The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(24)

Marcus politely extracted himself from a discussion of a local political scandal which was engrossing Dr Robertson, Mr Hope and Miss Venables and strolled across to where Marissa was standing by herself, watching the group of young people.

‘And what is my little sister up to now?’ he enquired softly.

‘Oh, nothing.’ Marissa smiled tolerantly. ‘She is enjoying the party, which is only natural. I am afraid it has been so very dull for her at the Dower House this past year and she really has been very good.’

Her lips curved in a soft smile and Marcus, seeing where she was looking, frowned. ‘Is that the curate? What's his name, Ashton?’

‘Ashforde,’ Marissa corrected. ‘He is very much a favourite hereabouts, considered quite an embellishment to local Society. He is the second son of Viscount Bassingbourn but very unlike his elder brother. Mr Ashforde is dedicated to his calling, and is very erudite.’

‘Popinjay,’ Marcus muttered.

‘Oh, no, not that. I admit his quite extraordinary good looks draw more attention to him than he would wish, but it has not turned his head in the slightest.’

‘You think him good-looking, then?’ Marcus eyed the white skin, Classical features and elegant figure of the curate with distaste and an uneasy feeling that, with his black hair and cultured manners, Mr Ashforde must offer a reflection of the late Earl to a woman who was still mourning her husband.



Marissa turned to stare at Marcus. ‘Good-looking? Why, certainly, he is perhaps the most handsome man I have ever seen: he could take his place on a pedestal here in the sculpture gallery and rival Adonis.’

Marcus’s expression mystified her. What had Mr Ashforde done to displease him? It was so much accepted that the curate combined excellent manners with physical perfection that it seemed quite natural to discuss him as one would any other beautiful phenomenon. He did not cause her heart to flutter but she could understand the effect that he had.

Marcus still seemed strangely out of humour to Marissa when Jackson announced that dinner was served. He offered Lady Augusta his arm and Marissa found Sir Henry, who would sit at her right hand. Gradually the party sorted themselves out and processed past the string quartet into the Small Dining Chamber, a cavernous room only slightly less imposing than the Grand Dining Chamber. Marcus, having viewed the larger room, had announced flatly that he would not use it and had instructed Jackson to move the best silver to the Small Chamber.

Huge fires blazed at either end of the room, despite the mild weather outside, and a myriad of candles reflected off the polished mahogany and massed silver. Marissa took her place at the foot of the table facing the new Earl. She had protested when he had asked her to act as hostess, but Nicci was not yet out and Marcus had flatly vetoed her suggestion that he ask Lady Augusta to preside.

She saw him watching her as he listened to a lecture from Lady Augusta on the probable shortcomings of his cook. Judging by the array of dishes that the servants were even now bearing in, Mrs Wood’s cooking would stand up to the worst criticisms from Aunt Augusta, as usual.

Even so, Marissa could not help herself worrying about the arrangements, but she relaxed as the dishes were laid out. Stuffed soles, a fricassee of veal, chickens, curry of rabbits, a vegetable pudding, sweetbreads, buttered lobster and a fat goose created a cornucopia of local fare which Marissa hoped would show Marcus the best that his estate could offer.

She met Jackson’s eye and saw a glimmer of satisfaction in their depths as he supervised the footmen removing covers and pouring wine. The volume of conversation began to rise and with a sigh of relief she smiled down the length of the table at Marcus. At that distance the likeness to her late husband disappeared and all she was aware of was Marcus’s mane of blond hair, the relaxed grace of his body, the broad set of his shoulders. Despite the formal evening clothes he still managed to radiate a dangerous sense of exoticism.

And yet she felt safe with him. If it had been Charles in that seat she would have been picking at her food, her stomach churning with nervous anticipation of an error, a slip by the servants which would mar his expectations of perfection.



Marcus caught the smile, read the pure, uncomplicated pleasure in it, and his irrational jealousy and bad humour vanished. Of course she was not hankering after that young puppy of a curate. Nor, for the first time since he had known her, did she seem trapped in some sad memory.

His attention was distracted momentarily by the giggles of the Vicar’s daughters and Miss Ollard. They, and Nicci, seemed so much younger than Marissa and made him dread the thought of someone like them for a bride. He had resigned himself to the thought that sooner or later he was going to have to go up to London, brave the Marriage Mart and find some suitable young lady to be mistress of Southwood, mother to his heir.

He looked again at Marissa, almost luminous at the other end of the table, her skin glowing in the candlelight, the diamonds glinting at her throat and in her dark hair. Why had he not thought of her before? There was no bar to marriage with a cousin’s widow. She was beautiful, intelligent, mature beyond her years, well used to running a large establishment. Nicci loved her, that much was plain. And she was not averse to him, he thought. When he had kissed her it had been as though a fire had kindled into life.

Yes… why not Marissa? In fact, why not broach it this evening after the guests had departed?



Marissa was too far away to read Marcus’s expression, but she noticed his sudden stillness, the intensity with which he was gazing at her. Was something wrong? She checked the room hastily, then he seemed to recollect himself and began to talk to Lady Ollard on his left-hand side.