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Leaving the Captain wilting visibly, Marcus ushered them downstairs and sent Jackson to locate Nicci’s horse and ride it back to the Lodge. The journey was silent, broken only by Nicci’s hiccupping sobs of mingled relief, humiliation and fury at her brother and Marissa’s murmured words of comfort.
A relieved and furious Jane swept Nicci up to bed, leaving Marissa and Marcus alone. ‘Marcus, I have never been so glad to see anyone as I was to see you when you came home this evening.’
‘Marissa, darling, there is something I must tell you,’ he began, walking towards her.
‘Where were you?’ she continued. ‘Jackson said you were not dining at home, but he was so vague…’
‘I was with Diane.’
Marissa froze. Of course he was. Unable to find satisfaction in her arms, he had sought it in the bed of his mistress. Had he told Diane how cold she was, how unresponsive? Had the other woman smiled secretly to herself at the thought of Marissa’s failings? Perhaps they had laughed together at her gaucheness, her timidity
‘Marissa,’ Marcus persisted, his voice a buzzing in her head. ‘There is something I must tell you.’
‘I do not want to hear it. But here is something I must tell you. You may consider our betrothal at an end.’ She turned on her heel and swept up the stairs.
It was a silent and subdued party that arrived back in Town, three days ahead of schedule. Marissa suspected that Jane, still inclined to blame herself for Nicci’s appalling behaviour, was missing the company of Sir Frederick Collier. He had sent round a warm note in response to her own message apologising for missing their planned picnic on the Downs and thanking him for his help and discretion.
Marcus, brooding darkly over something – presumably the affront to his pride at her breaking the engagement – spent most of the journey back fixing his sister with a look of such glacial indifference that Nicci was constantly in tears, firmly convinced he was planning to send her back to Southwood Hall in disgrace.
For her part Marissa was in a state of despair. She had believed that when Marcus made love to her she had disguised her fears, but she must have failed – again – if he could not wait to go straight from her arms to those of his charming and practised mistress. Why, she thought, plunging herself even further into gloom, should a man like Marcus want to marry her when he could have a wife who would return him passion for passion?
And, indeed, there was no reason why any other woman would not respond to him, for her instincts had been correct. Marcus might bear an uncanny resemblance to his cousin Charles, but there the similarity ended. It seemed, after all, that not all men were as her late husband – cold, cruel, controlling.
The morning after they arrived back Marissa was breakfasting in her own chamber when she heard the sound of the knocker and, looked out to see Sir Frederick Collier’s carriage at the kerb. Hastily she dabbed her lips with a napkin and hurried downstairs.
Jackson was standing in the hall, in the act of placing Sir Frederick’s hat and cane on the mahogany chest. ‘Good morning, my lady.’
‘Good morning, Jackson. Which room have you shown Sir Frederick to?’
‘The Blue Salon, my lady. But,’ he added as she turned towards the door, ‘Miss Venables is already there.’
‘Yes?’ Marissa queried, puzzled at his tone.
‘I believe, my lady, that Sir Frederick was desirous of seeing Miss Venables alone.’
Marissa stared at the butler. ‘You mean… My goodness Jackson, why have I not noticed things had gone this far? She is my dearest friend.’
‘You have had one or two other things on your mind, my lady.’ Jackson lifted his gaze in the direction of Nicci’s chamber above.
Marissa went to the morning room to wait for the suitor to emerge. She sat down, picked up a book, then tossed it onto the sofa and wandered over to a small table to fiddle with the flower arrangement on it. Having effectively wrecked Jackson’s floral scheme, she fidgeted over to the window and was rewarded by the sight of Marcus descending the steps and striding away across the Square in the direction of Ryder Street and his club.
She stood watching his broad shoulders in the dark blue coat, the long line of his legs as he strode down the street in the warm sunshine. At the corner he paused, doffed his hat to a passing lady, and Marissa caught a glimpse of his face, paler than of late and, she thought, thinner.
Her heart turned over with love for him. The worry over Nicci must be taking its toll on him and Madame de Rostan was not yet back in Town for him to seek solace with.
Her fingers tightened, crushing the rose-pink drapes. Oh, what a mess they had got themselves into. She loved him, and he at least wished to marry her, but how could she when her failure to be a true wife to him would always send hint back to the arms of Diane and whoever succeeded her? Looking back now, Marissa realised that the one saving grace in her marriage to Charles had been that she had not loved him. If she had, his capacity to hurt her would have been so much greater.
Sounds in the hallway distracted her. The front door opened and Sir Frederick stepped out, beaming. He turned as he was about to get into his carriage and waved and Marissa realised that Jane must be in the doorway.
Thank goodness someone has found happiness. Marissa told herself she must have been blind not to have seen the growing affection between the retired banker and her friend. Before she could go out to her the door opened and Jane burst in. Her normally sallow complexion was rosy with colour, her eyes sparkled and she looked almost pretty. There could be no doubting Jane’s good news.
‘My dear, I am so happy for you.’ Marissa embraced her cousin warmly. She could feel the tears running down her cheeks in mingled happiness for Jane, unhappiness at her own heartbreak.
Fortunately Jane was too happy to notice
any ambiguity in her response and for a long moment they hugged each other wordlessly.
At last Jane broke free and sank onto the sofa as though her legs would no longer support her. ‘Marissa, I was never so surprised as when he declared himself! I had believed at my age I was past all such hopes of happiness.’
