The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(7)

Chapter Three


The stone mullions were chilling his hands to the bone, but Marcus scarcely noticed the additional discomfort. It was damnably cold and besides, he sensed that Southwood Hall would chill him even in the height of summer.

His life had been turned upside down in a matter of hours. His rambling home by the warm blue sea, his estates, the fleet of ships, his friends, the relaxed, unconventional society of Jamaica – all those were lost to him. He was responsible now for this great estate and all its people. He was the keystone that an entire economy rested on.

And his cousin’s widow, so young, so beautiful, so vulnerable and now his responsibility too. She appeared to have no family to support her, no friends to comfort her in a grief that must be devastating. And he, Marcus, was in the position her own child should have occupied. What a bitter reminder he must be to her, not only of her childlessness but, in his astonishing likeness, of the husband who had been taken from her so abruptly.

But the die was cast. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it and he had never been a man to rail against the inevitable. His duty was clear. Marcus pushed himself away from the window, absently rubbing his chilled hands, and straightened his shoulders. Tomorrow he would send for the steward…

The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was in the room with him, watching him. He spun round, his right hand reaching instinctively to where his knife would have been, then froze in amazement.

For one mad moment he thought a ghost had appeared. The figure poised for flight in the doorway was almost elemental in its whiteness, save for the cloud of black hair framing the face and the shadowed eyes. Then he recognised her.

‘Lady Longminster. Please… Do not go, I am sorry to have startled you.’ He held out a hand to arrest her movement and saw the tension in her body relax slightly. ‘I should not be wandering about the house at this hour, but I confess I could not sleep,’ he added lightly, searching for a way to make this extraordinary encounter ordinary.

‘Why should you not wander as you will? It is your house,’ she said in a voice that held the faintest tremor. To his surprise she stepped into the room, when propriety ruled that she should bid him goodnight and return to her chamber immediately.

Marcus came to meet her halfway, noting the tinge of colour in her cheeks, the rise and fall of her breast. Why, he must have scared her half to death, she was breathing as though she had been running for her life. No wonder she was acting unconventionally.

‘I hope your room is warm enough, my lord. I do appreciate how chilly you must find it after the warmth of the Caribbean. Let me ring for a servant to make up your fire’ She made as though to tug the bell-pull.

‘At this time of night? Surely no one is awake.’

‘But of course. There is always a footman on duty throughout the night in case anything is required.’

Marcus laughed down into her face, imagining the staff at White Horse Cay if he demanded that they sat up all night just in case he wanted some small service performed. His father had freed his slaves. much to the scandal of the surrounding planters. The field slaves were smallholders now but all of the household staff had stayed, but, of course, on wages. Most of them had known Marcus since he was a child, and still tended to treat him, at the age of twenty-eight, as a faintly irresponsible boy.

Lady Longminster smiled back up at him, somehow catching the warmth of his mood.

Marcus caught his breath at the transformation. The hazel eyes sparked green, the serious little face was suddenly warm and full of life, the dark cloud of hair seemed to crackle with vitality. Without thinking he took her face between his palms, bent his head and kissed her full on her smiling mouth.

It was so unexpected, so startling, so pleasurable, that he took himself completely by surprise and, in that brief, shameless moment, she kissed him back with soft, generous lips.

The realisation of what they were doing seemed to hit them both simultaneously. Even as she began to pull away Marcus opened his hands to release her and, shaken, took two rapid steps back.

‘Ma’am, I cannot begin to apologise for my outrageous behaviour,’ he began. Her eyes were enormous with shock, her lips, the lips that had quivered against his, were parted in dismay. Without a word Lady Longminster turned and ran.

Marcus strode to the wall and hit his fist hard into the unyielding wooden panel beside him. ‘Damn, damn, damn. You bloody insensitive fool.’ How could he have succumbed to a moment of weakness like that?

She was his cousin’s widow and only hours before she had buried her husband. He had already scared her into a faint by his unexpected appearance, had witnessed her humiliation at the reading of the will. He must be a constant reminder of the loss of her husband and the absence of an heir. And then, instead of offering her his brotherly support, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her.

And she, shocked, grieving, without affectionate friends at her side had, for a brief moment, gone into his arms seeking consolation. Marcus stalked back along the corridor to his bedroom, ignoring the pain in his bruised fist, furious with himself. ‘You bloody fool, what are you going to say to her in the morning?’



On the other side of the Inner Court, Marissa slammed the door behind her and leaned, panting, against the panels. She pressed her fist against her mouth and struggled to think calmly. What had she done? She had wanted to kiss Marcus Southwood, to be held against that warm strong body, to have those gentle lips on hers. She ran to the mirror, turning her face anxiously, expecting to see the marks of his fingers branded on her skin. There was nothing to show, yet she could feel them as if they still cradled her face.