The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(30)

‘But we love each other!’ Nicci cried dramatically, one hand pressed to her bosom.

‘Do not come the Sarah Siddons with me – I have no liking for high theatricals. Are you as much in love with him as you were with your drawing master? Or that young ninny Westlake you mooned over for months?’

‘You are so unkind. This is the real thing, true love.’ Nicci promptly burst into tears and buried her hot face in Marissa’s shoulder.

Marissa put a comforting arm around the girl. ‘My lord, do not be angry with her. Mr Ashforde was only doing what he felt to be right. Why, he told me – ’

‘So you knew about this?’ Marcus ceased his pacing and swung round to face her, his eyes narrowed. ‘And you encouraged it?’

‘But he is such an eligible young man, so intelligent, so kind, so well-bred.’

‘And such a milksop. One of these days that young man is going to be a bishop. Can you imagine a more unsuitable wife for a bishop than this silly goose?’ He pointed the riding crop at his sister.

Nicci wailed in protest and recoiled dramatically. Tightening her arms around the sobbing girl, Marissa raised her chin even though her knees were knocking. ‘My lord, you are cruel and unfeeling.’

‘Unfeeling, am I, ma’am? Allow me to know my sister better than you. Am I to assume you have been instrumental in promoting this touching romance?’

Marissa saw that he had gone pale with anger under his tan. His relaxed manner had deserted him: now he was a big man in a towering rage. Physically the resemblance to Charles Southwood had never been greater, but with Charles she had never seen hot anger, only cold, calculated displeasure.

The tattoo of crop against leather increased, menacing in the sudden silence. Marissa’s heart thudded, choking her. She tried to speak, found her voice trembling and steadied herself. Only the instinct to protect Nicci kept her from running pell-mell from the room.

‘Yes, I did advise Mr Ashforde to seek your permission to see Nicci. No more than that. They are deeply attached. I had not expected you to be so brutal to the poor child.’

Marcus grinned, but without humour. ‘Which poor child? My silly little minx of a sister or poor young Crispin Ashforde? And I will thank you, ma’am, to mind your own affairs and not meddle in mine. Nicole, go to your room.’

Nicci broke free from Marissa’s arms and dashed for the door. ‘You are a beast, Marcus, and I hate you!’ she threw at him from the safety of the threshold.

‘And you are a spoilt little hoyden who needs discipline, and I am determined you shall have it.’ He took one step towards her and Nicci fled.

Marissa called up all her courage and stepped, shaking, between him and the door. ‘No. I shall not permit it.’ In her mind the sight of the riding crop in his hand could mean only one thing – she knew only too well what discipline meant.

Marcus’s face flushed with anger. For a moment she believed he was going to lay hands on her, thrust her bodily from the doorway. Then he turned on his heel and brought the riding crop down in a furious arc to crack across the top of the occasional table which held Nicci’s sewing box. The sound in the room echoed like a pistol shot, the rosewood box fell with a splintering crash to the boards and Marissa fled down the corridor, up the stairs and into Nicci’s room.

She rushed in without knocking and turned the key in the lock. At the sound Nicci, who had cast herself across the bed, looked up. ‘Marissa? Why on earth have you locked the door?’

Marissa hurried across and gathered the girl in her arms. ‘There, there, do not worry. I will not let him hurt you.’

‘It is too late. He has already hurt me. My heart is in pieces!’

Despite the dramatic words, Nicci was already looking more composed. Marissa sat back and stared at her, puzzled. ‘No, Nicci. I did not mean that. Marcus is very angry, but you must not be frightened.’

‘Frightened?’ Nicci scrubbed her eyes and sat up, staring at Marissa. ‘Why should I be frightened of my own brother?’

‘But he is so angry. His language so immoderate. And he hit the table with his riding crop.’ Her voice faltered.

‘Oh, so that was what the crash was.’ Nicci got off the bed, all tears forgotten. ‘He hasn’t broken my sewing box. has he? He really is the limit!’

Marissa’s puzzlement grew. Nicci was certainly not frightened and now, looking back, her tears seemed little more than a temper tantrum.

‘Marcus doesn’t often lose his temper,’ Nicci explained. ‘But when he does, we all hide. He once threw the soup tureen at Jackson when they were arguing about one of the ships. It was empty,’ she added naively. ‘Jackson caught it and threw it back and they both ended up laughing.’

Marissa got up and walked to the window, her back turned to Nicole. ‘But he seemed so violent.’

‘He is hard on the china, I admit, but he’s as soft as butter, really. I’ve never known him strike anyone. You did not fear that he would beat me, did you, Marissa?’ Nicci came and put an arm around Marissa’s tense shoulders. ‘I am sorry if we upset you – I’m sure you are not used to this sort of thing.’

Marissa kept her face averted, fearful that Nicci would see how shaken she was.

‘Did your husband never lose his temper? I thought we Southwoods would all be the same.’