The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(70)

The Whitings broke off from their worried greetings at the sound of hoof-beats on the still night air. ‘Who can that be at this time?’ Whiting asked, then his jaw dropped at the sight of the two riders.

‘Marissa!’ Marcus’s voice reached her clearly through the twilight.

She took to her heels and ran, through the hall, up the stairs, into her chamber and slammed the door. Marissa twisted the key in the lock and leaned back against the panels, her breast rising and falling with her panting breaths.

What was Marcus doing here? How had he managed to follow her so closely and what did he want with her? She braced herself for the sound of pursuing footsteps, expecting at any moment that he would pound on the door, demand that she come out.

It was not that she feared him. Even after yesterday’s awful revelation that he was visiting the same house of ill-repute as her husband had, she knew in her heart that Marcus would never raise a finger to her. A sob rose in her throat and Marissa stumbled away from the door to throw herself across the four-poster bed. If only she could make any sense of it. Marcus had always been so kind, so patient, so considerate to her. In his dealings with his sister he was loving and indulgent and even after Nicci’s worse excesses in Epsom he had not punished her in any way.

All this, and her instinctive love for him, was totally at odds with the sort of man who frequented that sort of place. Marissa stiffened as the sound of muted voices reached her through the heavy door, then there was the scrape of moving furniture. Puzzled, she sat up, scrubbing her hand across her wet eyes, but all was once more silent.



How long she lay curled up on the bed, fully dressed, before she fell asleep she did not know, but she was woken by the chorus of dawn birdsong and fitful sunshine through the undraped east window.

Marissa swung her legs off the bed and stood up stiffly. What time was it? She rubbed her eyes and looked around the room, listening for sounds that the servants were up and about their business.

All was still, but on the washstand stood a jug of cold water, perhaps overlooked, and soaps and towels were laid out ready. Pulling off her travel-stained clothing, Marissa washed swiftly, wincing at the chilly caress of the water, but grateful to feel clean and fresh once more. She pulled the remaining pins out of her tangled hair and brushed it hard until the dust was gone and it clouded out from her head in a dark mass.

All her clothes were still in the travelling cases, presumably in the hall. Marissa pulled open drawers in the dresser and found a nightgown and peignoir of pale biscuit-coloured lawn. Clean and clothed, she climbed back into bed and prepared to wait patiently until the servants were up and about.

There was no chance she would fall asleep again, her head, now she was properly awake, was spinning with thoughts of Marcus. Where was he? Presumably he had gone back to the Hall to spend the night, but she had no doubt that he would be back at the Dower House soon after breakfast to demand an explanation for her precipitate flight. And what could she possibly say to him? I love you, but I know you patronize a house where… No, she could not even think the words, let alone say them.

If she had not seen Marcus with her own eyes she would never have believed he could share any of her late husband’s tastes, for Charles had been a cold, cruel man in thought as well as deed. But Marcus was warm, tender. She shivered pleasurably at the recollection of his lovemaking, of his eagerness to pleasure her before himself. No, that did not sit with the picture of a man who indulged in secret vices, closet cruelties.

A realisation that she might have been too hasty in her conclusion was dawning on Marissa. I love him, how can I believe this of him? I love him – and I should trust him, have the courage to put my fears aside and talk to him. She caught her breath, sitting up, her heart racing with sudden hope. There must be another explanation for his presence on that doorstep on Panton Street. And, that being the case, she owed it to the man she loved to ask him what it could be.

Seized with hope and optimism, Marissa felt her stomach growl and, for the first time in what seemed like days, smiled. How ridiculous, after all this heartbreak and drama, to feel something as mundane as hunger. But she was starving. The sound of the hall clock striking five came faintly through the panels. It was no good sitting here waiting for another hour. She decided to make a foray to the kitchen to see what the larder held.

Marissa climbed out of bed and padded silently to the door. She did not want either Mary or Mrs Whiting fussing over her, or feeling that they should get up and attend to her needs. Using both hands, she eased the key round in the lock, starting as it clicked. Then she opened the door and stepped out onto the shadowed landing, her eyes fixed on the corridor to her left where the servants’ wing lay.

All was still and silent so she turned towards the stairs – and almost cried out in alarm. A heavy carved armchair had been pulled up and blocked her way. It was occupied by the sprawled, sleeping figure of Marcus. Coat off, cravat loose at his neck, boots discarded by his side, he slept deeply.

Marissa found her hands had flown instinctively to her chest to still her thudding heart, but he did not wake. She gazed down at him, at the relaxed, stubble-shaded face, the thick dark eyelashes fanning his cheekbones, at the firm mouth now faintly smiling, perhaps at some dream. Instead of spending the night in his own comfortable bed he had been here all the time, sleeping across her threshold as if guarding her.

Marissa reached out her hand to touch his face. But before she could his eyes opened, wide and blue, and he smiled at her. ‘I was dreaming about you,’ was all he said as he stood to sweep her into his arms.