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The grooms had gone ahead with the riding horses, the barouche and most of the luggage. The ladies would follow in the travelling carriage and Marcus intended to drive himself down. He refused point-blank his sister’s pleas, demands and cajoling to be allowed to ride in the curricle with him and take the reins once they were out of London.
‘No, Nicci,’ he said firmly for the fourth time as he handed the ladies into the travelling carriage. ‘And I do not care if any of your acquaintances are allowed to drive on the public highway – you are not. And that is an end to the matter. And do not sulk and make Miss Venables and Cousin Marissa regret that we did not leave you at home.’
‘Now then, Nicci,’ Jane said firmly. ‘Surely you do not wish to drive all that way on dusty roads, ruining your complexion? Why, you would end up sadly freckled, like Miss Richardson, and that would never do.’
The thought of the unfortunate Miss Richardson’s complexion was enough to stop Nicci’s grumbling. She settled willingly enough in the seat opposite Jane and began to prattle about hats, wondering aloud if she would have the prettiest bonnet at the races or whether a last-minute shopping trip to the Epsom milliners would be necessary in the morning.
Marcus took the opportunity to exchange a few words with Marissa, catching her hand to restrain her as she began to step up into the carriage. ‘We have much to discuss. We must find time to be alone at the Lodge.’
‘Yes, certainly,’ Marissa said, forcing a smile, before settling in her seat and tucking her reticule safely beside her. Mary, her dresser, was waiting patiently to take her place beside Nicci with their back to the horses, so Marcus was forced to step aside and make no further attempt at conversation. Mary was almost beside herself with self-importance and excitement as she sat, straight-backed, her mistress’s jewel case held tightly on her knees.
The journey was uneventful, if rather stuffy, as Nicci repeatedly pointed out. The latter half of May had been exceedingly warm and dry but the countryside was still green and burgeoning except where the chalk dust from the highway coated the leaves.
‘Diane is taking her barouche down,’ Nicci complained. ‘And she will be able to have half the roof down and not be so stuffy. Why could we not have taken the barouche today, Marissa? This is such an unfashionable coach and I have the headache.’
‘Then take some sal volatile,’ Marissa said, quite sharply. She did not want to discuss Diane de Rostan, whom she had not met since that encounter in Hyde Park, nor did she want to be reminded that the other woman was staying with friends in Epsom and was sure to be much in evidence at the races. Marcus’s low-voiced comments about discussing their future filled her with unease. Sooner or later matters would come to a head, and she would either have to tell him the truth – which was impossible – or find a convincing excuse to cry off.
The Lodge turned out to be a charming small house of only eight bedrooms, secluded from the road behind high beech hedges and with a fine view of the Downs. The air was fresh, the house well aired, the servants were already installed and everyone soon felt at home.
The small party dined early, fatigued by their journey and in readiness for an early start on Derby Day. After the ladies left Marcus to his port, Marissa slipped out into the garden and began to wander along the grass paths. The garden, sloping away from the terrace which skirted the house, had been laid out with beds of scented roses under-planted with lavender. Now, in the very last days of May, they were in full bloom, their perfume almost drugging in the still evening air.
As she strolled, twisting a rosebud between her fingers, Marissa felt soothed and calm. Away from London things seemed simpler: she must tell Marcus that she had made a mistake and that she had decided to stay single for the rest of her days. There was no need to give him an explanation for that decision. It would be best to speak now and, after all, only his pride, not his feelings would be hurt. He had never pretended to be in love with her and it had formed no part of his declaration. Thank goodness she had not let him announce the engagement.
It cost her heartache to come to this conclusion but Marissa knew, deep down, that any hope of happiness with Marcus was doomed.
It all seemed perfectly clear and simple, if painful – until she came round one corner of the lawn and saw him leaning on the balustrade of the terrace, an unlit cigarillo between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the darkening Downs beyond the trees. The late sun glinted on his blond head, the dark blue superfine of his
evening coat sat perfectly across his broad shoulders and his face was thoughtful and relaxed. His name escaped her lips before she could step back behind the sheltering rose bushes.
Marcus’s face lit up with pleasure when he saw her and he tossed aside the cigarillo, vaulted the balustrade and with two strides was by her side. He stood for a moment, looking at her, then gathered her in his arms and kissed her.
Every sensible resolution that Marissa had reached evaporated at the first touch of his lips. She melted into him. Her nightly dreams becoming reality as she returned his kiss with ardour. If only, she thought hazily as his tongue parted her lips and teased the tip of her own. If only this was all there was to marriage. If it only stopped here, on this tide of sensation and pleasure, and went no further... If the only invasion was that of his tongue, the only violence the strength of his arms holding her to him.
It was Marcus who finally broke the kiss. He spoke huskily into her hair, his hand caressing over her nape exposed by the low-cut gown. ‘Thank heavens you are still of the same mind. I thought you had grown cold towards me this past week. But that, my darling Marissa, was not cold.’
She shivered against him as he bent and began to feather soft kisses down the slope of her shoulder, his progress impeded only by the cap of her sleeve. His right hand slipped from her other shoulder and grazed subtly down the curve of her breast to stroke her peaked nipple through the silk of her gown. Marissa gasped and arched towards him. Encouraged, his fingers explored further under the fabric, both the silk and the fine cambric of her shift beneath.
‘You are so beautiful,’ he said against her neck. ‘Ever since that night by the sea I have been haunted by the memory of your perfect white body in the moonlight, of the way you opened to me on the beach.’ His voice was not quite steady, his breathing ragged. ‘I cannot wait until our wedding night, when we can finally find each other.’
Marissa was suddenly chilled by the thought of that wedding night, of the pain and recrimination that would surely follow.
‘Marissa!’ It was Jane’s voice, approaching from the direction of the drawing room. ‘Marissa, my dear, are you out here? You will catch your death of cold.’
Marcus seized her hand and pushed through the door of the gazebo which stood at the end of the terrace, closing it swiftly behind them. They stood entwined in the wood-scented gloom until they saw Jane pass by the cobwebbed window and vanish around the corner of the house.
‘Now, where were we?’ Marcus murmured, bending once more, catching her around the waist and imprisoning her in his embrace.
‘No, Marcus, stop,’ Marissa protested shakily. ‘I must go in. Jane will be worried about me. And we should not be doing this.’
‘Why not?’ he said, his voice muffled as he nibbled delicately at her earlobe. ‘I fully intend doing this – and more – all the time when you are my wife.’
‘Oh, yes… I mean, no, stop it. You make it so difficult,’ she added weakly, pushing him away.
‘You are right. The wooden floor of a gazebo is hardly the right place for the first time – any more than a sandy beach was.’ He opened the door for her to slip through adding, as she turned to run along the terrace, ‘But do not make me wait too long for you, Marissa.’
Those words sounded almost threatening in her ears as she slowed to a sedate walk and re-entered the salon through the long windows which opened down to the ground. Fortunately Nicci had gone up to bed, but Jane was waiting for her.
‘There you are, dear. I have been to look for you. I was worried you might get chilled, the evening air is so treacherous. Did you not hear me call?’
