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Marcus came to meet her halfway, noting the tinge of colour in her cheeks, the rise and fall of her breast. Why, he must have scared her half to death, she was breathing as though she had been running for her life. No wonder she was acting unconventionally.
‘I hope your room is warm enough, my lord. I do appreciate how chilly you must find it after the warmth of the Caribbean. Let me ring for a servant to make up your fire’ She made as though to tug the bell-pull.
‘At this time of night? Surely no one is awake.’
‘But of course. There is always a footman on duty throughout the night in case anything is required.’
Marcus laughed down into her face, imagining the staff at White Horse Cay if he demanded that they sat up all night just in case he wanted some small service performed. His father had freed his slaves. much to the scandal of the surrounding planters. The field slaves were smallholders now but all of the household staff had stayed, but, of course, on wages. Most of them had known Marcus since he was a child, and still tended to treat him, at the age of twenty-eight, as a faintly irresponsible boy.
Lady Longminster smiled back up at him, somehow catching the warmth of his mood.
Marcus caught his breath at the transformation. The hazel eyes sparked green, the serious little face was suddenly warm and full of life, the dark cloud of hair seemed to crackle with vitality. Without thinking he took her face between his palms, bent his head and kissed her full on her smiling mouth.
It was so unexpected, so startling, so pleasurable, that he took himself completely by surprise and, in that brief, shameless moment, she kissed him back with soft, generous lips.
The realisation of what they were doing seemed to hit them both simultaneously. Even as she began to pull away Marcus opened his hands to release her and, shaken, took two rapid steps back.
‘Ma’am, I cannot begin to apologise for my outrageous behaviour,’ he began. Her eyes were enormous with shock, her lips, the lips that had quivered against his, were parted in dismay. Without a word Lady Longminster turned and ran.
Marcus strode to the wall and hit his fist hard into the unyielding wooden panel beside him. ‘Damn, damn, damn. You bloody insensitive fool.’ How could he have succumbed to a moment of weakness like that?
She was his cousin’s widow and only hours before she had buried her husband. He had already scared her into a faint by his unexpected appearance, had witnessed her humiliation at the reading of the will. He must be a constant reminder of the loss of her husband and the absence of an heir. And then, instead of offering her his brotherly support, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her.
And she, shocked, grieving, without affectionate friends at her side had, for a brief moment, gone into his arms seeking consolation. Marcus stalked back along the corridor to his bedroom, ignoring the pain in his bruised fist, furious with himself. ‘You bloody fool, what are you going to say to her in the morning?’
On the other side of the Inner Court, Marissa slammed the door behind her and leaned, panting, against the panels. She pressed her fist against her mouth and struggled to think calmly. What had she done? She had wanted to kiss Marcus Southwood, to be held against that warm strong body, to have those gentle lips on hers. She ran to the mirror, turning her face anxiously, expecting to see the marks of his fingers branded on her skin. There was nothing to show, yet she could feel them as if they still cradled her face.
How could she feel like this? It was improper, humiliating, shameful. Not only had she let him kiss her, but she had kissed him back, like a wanton. Even if she had, however briefly, accepted his embrace, she should never have answered it. No lady should ever allow herself to show passion in any form. Two years of marriage had reinforced that lesson well. How could she have felt so safe in his arms? How could kisses as gentle as those lead, as she knew they did, to the reality of the marriage bed?
Marissa fell into bed, dragged the covers tight around her ears as if to block out her own tumultuous thoughts. How could she face him tomorrow?
But face him she had to. With the house full of guests, Marissa made a special effort to be early at the breakfast table, but even so the new Earl was before her, sitting in a patch of the weak sunshine that streamed in through the parlour windows. Whiting removed a plate bearing the remnants of a large beefsteak and placed a basket of fresh rolls in front of his lordship.
‘My lady. Good morning.’ Whiting moved to pull out Marissa’s chair as the Earl rose to his feet and waited courteously for her to take her place at the oval table.
Marissa arranged her black skirts into order, then made herself sit with perfect deportment, quite still, head up, back straight. As if I am carved in marble.
‘Good morning, my lord,’ she remarked calmly. ‘I am sure Whiting has been looking after you. No, Whiting, I will just take tea.’
‘Chocolate will be more sustaining,’ Whiting coaxed. ‘And a sweet roll, my lady. It is a bitterly cold morning, ma’am.’
‘Very well. I will take a roll. But no chocolate, Whiting.’ The thought of the rich liquid made her stomach roil. She could crumble a roll without the butler noticing she was scarcely eating a morsel. She knew perfectly well that he would report exactly what she had eaten to Mrs Whiting, his wife, the housekeeper, who would worry.
Across the table the Earl buttered a roll, although she could sense he was watching her. Would he feel he had to say something about last night? She prayed he would not.
‘My lord…’
‘Will you not call me by my given name?’ he asked abruptly. There was a sharp indrawn breath from Whiting who was standing immobile by the sideboard. ‘After all, we are related, if only by marriage, and I am not used to this formality.’ She bit her lip and he added, with a charming smile, ‘Won’t you take pity on a stranger in a foreign land?’
Marissa doubted if his lordship was ever out of countenance, but once again found herself yielding to the charm of that smile. ‘Very well then, Cousin Marcus.’
/> The door opened as she spoke and Whiting busied himself with seating Mr Hope and some of the less elderly second cousins who had decided against taking breakfast in their bedchambers.
Marcus stood up and bowed. ‘If you will excuse me, Cousin, gentlemen, I have an appointment with the steward.’
Marissa managed to maintain a flow of polite small talk for a few minutes, before excusing herself to go and talk to the housekeeper. She should ring for her, she knew, but the thought of sitting passively in her morning room was suddenly intolerable. As she made her way towards the green baize door which separated the servants’ quarters from the main house she reflected that she had never been so glad to see Mr Hope as when he had come into the breakfast parlour just then.
How assured Marcus had been. He seemed not to have the slightest self-consciousness about his behaviour last night. And as for asking her to call him by his given name… She should never have agreed so readily, but how could she have snubbed him in front of Whiting?
