The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(2)

Marissa followed her gaze. She was too tall, of course, but it did mean that the mourning gown fell in perfect folds. Her unruly mane of black hair was still tightly disciplined into its smooth coiffure, and the pale oval of her face showed nothing but the solemn calm suitable to the occasion. She had soon been taught that smiling was unfitting to her rank, so control came easily now.

Once everyone was assembled in the Long Gallery the footmen began to circulate with trays of sherry, Canary and Madeira. Marissa looked at the chilled, pinched features of some of the older men and wished she had defied convention and ordered mulled wine to be served to warm their blood. But that would have presented far too festive an appearance, and that would never do.

The older Mr Hope, the senior partner of the solicitors who had served the family for generations, was at her elbow, clearing his throat in a meaningful way. She turned and inclined her head, giving permission for him to speak.

‘I think we should progress to the reading of the will, my lady. If those concerned and the staff assemble in the library, ma’am, I will deal with the bequests to the servants first. They can then leave us to the greater matters in privacy.’

The solicitor turned to catch the eye of various people. Whiting was already marshalling the staff to move into the book-lined room, then James came in and hurried to the butler’s side to whisper in his ear.

People fell quiet, wondering at the interruption. Whatever James said had the butler turning on his heel to stare towards the closed double doors, mouth open in surprise. Thirty faces turned as one.

‘Whiting – ’ Marissa stopped as the doors swung open and a tall man stepped into the gallery to pause, composed, on the threshold. It gave her ample opportunity to study him. Dark blue eyes scanned the room from under brows slightly raised at the startled expressions which greeted his arrival – then his gaze met hers.

Marissa felt the blood leach from her face and a high pitched singing start in her head. With an almost physical effort she looked up from the man framed in the doorway to the portrait which hung above. Charles Wystan Henry Southwood, third Earl of Longminster, stared haughtily down, blue eyes chilly, face pale below raven black hair. Beneath, come back from the vault, he watched her with those same eyes, hair bleached by death.

With a little gasp of horror Marissa let the darkness engulf her. She was falling, but she had no strength to save herself.

‘Marissa.’ It was Aunt Augusta, she realised, the strong, horsewoman’s grip painful on her arm

Then, in the midst of the swirling blackness she was aware of being caught up in a strong embrace, of a feeling of warmth and safety and the hot scent of sandalwood. She snuggled closer as the grasp tightened, then she was laid down and the blackness swirled over her again.



‘Where shall I take her, ma’am?’ Marcus Southwood asked.

The older woman seemed to pull herself together. ‘Through here, in the library. There is a sofa. Whiting, send for her ladyship’s maid.’

He backed out of the room, his gaze lingering on the pale features of the woman who lay so still. His body seemed to remember the press of hers against his, of the trusting way she had clung to him. He looked at those parted red lips, almost the only colour in her deathly white face, waiting for movement, a word.

‘I assume I am speaking to a member of the Southwood family?’ enquired a dry voice at his elbow.

‘Yes, I beg your pardon, sir. I am Marcus Southwood, cousin of the late Earl, newly arrived from the West Indies.’ There was no mistaking the other man’s profession. ‘Am I addressing the family's legal representative?’

‘You are, sir. Gabriel Hope at your service. A letter from me is even now on its way to you in Jamaica. We had no idea you were in England.’

The rest of the party had tactfully withdrawn to the far end of the Long Gallery leaving the two alone together. Marcus was aware of the curious glances being cast his way and the low-voiced conversations as the mourners speculated on his identity.

‘I arrived in London three days ago with my sister. I had business to transact, but had no intention of bringing myself to the attention of the Earl. You may be aware, sir, that my father fell out with his family and the two lines have had no contact since he made his own fortune in Jamaica. It was a surprise to open The Times yesterday and see the announcement of my cousin’s death and the notice of today’s funeral. It was too late to send a message, but I felt it my duty to attend.’

He glanced over his shoulder to where a feminine bustle now surrounded the form of Lady Longminster on the sofa. ‘However, I would have stayed away if I’d any idea of the effect my arrival would have.’ Women did not normally faint at the sight of him and certainly had never regarded him with horror in their eyes. ‘Can you tell me why the Countess reacted as she did?’

The solicitor took his elbow, turned him to face the door through which he had entered and pointed upwards to the portrait that hung above it.

‘My God.’ Marcus stared up at the features that might have been his own. Only the colouring was different, one so dark. the other so fair, as though an artist had drawn an exercise in opposites. His own hair was naturally a dark blond, but over the years the unrelenting Caribbean sun had bleached it to the colour of coral sand. The long Springtime voyage had diminished his tan, but even so he made the man in the portrait appear ghostly pale.

‘You have, if I may so observe, sir, the Southwood features, if not the colouring.’ Mr Hope nodded towards the ranks of paintings which hung in the Gallery, clearly depicting generations of Southwoods.