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Marissa’s heels clicked on the stone floor as her pace increased to match her growing irritation with both herself and Marcus. That smile, the glint of white teeth in his tanned face, the slight exotic accent. Oh, yes, he was charming all right, and he used that charm very easily, too easily. Doubtless young women fell into his arms with such facility that what had happened last night was nothing remarkable to him.
She had worked herself up into such a state of righteous indignation that when she rounded a corner and found herself face to face with the object of it she made no attempt to hide her frown.
‘Cousin Marissa. As you can see, I have become lost looking for the estate office.’ His smile was apologetic, inviting her to laugh at his inability to navigate the big house.
‘If you retrace your steps to the first door into the courtyard, cross the courtyard itself, then it is the green door in front of you,’ she directed briskly. Finding herself alone with him again was embarrassing and she was aware of a tightening knot of anger in her chest, though whether at herself or him she had no idea.
‘Cousin, is something wrong?’ Marcus moved closer, his expression puzzled.
‘You can ask me that after last night?’ she demanded. She could feel the colour rising in her cheeks, which was mortifying.
‘I had thought perhaps I had been forgiven after you agreed to call me cousin this morning,’ he began.
‘Oh, forgive me, my lord, if I have misled you. I foolishly believed it would be better not to discuss our encounter in front of Whiting. I should, of course, have regaled him with the entire episode. As it is, you put me in a position where I have scandalised him by agreeing to a form of address which can only be regarded as quite inappropriately informal. But doubtless in the West Indies you do things differently, so we must all learn to make allowances for the new Earl.’
‘Why, you little cat!’ Marcus Southwood stood and stared at her, amazed irritation replacing his look of rueful apology. ‘I thought you were in need of friendship and some brotherly support – ’
‘Brotherly? What you did last night was not brotherly.’
‘I did? It was only your good manners, I suppose, that led you to kiss me back?’
Marissa drew herself up to her full, unfashionable, five feet six inches, furious. ‘Why, you... you... you may be the fourth Earl of Longminster, but you are no gentleman.’
The Earl stared down at her through narrowed eyes. ‘If you were my sister I would have an answer for that. I have no time for spoilt young women whose every whim has been indulged by doting middle-aged husbands. I am truly sorry for your loss, but do not think you can twist me round your little finger as you did my cousin.’
For a long moment she stared at him, speechless, and something changed in his eyes. But before he could say anything there was the sound of footsteps in the corridor and he turned to reveal Poole, the steward, hurrying towards him.
‘My lord, I do apologise that I was not in the hall to show you to the office.’
‘Not at all, Poole.’ He clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘I was irritated with myself for losing my bearings. I swear a man needs a compass to navigate this place. Come, we need to get down to business, we’ve much to talk about.’
Marissa swept downstairs to the housekeeper’s room on a tide of hurt anger. So, he thought her an indulged child, did he? A bitter laugh escaped her at the unfair irony of the accusation. One thing she had never been was indulged. Left motherless at an early age, she had been raised by a father whose irritation at being saddled with a daughter had been eclipsed only by his determination that she be brought up in a manner that would ensure she would marry well and as quickly as possible. Her own preferences, not that she had ever been asked to express them, had been entirely irrelevant to her father’s plans for her.
But she could not hold on to so much bitterness as she entered the cosy parlour. This place held familiar warmth and comfort.
‘There you are, my lady.’ Mrs Whiting was scanning linen lists. ‘Now, you should have rung for me, but you’ll be more comfortable down here, I’ve no doubt.’ The housekeeper pulled up a chair by the fire. ‘You sit down there, my lady, and warm your hands. I know you didn’t eat your breakfast: even if you can fool Whiting, you can’t fool me. Just bide there and I’ll cut you a slice of my fruit cake and pour you some of this tea.’
Mrs Whiting was always absolutely scrupulous in maintaining Marissa’s dignity in front of the other servants but in private the housekeeper treated her like a granddaughter. Her late lordship had not been easy to live with, or work for, Marissa knew that all too well. His exacting standards demanded not a speck of dust to be seen, not a vase out of place, not a servant out of line. And woe betide the Countess if it was.
Mrs Whiting had known that any shortcomings would be visited not on her head, but on Marissa’s and she made sure that everything within her purview was as near perfection as she could make it.
‘Now you eat that up, my lady, while I finish this inventory.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Whiting. But there is so much we must discuss. Mmm.’ She broke off to take another appreciative bite of the cake. ‘This is delicious.’ And it was the first thing that had not turned to sawdust in her mouth over the past week.
The older woman eyed her, then began to work round to the subject that would have been uppermost in her mind for days. ‘It must have been such a shock, his lordship’s accident. I don’t suppose you’ll have had a chance yet to think about what you want to do now. And his new lordship arriving like that out of the blue, and everyone thinking he’s off in those foreign parts and wouldn’t be here for months yet.’
‘I know exactly what I am going to do,’ Marissa said. ‘I have sent for my cousin, Miss Venables, and as soon as she arrives we will move into the Dower House. His lordship can then do as he pleases without needing to refer to me.’
Mrs Whiting pursed her lips at the hint of irritation in her voice and Marissa forced a smile. It would never do to let the servants think she was, in any way, opposed to the new Earl. It would be appalling if they started taking sides.
‘Had you thought about staff for the Dower House?’ The housekeeper’s voice was carefully neutral.
Marissa pulled herself together and gave the question her full attention. She had wanted to speak to the Whitings about this, even if the conversation was taking place earlier than she had planned. She knew, however much she disliked formality, that as the Dowager Countess of Longminster she had a duty to maintain a proper household.
‘I will need a butler and a housekeeper, three footmen, kitchen staff, chambermaids. Mary, of course, will come with me. But it is the butler and housekeeper who are the most important to decide upon. What a pity that Matthews from the London house is not married. His lordship will not want to keep it fully staffed while he is out of the country and he could have come to me, if he had been.’
The two women discussed the possibilities half-heartedly. No-one seemed appropriate, but Marissa k
