The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(27)

Marissa was still mulling over the words she had heard pass between the young couple as she had approached them. It had sounded suspiciously like the arrangement for a tryst, but when the curate had shaken hands with Nicci Marissa had been unable to detect a trace of anything other than normal courtesy.

Jane put a hand on Marissa’s arm. ‘Will you wait for me for a few minutes? I have just remembered that Mrs Wood promised to give me a chicken pie for Widow Smith down at the woodcutter’s cottage and if I take it now it will save me the extra journey tomorrow.’

Marissa smiled back at her. ‘Of course, Jane. Now, Nicci, you should be off to your bed.’

‘Indeed, my lady,’ Jackson agreed, coming up behind them. ‘You will get black circles under your eyes, Miss Nicci.’

Nicci sighed theatrically, but did as she was told, kissing Marissa affectionately before skipping off to recount the highlights of the evening to her patiently waiting maid.

Marcus had descended the stairs for a last word with Sir Henry and was still below, talking to one of the footmen. Marissa took a deep breath and made a resolution: she would lay the ghost of her lord once and for all. She would stare that portrait in the face, exorcise her fear. She only had to convince herself that he was not coming back and had no power over her life any more.

In the Long Gallery all was still, quiet, dark. She set down the branch of candles she had snatched up from the corridor and for a long moment stared at the painted likeness over the door. There, she told herself. It is nothing but pigment on canvas and that is all that remains of his cruelty and control.

‘I am free of you, Charles,’ she said out loud. ‘There is nothing you can do to me now.’

As she spoke the candle flames flickered in some draught, and the painted eyes glinted as if alive. Shadows chased across the thin mouth as though the lips were forming words, chill, unemotional words calculated to wound and crush her spirit.

All her defiance dissolved in the instant. His cold diamonds encircling her throat seemed to tighten as though long fingers had seized them. She was not free, she would never be free, the fear and the guilt would live on in her heart for ever.

Behind her the door clicked shut and she whirled round. But the room was empty. She turned her back on the portrait and walked steadily from the Gallery. Behind her the painted eyes seemed to follow her exit.



Sunshine flooding through the muslin drapes at her bedchamber window roused Marissa from a deep but surprisingly dreamless sleep. She wriggled up against the pillows, gazed out at the burgeoning fresh green of the Home Wood and chided herself for the state she had got herself into the night before in the Long Gallery.

Why, it was perfectly Gothic, worthy of a sensational novel. She could not spend the rest of her life dwelling on what had gone before, what was over. There had been darkness in her marriage to Charles, but it was spring, and time for a new beginning. And on a beautiful day like today the best remedy for the megrims was fresh air and exercise.

‘Mary!’ Marissa called. She swung her legs out of bed and stretched. ‘Put out my green riding habit. I shall walk up to the stables after breakfast.’



Glowing from the brisk walk, Marissa arrived in the stableyard as Peters emerged from the tack room. He wiped his hands on a rag as he strode across to meet her, his weather-beaten face alight with pleasure. ‘My lady. This is a welcome visit after so many months.’

‘Not a visit, Peters – I have come to ride. The Earl has kindly put a horse at my disposal.’

‘Well, my lady, you know them all, none better. Do you have a fancy for a particular one, or shall I have some led out for you?’

‘Oh, lead them out, please, Peters. I have missed them so much.’

Minutes later she was taking chunks of carrot from the groom and feeding the roan, its soft muzzle nibbling gently at her hand. She ran her hand over the arched neck, enjoying the strength and vitality beneath the warm hide. The grey mare, jealous of the attention its stablemate was being paid, nudged Marissa none too gently and she laughed.

‘Yes, you may have some too, Tempest. I remember you well, you greedy thing. Is she still such a handful, Peters?’

‘Indeed she is, my lady. Had young Ned off three times yesterday, just because she took agin that herd of cattle in the Long Meadow. Very wilful she is, ma’am, but as I recollect you never had any trouble handling her.’

Marissa ran her thumb down the centre of the grey’s nose, managing to tickle the most sensitive spots and reducing the animal to a state of docility that belied the flash in its eye.

‘She tried to unseat me once or twice in the beginning, before we came to an understanding, didn’t you, you wicked thing? I’ll take her, Peters. After all, I do not think it would be wise for Lady Nicole to ride her and she is not up to the Earl’s weight. There is no reason why the Dower House stables cannot house her, is there? Shaw can take care of her along with my carriage horses. I will take her out now and perhaps you would be so good as to have the rest of her tack and so on moved down this morning.’

‘Certainly, my lady. Ned! Sim! Come and saddle up Tempest and Ned, get the rest of her tack shifted down to the Dower House stables as soon as may be. Tell Shaw to make up a loose box.’

Marissa touched his arm. ‘Both saddles, please, John.’

The head groom’s grizzled eyebrows drew together in a worried frown. ‘Is that sensible, my lady? His new lordship’s not going to like that.’