The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(19)
She was aware that Jane kept glancing at her face and when they reached the gates of the Hall she reined in. ‘There is no necessity for you to be cooped up talking to Matthews about setting the house to rights, Marissa. Why not walk down to the beach? It is a lovely morning and the sea air will do you good.’
‘If it wouldn’t make too much work for you I would love to walk, thank you. Fortunately I put on stout walking shoes this morning. I will be back in time for luncheon.’
An unseasonably warm breeze blew over the salt grazings on either side of the track. Marissa flicked back the fronts of her pelisse and strode out, breathing in deeply. After a few minutes the megrims had left her and she was filled with the promise of spring and the excitement of Marcus’s return.
He would have forgotten that disgraceful encounter the day that he had left, she told herself. He would settle at the Hall with Nicci and the estate would come to life once more. From his letters to his sister she had a vivid picture of his life in Jamaica, of the warmth and the vibrancy, of his energy... She gave herself a little shake. She and Jane would continue their comfortable life in the Dower House, gradually mixing more in Society as the mourning period came to an end: there would be no need to be much in the new Earl’s company.
The saltings were cut off from the sea by a ridge of old sand dunes, now covered in tufty grass and gorse bushes and crowned by a ridge of Corsican pines, bent and gnarled by the wind. Marissa scrambled up the steep landward side, the sand slipping and shifting under her boots. She was panting by the time she gained the summit and stood there, one hand on the rough red bark of a tree, the other shading her eyes as she looked out across the wide beach to the glitter of the sea beyond.
The dunes swept down in a low shallow slope to the sand, an almost irresistible invitation to run, to swoop down like a bird, free in the spring sunshine. Marissa cast a swift glance around but there was no one in sight, not even a fishing boat. She untied her bonnet strings, unbuttoned her pelisse, set both under a gorse bush and then, gathering up her skirts, she began to run down the long slope.
Almost immediately her foot caught in a twisting root, half covered by the shifting sands. She fell, rolling on the slippery turf. After one startled moment Marissa let her body go with the movement, eyes closed, rolling down the dune as she had seen small boys do many a time in this very spot.
Her eyes were tight shut, pins were falling from her hair and sand was getting everywhere, but she did not care as she laughed aloud with the sheer exhilaration.
At last, with a gentle bump, she landed at the bottom, resting against a tree trunk. She lay panting on her back, her eyes still tightly shut as the vanilla scent of the gorse blossom filled her nostrils.
Her breathing steadied and she relaxed, the sunlight red through her closed lids. Gradually a small incongruity dawned on her: there were no trees below the point where she had started to run…
Cautiously she opened her eyes and found herself looking at a pair of travel-stained leather boots. Her gaze moved upwards to take in buckskin breeches covering long, strong legs. Marissa snapped her eyes shut, then, hardly daring to do so, she opened them again and looked up into the man’s face.
Chapter Seven
It was Marcus. His eyes were vivid against a deep tan, his teeth showed in a wide, white grin of amusement. With perfect formality, as though he were meeting her in the drawing room, he bowed. ‘Good morning, Lady Longminster. I trust I find you in good health.’
The lilting accent of the West Indies was back in his voice. Marissa found she could not move, or speak, could hardly breathe in fact, she was so overwhelmed by his unexpected appearance. Somehow, in thirteen months, she had forgotten the sheer physical impact of his presence, the force of his personality.
Marcus’s amused gaze was travelling down the length of her dark brown walking dress. Marissa could feel it was twisted tightly around her body and, with the brush of the breeze, she realised with horror that her legs were exposed to the knee. She dared not look, but she had a horrible fear that her garters were showing.
She struggled to sit upright, knowing that the very action was causing her bosom to heave and the dress to cling more tightly.
‘Allow me.’ Warm hands grasped both of hers and pulled her to her feet in one easy motion.
‘My lord…’ She found her voice with an effort. ‘Thank you. I lost my footing at the top of the dune. I could not stop.’
He smiled without speaking and Marissa’s voice trailed away as she stood looking up at him. His hair was overlong again, shot through by the sun with gilt. Around his eyes the tiny laughter lines were paler against the tanned skin and she noticed for the first time how his dark lashes were tipped with gold.
He must have set out that morning early and in a hurry, because he had not shaved. She had to fight down the urge to trace the stubble above his upper lip with her forefinger to discover whether it was rough or soft to the touch.
It was like being enmeshed in a feverish dream, although not a nightmare. Even her feet felt trapped by the soft sand. With an effort she took a step away from him and stumbled.
‘Are you hurt? Have you twisted your ankle?’ Marcus was at her side again, she could feel his hand, even through the twilled cotton of her sleeve.
‘No, not at all. It is this soft sand, makes it hard to balance. My goodness.’ She laughed, despising herself for the shake she could hear in it. ‘I must look a regular fright. Whatever will you think of me?’