The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(3)
‘I had no idea,’ Marcus said slowly. ‘My father always said I favoured my grandfather, while he himself took after his mother’s family. It is astonishing, especially as my father and the late Earl’s father were only half-brothers. But what an appalling shock for her ladyship, so newly widowed. If I’d had the slightest notion I would never have come.’
Mr Hope was looking at him assessingly. ‘It is perhaps as well you have, sir. You cannot be unaware that you are the heir presumptive.’
What? ‘Surely my late cousin had children?’
‘No, he was not so blessed in his lifetime. However,’ Hope became even drier, ‘we must make no assumptions until several months have passed, if you understand me.’ He coughed in a meaningful manner.
Again Marcus looked at the Countess. He could not see clearly into the other room, but it appeared she was now sitting up. Despite that slender figure, could she be carrying her late husband’s child?
Something was tickling the back of his hand. Marcus brushed his fingertips across the dark superfine cloth and pulled away a long, springing dark hair. As he pulled it curled like something alive into the palm of his hand. Absently, still listening to the solicitor, he wound it around his little finger, trapping it under the band of his signet ring.
Heir presumptive, to this? Why didn’t I pay more attention to the family history, to my living relatives, even if we were estranged? Why the devil didn’t Father warn me?
In the library Marissa pushed gently at the hands that were trying to keep her lying down. ‘No, I must get up. I must go back to the guests. How foolish to faint. I cannot think what came over me.’
‘Well, I can,’ Aunt Augusta declared bluntly. ‘I nearly fainted myself when I saw his face. He must be Richard’s boy – he’s the spitting image of your late father-in-law. No, sit still a minute, you foolish girl, and sip the water Simpson has brought for you.’
Meekly Marissa took the glass and tried to make sense of the last few dizzying minutes. ‘Who is Richard?’
‘My late brother. I last saw him in ’78; he was only eighteen when he left for the West Indies. He and my father never got on, but they had one final, irrevocable row about money and Richard swore never to set foot in Southwood Hall again. And he did not,’ she added reflectively. ‘He was buried in Jamaica, and by all accounts made himself a fine fortune in trade before he died.’
Marissa rubbed her fingers across her aching forehead in a vague attempt to clear her thoughts. ‘So,’ she began slowly, ‘the man out there is my lord’s cousin?’
‘Yes. I think he has a sister as well. I suppose they are half-cousins, if there is such a term, because Richard and I were the children of our father’s second marriage.’
So that explained the almost supernatural likeness. Marissa made a supreme effort and stood up. Her hands went up to her hair, tucking the few wayward strands which had escaped back into the tight chignon. The late Earl had hated to see her with her hair out of place.
The stranger was watching her. She met his direct gaze and for a long moment everyone else in the room ceased to exist. He made a movement towards her, then checked it and Marissa realised he was afraid of alarming her again. She found she was holding her breath and released it with a sigh.
Mr Hope touched the man’s arm and led him forward to be introduced. ‘May as well get it over with,’ she heard him mutter. ‘My lady, may I present the Honourable Marcus Southwood, newly arrived from Jamaica. The late Earl’s cousin,’ he added.
Marissa found her small, cold hand engulfed in a strong, warm, tanned grip. The warmth seemed to spread through her chilled body and the remembrance of being caught up and held in an enfolding embrace made her heart lurch for a moment. It must have been Mr Southwood who had carried her to the sofa.
The colour rose in Lady Longminster’s cheeks, like seeing a marble statue suddenly come to life. Even as Marcus thought it the colour ebbed and she freed her hand. ‘Sir, you are welcome to Southwood Hall. I am only sorry that it should be in such circumstances.’
Marcus bowed, and found himself, along with several others, being ushered back into the library by Mr Hope. The formidable matron, whose name he still hadn’t established, sat firmly beside Marissa and the gentlemen ranged themselves around the desk at which the attorney seated himself.
Mr Hope produced a pair of eyeglasses which he set on his nose after fussily polishing them. He extracted a key from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked a brass-bound box which had been placed before him and gazed impassively over the spectacles at the assembled company.
Marcus suppressed a smile behind his hand. The old boy was milking the situation for all it was worth, no doubt to justify the large fee he would eventually charge the estate.
‘As you know,' Mr Hope began gravely, ‘we are gathered here to hear the testamentary dispositions of the late Charles Wystan Henry Southwood, third Earl of Longminster, newly deceased.’ His clerk emerged from the shadows, produced an impressive document tied up in red tape from the box, broke the seal, handed it to his principal and effaced himself again.
‘I shall begin with the bequests to the staff.’ There followed several pages of gifts, small pensions and life interests in estate cottages. Marcus reflected that his cousin had made very correct, if not generous, provision for his faithful servants, but wondered at the total absence of any personal mentions or expressions of gratitude.