The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(49)

‘I see,’ Marissa said, stung that everyone appeared to have their morning well planned without any thought of her. She turned to Marcus and said with a forced smile, ‘It seems there is absolutely no call on my time this morning. Shall we visit those furniture warehouses you were speaking of and look for suitable items for the dining room and salon?’

There was a silence, broken only by the clink of cutlery as Marcus’s long fingers played with his knife and fork on his now empty plate. ‘Please do not be troubled with that. I was being very selfish asking you to give up your time in that way when you must have so much to do and so many friends to visit. Besides,’ he added fatally, ‘Diane has already offered to assist me.’

‘She has wonderful taste,’ Nicci enthused with a crashing lack of tact. ‘She chose all the draperies for our house at White Horse Cay.’

I am sure she did, Marissa thought acidly, unreasonable anger burning within her. Diane had been so pleasant to her, yet she found herself disliking her more and more. And the knowledge that this was entirely unworthy and due to jealousy did nothing to improve her mood.

She retreated to her chamber before Madame de Rostan arrived to collect Jane and Nicci, but she could not resist watching from behind the curtains as the stylish barouche drew up. The sun was shining from a vivid blue sky, gleaming on the railings around the formal central gardens and causing ladies on foot to raise their parasols like so many bobbing flowers. From above all she could see of Diane de Rostan was a dashing plumed hat in chip straw worn with a costume of eau-de-nil. Marissa craned to see details but could make none out, and withdrew hastily when Nicci and Jane came down the steps and were handed into the carriage by the groom.

When they had gone Marissa paced her room. There were many things she could do on such a lovely morning: she could walk to Hyde Park, order her carriage to take her for a drive in Green Park or to visit Hatchard’s to buy Guy Mannering. She could call on Lady Valentine, but her languid manner and the presence of ever-attentive Captain Cross would only irk her in her present mood.

And it was all very well for Marcus to suggest she visit friends when all she had was casual acquaintances. Her father had never brought her up to London before her come-out, she had been educated by a governess so had no school friends and, after her swift marriage to Charles, her husband had made it plain that close companions were unacceptable to him. ‘You have your duties as my wife,’ he had said, ‘What more should you require?’

But at least Charles had left her financially well-provided for. Marissa knew it was shallow, and showed a weakness in character, but the only occupation that appealed to her that morning was to go shopping – and as extravagantly as possible. Diane had succeeded in a very short space of time in making her feel colourless and provincial. She rang the bell for Mary. ‘Please arrange for Mr Hall to call tomorrow to give me a new crop,’ she said. ‘I really cannot be seen with this mass of hair, it is quite unfashionable.’

Mary looked shocked. ‘Oh, but, my lady, you have such lovely hair, so thick and curly. It’s a crime to cut it off.’

‘Nonsense. Now. get ready to accompany me, and order the carriage for half-past. I am going shopping.’

Marissa was just drawing on her gloves when the knocker sounded. Matthews came in. ‘Sir George Kempe, my lady.’

‘My father? Matthews, I am not at home – ’ But it was too late, her father was striding into the room on the under-butler’s heels.

‘Not at home? Nonsense, you cannot deny your own father. Come, kiss me, child.’

Marissa kissed him on the cheek with as much self-assurance as she could muster. She sat, pulled off her gloves and said coolly, ‘Please sit, Papa. May I offer you refreshment? Matthews, the decanters at once.’

It was three years since she had seen her father and she was shocked by the change in him. Sir George was tall, heavily built and when she had last seen him his tight crop of curls had still been black. Now it was iron-grey, his face lined and reddened with pouches and broken veins. His figure had thickened to corpulence, making his fashionable trousers strain across the tops of his thighs. His eyes, despite his show of bonhomie, were cold and assessing beneath the shaggy grey brows and Marissa could detect no sign of pleasure at seeing his only child again after so long.

‘You are well, Papa?’ she enquired dutifully and to break the silence. ‘It is a long time since I have seen you.’

‘Hah! And whose fault was that? Denied the right to see my own daughter by that cold fish of a husband of yours. Much good it did him, all those high and mighty airs – in his grave at forty-five.’

You married me to him, she thought, but all she said was, ‘You did not come to the funeral.’

‘What would have been the point of that? All the expense of posting up from Hampshire and not a chance the tight cove would have left me so much as a guinea in his will.’

‘The hope of gain should not be the motive for attending the funeral of your son-in-law,’ Marissa retorted.

‘Spare me the moralising. You are as bad as your mother ever was.’ Sir George removed his snuffbox with some difficulty from his waistcoat pocket and helped himself to a large pinch. ‘He showed me no respect as his father-in-law, why should I pretend any for him?’

Marissa fought down the revulsion that came flooding back at the memory of the awful scenes between her father and her husband. In the end Charles had thrown Sir George off the estate with the threat that he would cut off even the small allowance he had agreed to pay his father-in-law if he showed his face again in either Norfolk or Grosvenor Square.