spent a desultory day making lists of things to be done, things to be packed and, much more enjoyably, things to be purchased as soon as they arrived in London.
‘Oh, for some lightweight cottons and muslins,’ Jane said, fanning herself. ‘I shall be so thankful to see the last of these dark colours and heavy fabrics.’
‘And pretty straw bonnets and parasols and little kid slippers,’ Marissa said dreamily. She felt so restless, so full of energy despite the heat. She wanted to run, to gallop, but it was too hot to walk and it would not be fair to take Tempest out in the heat and flies. Beyond the parkland and the dunes the cool sea beckoned…
Marissa ordered a late dinner, and it was after ten when they sat sipping their tea. Jane looked at the curtain, just stirring at the open windows, and remarked, ‘Thank heavens. The breeze is getting up at last. Perhaps we shall not have too unpleasant a night.’
Marissa got up and pulled back the curtains. The cloud had lifted, leaving the sky clear and a full moon bathed the garden with light. The cool stirrings of the air lifted the fine hair at her temples, rekindled her restlessness.
‘I am going to retire now, Marissa, the heat of the day has quite sapped my energy.’ Jane got up, fanning herself at the slight exertion. ‘Don’t be too long yourself, my dear. We have so much to arrange tomorrow.’
‘Goodnight, Jane. I will follow you up soon.’
Marissa stood looking at the moon-bathed landscape for some time, breathing in the scents of the night stocks and roses, enjoying the peace and the cool. Despite her words she felt no desire to retire to bed. Many times before, when her lord had been away from home, she had taken a horse out at night and ridden until she had exorcised the restless demons which possessed her and she could trot home, calm and collected and ready to resume the mantle of Countess once again.
Peters the head groom had been her loyal, if unwilling, accomplice in those escapes and at her orders he had sent the man’s saddle down to the Dower House stables. Shaw worked for her and her alone, so if she told him to make Tempest ready he would do so unquestioningly.
Before she knew it she was pulling her breeches and jacket from the bottom of the chest of drawers. She buttoned up the linen shirt, tugged on her boots and shook her hair free of its confining pins. As an afterthought she tossed a lightweight cloak over her shoulders and scooped up some linen towels from the washstand.
The candle was flickering in the window of the groom’s room above the carriage house. Marissa banged on the door and, when Shaw came stumbling down the steps, ordered him briskly to saddle up her mare. ‘The man’s saddle, please.’
Briefed by Peters, the under-groom did as she said, only his unusually wooden expression betraying his surprise at seeing his mistress in breeches. ‘Shall I saddle up the hack and accompany you, my lady?’
