The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(61)
‘Who was the man?’ Marcus enquired, keeping his voice calm. Now he supposed he would have to come the heavy brother with Nicci. Thank heavens Miss Venables had interrupted them or he would have found himself calling the man out on top of all the other things he had to concern himself with at the moment. ‘Nicci, stop snivelling, take that blasted hat off and answer me. Who was it?’ He had never spoken to her like that before, and his sister wrenched off the bonnet and cast it aside.
‘Captain Cross,’ she wailed.
‘And who the devil is he? Don’t tell me you just picked up some uniformed whippersnapper on the racecourse?’
‘A friend of Lady Valentine’s,’ Miss Venables said grimly, as if that summed it all up.
‘That woman? Lady she might be but she’s the instincts of a lightskirt.’
For once, Miss Venables did not wince at the word. ‘I fear,’ she ventured, ‘that Lady Nicole’s attire may have misled the Captain into thinking she was older and more worldly-wise than she is.’
Marcus regarded both of them with a smouldering eye. ‘And I suppose you are going to say it was all my fault for letting her out dressed like that?’ He gestured furiously at Nicci’s crumpled outfit.
Wisely Miss Venables did not respond to this question. She got to her feet and took Nicci’s arm. ‘Come along, Nicole, I think you had better take supper in your room tonight.’
Marcus waited until they had disappeared around the curve of the stairs before tugging the bell-pull to summon Jackson. ‘My compliments to Lady Longminster, and I shall not be dining at home this evening.’
‘Very good, my lord. May I say where you are going, should she enquire?’
‘No. But should you have need of me I shall be at Madame de Rostan’s.’
Marcus did not wait to take the carriage and threw a saddle on his hack himself. Twenty minutes later he entered the busy streets of Epsom, thronged with racegoers either flush with their winnings or drinking away their sorrows. The crowd forced him to rein back to a walk as he entered the quiet street where Diane had borrowed a friend’s house for the week.
Although he was not expected, he was admitted immediately and shown into the Salon. Despite having no guests for dinner, Diane was as beautifully attired as ever in a simple cream silk gown, her hair in artfully arranged ringlets, her family diamonds gleaming at her throat.
‘Chéri. What a surprise, but always a pleasure to see you.’ She rose gracefully from the chaise and offered her cheek for his kiss. ‘I must confess I had not looked to see you tonight. You will dine, of course?’
Marcus dropped into a chair, his booted legs stretched out in front of him. He knew Diane so well that he could interpret her tone as clearly as her words. ‘Why so surprised to see me tonight? And, yes, if you will excuse my informal attire, I would like to dine here.’
The butler appeared, received his instructions and vanished discreetly after pouring Marcus a glass of wine.
Diane waited until the door closed behind him before she replied. ‘You forget, I saw you leave the racecourse this afternoon with Lady Longminster.’ There was a wicked curve to her lips.
‘And?’ Marcus raised an eyebrow, galled that his intentions had been so transparent.
Diane laughed at him affectionately. ‘My dear Marcus, it is only I who would have realised the significance of you taking Marissa home in the early afternoon.’ Again her lips curved, this time in remembrance. ‘She really is a very charming young woman: I must congratulate you.’
‘I am glad I have your blessing,’ Marcus said drily, sipping his wine. ‘However, I fear it may be a little premature.’
‘But if you have been making love to her you really must marry her, you know,’ Diane teased, then, seeing his face darken, was suddenly serious. ‘Chéri, what is the matter?’
‘I only wish I knew,’ he confessed. ‘Yes, we did make love… to a point. But there is something wrong. Diane, she responds to me with passion and fire and yet there is a part of her that remains untouched, for all the intensity of our lovemaking. It is almost as though she were afraid. She is afraid,’ he corrected himself.
‘But she was married, for two years, was it not?’ Diane broke off as the butler entered.
‘Dinner is served, Madame.’
Both the butler and a footman were standing attentively by the high buffet, but Diane waved them away. ‘Thank you, Henry, Monsieur le Comte will carve, we will serve ourselves.’ As soon as they were alone she said, ‘A little salmon, please, Marcus, and if you will pass the dish of peas… Thank you, darling. Now, where were we?’
‘You were asking how long Marissa had been married. It was just over two years, I believe. She wed very young. And yet, I find this difficult to believe, Diane, but I could swear she had never been kissed until I kissed her.’
‘Perhaps it is simply that she has not yet fully recovered from the loss of her husband? Would you pour me a glass of the Sancerre?’
Marcus passed her the glass. ‘She can hardly bear to speak of him. I found her in tears in front of his portrait and she is always very formal when she mentions him, as though she wants to keep me at a distance from the marriage. And, of course, my likeness to him is a constant reminder of what she has lost. Do you know, she fainted dead away the first time she saw me? She must have loved him very much.’