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She realised she must have startled him with her frankness, but he merely nodded. ‘It shall be as you wish, naturally. You must instruct the estate manager to move whatever you want from the Hall into the Dower House, and to have whatever resources you need for your comfort there.’
‘Thank you, my lord. Would you wish me to continue to oversee the housekeeper in your absence?’
‘That would be most kind, if it would not be an imposition. We will speak of this tomorrow and, of course, you must decide which servants you wish to take with you.’
Marissa thanked him, and turned to her other neighbour. Throughout the rest of the meal they spoke of nothing but inconsequential matters and, with her mind relieved of the need to guard her every word, she found her attention straying to the man at her side.
His manners were correct and impeccable, as befitted a gentleman, but there was a foreignness too. Perhaps it was the slight French accent on certain words, the lilt that came into his voice when he spoke about the West Indies. He was a handsome man – all the Southwoods were, to judge by their portraits – but this man had a dangerous, vital energy that radiated even in this sombre company.
Marissa stole a sideways glance under the pretext of dabbing her lips with her napkin. The new Earl’s hair, shot through with the warmth of the tropical sun, curled over-long on his collar. His face was lean and tanned and there were white lines at the corners of his deep blue eyes, as though he often screwed them up against the sun-dazzle on the Caribbean sea. His nose was straight, his mouth was as firm as her husband’s had been. But Marcus Southwood’s lips looked as though they more readily curved into a smile than tightened in displeasure.
He was attractive, dangerously so. But he was also a man, and that meant that whatever face he showed in company there was another, darker side to his character, as there was with all men. Marissa reminded herself that was something she should never lose sight of.
As the clocks stuck two Marissa gave up on the unequal struggle to sleep and threw back the heavy silk coverlet, wincing as her feet touched the polished boards by the bed. She padded across to the banked glow of the fire and held out her hands in an attempt to draw its warmth into her restless body.
In time she supposed the numbness would pass, but for the moment she was gripped by a strange sense of unreality. Only the routines and duties of the chatelaine of a great house made everyday existence possible and she had never been so grateful for the sense of duty which had been inculcated in her from childhood.
But in her chief duty she had failed, and failed repeatedly. Marissa gazed into the flickering red depths of the fire and remembered again her lord’s cold disappointment that she had once again failed to conceive the heir to Southwood. Not that he had lost his temper of course. The Earl had never allowed himself to show his emotions, least of all to his wife. And he had expected the same restraint from her.
At least that discipline had enabled her to bear the embarrassing ordeal of the doctor’s questioning yesterday, the knowing eyes of the men in the library as the will was read. Her cheeks burned hot and Marissa turned from the fire to cool them. As she did so her gaze fell on the door which led, via a suite of dressing rooms, to the Master Bedchamber. On an impulse she went into her dressing room and opened the connecting door. It was unlocked but the key, as always, was on his side. With a swift twist of her wrist Marissa pulled it out, closed the door and secured it from her side.
It was a foolish, pointless gesture to bar the way into those empty rooms beyond with their black-draped bed and mirrors veiled in mourning for the dead Earl. But it was her room now, hers at least until the man who occupied the Red Bed chamber, the best guest room, decided to take control of his inheritance. And by then she would have long gone to the Dower House.
The view from her windows showed an expanse of parkland glittering with frost under a chill moon. The windows were already rimed on the outside, by morning the frost fingers would have crept up the panes inside too. Was the new Earl able to sleep in the big bedchamber, his warm Caribbean blood cooled by this unseasonable spring? Doubtless he would have been snugger in the Longminster Arms at the park gates, where he had originally left his valise. But it was unthinkable that the fourth Earl should not sleep in the house of his ancestors.
A familiar restlessness filled her. Marissa felt the urge to run, to feel the blood sing in her veins, her heart beat wildly in her chest, to let go of all the rigid formality which had kept her confined these past few days. She slipped her long white silk peignoir on over her nightgown, pushed her feet into kid slippers and opened the door onto the corridor.
All was silent, then the sound of the hall clock striking one reverberated through the corridors. The night watchman would have done his rounds of the house by now, checking for open windows and guttering candles, and would be dozing quietly in the hooded porter’s chair by the front door. Occasional lanterns illuminated the galleries and the moonlight flooded in through the long windows.
The patterned marble floor stretched enticingly long and clear before her. Marissa picked up her skirts and ran, ran as she had so often done in the freedom of the night. Her feet made only a slight pattering on the hard floor as she flew, hair loose, skirts billowing. She took the newel at the top of the stairs in both hands as she passed and swung round it, a bubble of laughter beginning at the back of her th
roat at the exhilaration, with the freedom of the movement.
She paused, panting slightly, between the doors of the Library and Long Gallery, trying to decide which way to go. She could dance in the Gallery under the disapproving eyes of the marble goddesses. But then she remembered the equally disapproving eyes of the ranked Southwood ancestors and her enthusiasm waned, leaving her feeling guilty that she should be behaving like this in a house of mourning. She was alive, vital, while they were all consigned to dust.
Marissa turned to retrace her steps in a more decorous manner. She never knew what stopped her: perhaps some sound, or the mysterious sense of another presence close to her. There was someone in the Gallery.
Tiptoeing in, she paused in the doorway. In the strong moonlight the figure by the south window was plain to see. He had his back to her, but there was no mistaking that burnished head, the width of the shoulders, the height of the man emphasised by the sweep of his heavy brocade dressing gown.
Marcus Southwood was standing braced with his hands on the mullions on either side of the long window. His head was bowed, as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Marissa had an impulse to run to him and throw her arms around his waist, to tell him that, whatever it was, she would make it all right. She took half a step, then checked herself. What was she thinking of? She did not know him, but she did know that one thing you never dared do was to show you had seen a sign of weakness in a man. She had only made that mistake once.
Chapter Three
The stone mullions were chilling his hands to the bone, but Marcus scarcely noticed the additional discomfort. It was damnably cold and besides, he sensed that Southwood Hall would chill him even in the height of summer.
His life had been turned upside down in a matter of hours. His rambling home by the warm blue sea, his estates, the fleet of ships, his friends, the relaxed, unconventional society of Jamaica – all those were lost to him. He was responsible now for this great estate and all its people. He was the keystone that an entire economy rested on.
And his cousin’s widow, so young, so beautiful, so vulnerable and now his responsibility too. She appeared to have no family to support her, no friends to comfort her in a grief that must be devastating. And he, Marcus, was in the position her own child should have occupied. What a bitter reminder he must be to her, not only of her childlessness but, in his astonishing likeness, of the husband who had been taken from her so abruptly.
But the die was cast. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it and he had never been a man to rail against the inevitable. His duty was clear. Marcus pushed himself away from the window, absently rubbing his chilled hands, and straightened his shoulders. Tomorrow he would send for the steward…
The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was in the room with him, watching him. He spun round, his right hand reaching instinctively to where his knife would have been, then froze in amazement.
For one mad moment he thought a ghost had appeared. The figure poised for flight in the doorway was almost elemental in its whiteness, save for the cloud of black hair framing the face and the shadowed eyes. Then he recognised her.
‘Lady Longminster. Please… Do not go, I am sorry to have startled you.’ He held out a hand to arrest her movement and saw the tension in her body relax slightly. ‘I should not be wandering about the house at this hour, but I confess I could not sleep,’ he added lightly, searching for a way to make this extraordinary encounter ordinary.
‘Why should you not wander as you will? It is your house,’ she said in a voice that held the faintest tremor. To his surprise she stepped into the room, when propriety ruled that she should bid him goodnight and return to her chamber immediately.
