The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(17)
After luncheon Jane declared her intention to rest a little in her room and took her leave of Marcus. As they exchanged a few words about the route Marissa wandered across to the windows. The grey, dripping parkland echoed her mood all too well. It was so strange to feel like this. Always before she had been happy to be left alone, left to her own thoughts and devices and she was more than capable of planning the move and sorting out her new life, she knew that. But still, she did not want Marcus to go.
As the door closed behind Jane Marissa turned, put a bright smile on her lips and held out her hand. ‘I trust you have a safe journey, my lord. Please assure your sister of the warm welcome that awaits her here.’
‘You are very formal, Marissa,’ he said, with something suspiciously like a twinkle in his eyes. ‘But I will give Nicci your message.’ He took her hand in his firm, warm grasp and bent to give her a cousinly salute on the cheek.
Which of them moved? She had no idea, but suddenly she was in his arms and his lips had fastened on her mouth in a deep kiss that held a wordless question. Marissa found her hands were grasping his lapels to draw him deeper in, her senses were drowning in the realisation of his strength, his warmth, his power.
And then he broke away, his face darkened with anger, his fist slamming hard down onto the dining table sending the china jumping and a fork bouncing onto the floor.
‘Damn it. I must have lost my senses.’ And he was gone, the heavy door slamming behind him, cutting off the sound of his booted feet on the boards.
‘I do think we could begin to move into half-mourning now, my dear.’ Jane remarked as she buttered her breakfast roll. ‘It has been thirteen months, after all, since the third Earl’s death and this lovely weather makes one dream of summer and light gowns.’
‘And here we sit like three moulting crows in our sad blacks,’ Nicci interrupted her. She jumped to her feet and pulled back the drapes at the breakfast room window even farther to let the sunshine stream in.
‘Nicci, dear,’ Marissa protested, although more out of habit than any real expectation of being heeded. Thirteen months in the company of Lady Nicole had left both Marissa and Jane inordinately fond of the young woman, but they still struggled with the natural high spirits which her unconventional upbringing had fostered. Sometimes Marissa had nightmares at the thought of her introduction to London Society.
Nicci was charming, polite and warmly affectionate but also headstrong, outspoken and still struggling with the social mores of English country society. Fresh, pretty, blonde and spirited, she was a favourite with the daughters of the surrounding gentry and had a coterie of friends, all, like her, seventeen and on the verge of their come-out.
They had spent a quiet year, only attending the most private gatherings, constrained by the rules of mourning. But time had still flown. The Dower House had been refurbished to their liking and, if pretty dress silks had been missing from their lives, there had still been the excitement of choosing furnishing fabrics and arguing amiably over colour schemes.
‘This morning you are joining the Vicar’s daughters for your dancing class, aren’t you?’ Marissa said as she stirred her breakfast chocolate. Nicci was learning dance and deportment with the two Misses Woodruffe the Vicar’s daughters, and Miss Catherine Ollard, the Squire’s youngest. Jane had taken the rest of her education in hand, declaring Nicci to be woefully ignorant of most of the knowledge required of a fashionable young lady.
‘Yes, but when I get back, please may we write to the silk warehouse in Norwich for some samples of dress fabrics?’
‘I think we could go as far as fawn, pearl-grey and violet,’ Marissa said as the door opened.
‘This morning’s postal delivery, my lady,’ Whiting said, offering a salver of letters to Marissa, who began to sort through them.
‘Aunt Augusta… yet another account… the oddest handwriting on this one… two for you, Jane dear. Nicci, here is one for you, a little battered from its travels.’
Nicci reached for the package eagerly. ‘It is from Marcus.’ She slit the seals with her butter knife and tore open the wrapper. ‘He is coming back. Oh, Marissa, Jane – Marcus is coming back at last.’
‘Where was it posted, dear?’ Jane enquired. ‘Do take care, you are getting butter on your cuffs.’
‘When?’ Marissa demanded abruptly. ‘I mean, when was it posted?’ Her heart was beating erratically and she felt breathless.
‘It was posted in Kingston, and he says he expects to be in London…’ Nicci was reading rapidly. ‘Why, by this week!’
‘My goodness.’ Jane stood up, her napkin dropping unheeded at her feet. ‘There will be so much to do at the Hall. All the rooms under Holland covers and nothing is aired. Matthews must be apprised of this immediately… Marissa, dear, are you quite well?’
‘Er… what?’ Marissa pulled her scattered wits together and focused her attention on her cousin. ‘Yes, everything you say is eminently sensible, Jane. Perhaps we should ask the Whitings to lend a hand. Matthews has managed admirably, but there is all the difference in the world between Southwood Hall without the family at home and what his lordship will require.’
She got up, leaving her unopened letters unheeded on the table. ‘Nicci, we will travel in the gig with you and drop you at the Vicarage before we call at the Hall. Pull the bell for Whiting, please, and then we must fetch our bonnets and wraps and be off.’