Miss Marianne's Disgrace (3 page)

Lady Cartwright huffed up to Miss Domville, not content with a silent rebuke. ‘I don't think
you
should instruct us on how to behave. You didn't even have the decency to tell us what was wrong, bursting in on the men and leaving us to think who knows what.'

‘It was an emergency. There wasn't time for pleasantries.' The twitch of small muscles around the young woman's lips undermined her stoicism.

Lady Cartwright opened her mouth to unleash another blow.

‘She was right to summon me as she did.' Warren rose to defend Miss Domville, tired of the imperious woman. Miss Domville had endured enough tonight worrying over her friend. She didn't need some puffed-up matron rattling the sabre of propriety over her blonde head. ‘And she's correct. Lady Ellington needs space and rest. Lady Cartwright, would you call for her carriage? Mother, would you escort her and Miss Domville home? I'll send my carriage for you.'

‘Of course.' His mother arched one interested eyebrow at Lady Ellington, who offered a similar look in return before her face scrunched up with a fresh wave of pain.

Lady Cartwright's nostrils flared with indignation, not nearly as amused as the two ladies on the sofa. ‘I'll summon Lady Ellington's carriage. After all, we wouldn't want to detain Lady Ellington or
Miss Domville
any longer.'

She struck Miss Domville with a nasty look before striding off in a huff.

The long breath Miss Domville exhaled after Lady Cartwright left whispered of tired resignation. It was as if she'd waged too many similar battles, but had to keep fighting. He understood her weariness. Aboard ship, he'd faced approaching enemy vessels with the same reluctant acceptance.

Her gaze caught his and he dropped his to the paper as if he'd stumbled upon her at her bath, not in the middle of these chattering biddies. Unable to stand the noise any longer, Warren snatched up the instructions and quit the room. In the quiet of the hallway, he spat into his palm and rubbed the handkerchief hard against his skin. It smeared the red across his hand, dirtying the linen as it had stained the rags aboard ship. There'd never been enough buckets of seawater to clean the grime from beneath his fingernails.

He screwed his eyes shut.

This is nothing like then. Nothing like it.
Those days are gone.

The war against Napoleon was over, his commission resigned. He was no longer Lieutenant Stevens, surgeon aboard HMS
Bastion
. He was Sir Warren Stevens, master of Priorton Abbey and a fêted novelist.

A fêted novelist who'd be destitute and a disappointment to his family like his father had been if he didn't finish writing his next book.

He opened his eyes and scrubbed harder until at last the red began to fade, cursing the troubles piling on him tonight.

‘Sir Warren, are you all right?'

Miss Domville approached him, the flowing silk of her dress brushing against each slender leg. Beneath her high breasts, it draped her flat stomach and followed the curve of her hips. She stopped in front of him, her eyes as clear and patient as when they'd faced each other before.

Humiliation flooded through him. He wouldn't be brought low by memories. He clutched his lapels and jerked back his shoulders, fixing her with the same glib smile he flashed adoring readers whenever he signed their books. ‘Yes, why shouldn't I be?'

‘I don't know. You seem troubled.' She studied him the way his sister, Leticia, used to, head tilted to one side, her chestnut curls brushing her smooth cheeks. It had looked so dark, matted against her forehead with sweat, her hazel eyes clouding as the life had faded from them. Hopelessness hit him like a jab to the gut.

‘I'm fine.' He handed her the now-wrinkled and sweat-dampened paper, ashamed by this bout of weakness. It had been a long time since the memories of his time at sea had overwhelmed him like this. He'd thought he'd overcome them in the ten years since he'd left the Navy. Apparently, he hadn't. ‘Follow the directions precisely, otherwise you may do more harm than good.'

‘I will, and thank you again for your help.' Miss Domville folded the paper, pausing to straighten out a crease in one corner as she glanced past him to the fluttering women. ‘All of it.'

‘It was the least I could do. Now, if you'll excuse me.' He turned and left, ignoring the confused crease of her smooth forehead as he all but sprinted away from her and the study. He regretted the abrupt departure, but he'd embarrassed himself enough in front of her already. Despite the draw of Miss Domville's presence, the faint desire to linger in her sweet smile and vivid blue eyes, he needed the solitude of home and his writing to calm the demons stirred up by tonight.

Chapter Two

‘Y
ou entered the dining room where the gentlemen were?' Lady Ellington's cousin, Rosemary, Dowager Baroness of St Onge, gasped, clutching the long strand of pearls draped around her thin neck. ‘By yourself?'

Marianne gritted her teeth as she poured Lady Ellington's tea. ‘It was a matter of some urgency.'

‘But, my dear, you'll be the talk of the countryside for being so bold.'

Marianne tipped a teaspoon of sugar in the cup. ‘I'm already the talk of the countryside, whether I storm in on the men at their port or spend all my days practising the pianoforte.'

‘But to interrupt gentlemen in the dining room.' Lady St Onge pushed herself to her feet. ‘It just isn't how young ladies behave.'

‘Now, now, Cousin Rosemary.' With a look of sympathy and a small measure of amusement, Lady Ellington took the tea from Marianne. The rings on every finger sparkled in the afternoon sunlight as she leaned back against her
chaise
. ‘I'm sure everyone understands Marianne was acting on my behalf and not because she wanted to create a scandal.'

‘You give them too much credit, Ella. I can almost hear the country ladies' tongues wagging from here.' Lady St Onge shuffled out of Lady Ellington's dressing room, a long string of muttered concerns trailing behind her.

Marianne frowned. ‘Why can't she stay at your London town house while the roof of her dower house is being repaired? Why must she be here?'

‘Patience, Marianne,' Lady Ellington urged, propping her injured arm up on the pillows beside her. After a restless night, Lady Ellington had regained her spirits, but not her usual vigour. ‘You more than anyone know what it is to need a safe haven from the small troubles of life.'

‘If only they were small.' She splashed tea into her cup and a hail of drops splattered over the edge and on to the saucer. Her undeserved reputation kept good men away while attracting scoundrels and gossip. Sir Warren had been proof of it last night. Despite his defending her against Lady Cartwright, he'd bolted from her the moment his services were no longer needed. Typical gentleman.

‘Your problems aren't so very large they can't be overcome,' Lady Ellington insisted, ever the optimist.

Marianne peered out the window at the tall trees swaying over the front lawn. Welton Place, Lady Ellington's dowager house on the grounds of Falconbridge Manor, had proven a refuge for Marianne. However, the sturdy brick walls and Lady Ellington's solid reputation couldn't keep all the scandals and troubles from touching her. ‘Lady St Onge is right, the gossips will talk. Even with your influence, they refuse to believe that I am nothing like Madame de Badeau.'

‘They are stubborn in their views of you, which is surprising since Lady Preston has all but fallen on top of half the eligible gentlemen in the countryside and no one is cutting her. I think her old husband must not mind since it saves him the bother.'

Marianne laughed, nearly choking on her tea.

‘Now there's a smile.' Lady Ellington offered her a napkin.

Marianne dabbed at the moisture on her chin.

‘You're so pretty when you smile. You should do it more often.'

Marianne tossed the linen down beside the china. ‘If I had more to smile about, I would.'

‘Nonsense. You're too young to hold such a dim view of life.' She raised one ring-clad hand to stop Marianne from protesting. ‘Yes, I know you've seen a greater share of trouble than most young ladies. But it does you no good to be morose. You'll only end up like poor Rosemary.'

‘Now, that's unfair.'

‘True, but we can't have you languishing here and becoming a spinster, not with your enviable figure and your money. We'll go to London next Season and find you someone.'

‘No. I won't go back there.' She could manage the scrutiny of a few country families, but not the derision of all society. Besides, whatever hopes Lady Ellington harboured about Marianne's wealth and looks landing her a good husband, she didn't share them. Marianne brushed at the lace over her breasts, wishing she didn't possess so much figure, but it was what it was. As for the money, leaving her well settled had been the one and only thing the vile Madame de Badeau had ever done for her. Marianne shuddered to think how the woman must have earned it. ‘The only gentleman attracted to me is the broke Lord Bolton. Hardly a suitable pool of suitors.'

‘Then we'll increase it. After all you can't spend your entire life composing pianoforte pieces.'

What else is there for me to do?

The other young ladies in the country were planning amusements for the autumn while the experiences of their last Season in London were still fresh. Those not dreaming of winter balls and house parties were at home with the husbands they'd landed in the spring, or tending to their new babies. There was little for Marianne to look forward to, or to keep the days from passing, one dreary, empty one after another.

She dipped her teaspoon into her tea and listlessly swirled the dark brown water. She should be thankful for the tedium. She didn't want to flirt with temptation and discover she really was no better than the gossips believed.

‘Speaking of things to do.' Lady Ellington took up a letter from the table beside her, eyeing Marianne with a whiff of mischief. ‘Mrs Stevens sent a note asking after me. Tomorrow, we'll pay her a call and thank her and her son for their help.'

Marianne paused over her teacup, the steam rising to sweep her nose. ‘So soon?'

‘I'm not sick enough to lie about all week and I want to see how the repairs to Priorton Abbey are coming. Be a dear and bring me my writing box. I'll send a note to Mrs Stevens right away.'

With some reluctance, Marianne set down her cup and made for the writing desk. There was no good excuse she could contrive for why they shouldn't go. After all, they did owe them thanks for their help. She liked Mrs Stevens. She couldn't say the same about Sir Warren. Despite his assistance, in the end, his response to her had been no different from anyone else's outside the Falconbridge family. His all but running from her still grated. Who was he to cast judgement? He was no hereditary baronet, only a writer with the Prince Regent for an admirer.

Then again, who was she? The only relation of London's most notorious lady scoundrel.

She paused over the lacquer writing box, the Falconbridge family crest gold and red against a three-pointed shield. The loneliness which had haunted Marianne since childhood filled her again. It was the same aching pain she used to experience each Christmas at the Protestant School in France when all the other girls had received packages from their families while she'd received nothing. Madame de Badeau had never sent Marianne so much as a letter during all the time she'd spent at the school. The only thing she'd done was arrive on Marianne's tenth birthday and take her from the only family she'd ever known and carry her off to England before the Peace of Amiens had failed. On her way to London, Madame de Badeau had dumped her with the Smith family, all but forgetting about her for another six years until she'd thought it time for Marianne to marry. Then she'd dragged her to London to try and pawn her off on any dissolute lord who took an interest in her, no matter how old. Only Marianne's stubbornness had kept her from the altar.

A proud, wicked smile curled Marianne's lips. Madame de Badeau's face had practically turned purple when Marianne had tossed Lord Bolton's roses back at him when he'd knelt to propose. It had been worth the beating to defy the nasty woman.

Marianne's smile faded and with it her determined spirit. In the end, Madame de Badeau had got her revenge and ruined Marianne's life.

She grasped the cold metal handles on either side of the box. It didn't matter. There was nothing she could do except bear it as she had all the other disappointments and insults the woman had heaped on her. She started to heave the box from the table when the door swung open, stopping her.

‘Lady Ellington, how are you?' Cecelia, Marchioness of Falconbridge, moved as fast as a lady so heavy with her second child could to hug Lady Ellington. Her husband, the Marquess of Falconbridge, followed behind. Lord Falconbridge was tall with a square jaw and straight nose, his blue eyes made more stunning by his dark hair. ‘I was so worried when I heard about your accident.'

‘You needn't fuss over a little scratch, not in your condition,' Lady Ellington chided. ‘Randall, how could you let her scurry about the country when she should be at home resting?'

‘I couldn't stop her.' Lord Falconbridge dropped a kiss on his aunt's cheek. ‘Besides the two miles from Falconbridge Manor to Welton Place is hardly scurrying about the country.'

‘It's the furthest I've been from the house in ages.' The Marchioness rubbed her round belly then shifted in the chair to turn her tender smile on Marianne. Her brown hair was rich in its arrangement of curls and her hazel eyes flecked with green glowed with her good mood. ‘Thank you so much for looking after Lady Ellington. It means so much to us to have you here with her.'

With Lord Falconbridge's help, Lady Falconbridge struggled to her feet, then embraced Marianne. Marianne accepted the hug, her arms stiff at her sides. She should return the gesture like Theresa, her friend and Lady Falconbridge's cousin, always did, but she remained frozen. The Marchioness had always been kind to her, even before she'd risen from an unknown colonial widow to become Lady Falconbridge. It was the motherly tenderness in the touch Marianne found more unsettling than comforting. She wasn't used to it.

At last Lady Falconbridge released her and Marianne's tight arms loosened at her sides. Unruffled by Marianne's stiff greeting, the Marchioness stroked Marianne's cheek, offering a sympathetic smile before returning to the chair beside Lady Ellington.

Despite her discomfort, Marianne appreciated the gesture. The Smiths had been kind, but she'd never really been one of their family, as she'd discovered when the scandal of Madame de Badeau had broken. Afterwards, despite the years Marianne had spent with them, they'd been too afraid of her tainting their own daughters to welcome her back.

Marianne swallowed hard. Of all the past rejections, theirs had hurt the most.

‘Oh, Cecelia, how you carry on.' Lady Ellington batted a glittery, dismissive hand at the Marchioness. ‘You'd think I was some sort of invalid.'

‘We know you're not, but we're grateful to Miss Domville all the same.' Lord Falconbridge nodded to Marianne as he stood behind his wife, his hands on her shoulders. Four years ago, Marianne had discovered Madame de Badeau's letter detailing her revenge for Lord Falconbridge's rejection of her by seeing Lady Falconbridge assaulted by Lord Strathmore. Marianne had given him the letter from Madame de Badeau outlining her plans and with it the chance he needed to save Lady Falconbridge. The revealing of Madame de Badeau's plot had led to her ultimate disgrace and gained for Marianne the Falconbridge family's appreciation and undying dedication.

Marianne shifted on her feet. Lord Falconbridge's gratitude made her as uncomfortable as the hug. A notorious rake she'd once thought as hard as Madame de Badeau, love had changed Lord Falconbridge. What might it do for her? She wasn't likely to find out. No man worth his salt was going to push past the rumours and gossip to ever get to know her.

‘Marianne, guess what? Theresa is expecting again. Some time in the spring,' Lady Falconbridge announced.

‘How marvellous.' Despite Theresa being one of Marianne's only friends, the good news stung. It illustrated once again the love and happiness Marianne would never enjoy. ‘I'll write to her at once with my congratulations.'

She fled the room before the envy and heartache found its way to the surface. She made for the sitting room downstairs near the back of the house, eager to reach the pianoforte and the smooth black-and-white keys. Once inside the room, the view of Lady Ellington's prized rose garden through the far window didn't calm her as it usually did. She withdrew a red-brocade composition book from the piano bench. The spine creaked when she opened it. She flipped through the pages and the notes bounced up and down on the staffs, punctuated every few lines by a smudge of ink or her fingerprint. It was her music. It had comforted her during the long, lonely hours at Madame de Badeau's, and afterwards, before her life had settled into the even cadence of Lady Ellington's dower house.

Selecting her most recent composition, she propped the book up on the music stand and lifted the cover over the keys. Wiggling her fingers, she rested them on the ivory until it warmed. Then she pressed down and began the first chords, wincing at each wrong note until she settled into the sweet and mournful piece. Through the adagio, she concentrated on the shift of the foot pedal and the strength with which she struck each key and how long she held it until sweeping on to the next. The black notes tripped along in her mind, memorised from hours of practice.

Finally, the piece reached its slow, wailing end and she raised her hands. The last notes vibrated along the wires until they faded away. Blinking through wet lashes, her cheeks and neck cold with moisture, she studied her hands. They were smooth and limber now, but some day they'd be wrinkled and stiff and here she'd be, with any luck, living under the protection of the Falconbridge family, the scandals as forgotten as she.

She wiped the tears from beneath her chin and turned the page to one of her slightly less sombre compositions. Crying wouldn't do any good. If Lady Ellington didn't think it was hopeless, then perhaps it wasn't. If nothing else, there was always Lord Bolton.

* * *

‘There's a fortune to be made here, Warren, can't you see it?' Rupert Hirst, Warren's brother-in-law, paced back and forth across the rug in front of Warren's desk. A little wrinkle rose up in the patterned carpet where his heel dug in to make the turn.