Miss Marianne's Disgrace (6 page)

They entered his study and Warren settled himself at his desk while Mr Reed stood before it outlining expenditures. As soon as he was finished with Mr Reed, he'd join the ladies and discover what Miss Domville thought of his manuscript. Perhaps he could convince her to play for him again and inspire another story. He needed more inspiration, especially with Mr Reed rattling on about expenses.

‘You can't afford to invest any additional money in Mr Hirst, beyond what you recently advanced him,' Mr Reed cautioned. ‘We've yet to see any profit from his ventures or even documents outlining your shares.'

Warren organised a stack of papers on his desk. ‘I don't intend to give him any more.'

‘Then you'd better tell him. I heard from one my associates in London he's using your name to push his current venture. You must distance yourself from it in case it fails. You don't want to be blamed.'

‘I'll write to him at once and make it clear he's not to use me as an endorsement.' The bumbling fool. It seemed Rupert's current scheme was already faltering, and taking Warren's money with it. He should have known better and not allowed emotion to play any part in his business dealings. It wouldn't happen again.

Mr Reed opened his thin lips to say something else when the study door slid open with a bang.

Warren peered around the slender man of affairs to find Boudicca herself standing beneath the lintel in the very appealing figure of Miss Domville. So much for avoiding her until his interview with Mr Reed was complete.

‘If you'll excuse us, Mr Reed,' Warren asked.

Mr Reed flipped closed his ledger and tucked it under his arm, needing no explanation for why he should go. It was clear in the storm in Miss Domville's eyes. ‘Yes, of course.'

He slipped from the room, leaving Warren alone to face the fury.

‘Good day, Miss Domville, it's a pleasure to see you.' Almost too pleasurable. She marched up to him, her breasts covered by a sheer chemisette and the thin silk of her gown. It was all Warren could do to rise from his chair like a gentleman and keep his eyes fixed above her chin. Damn, she was beautiful, earthy and angry. ‘I'd hoped to see you today.'

‘Good, because we must discuss this.' She slammed his journal on the desk, making a stack of papers curl up, then settle back down. ‘How could you use my story?'

He stared at the slightly rumpled pages. ‘You didn't like it?'

‘No, it's a wonderful story, quite enthralling.' She leaned forward on her palms. He riveted his eyes to hers to keep his attention from sliding down and increasing the fury reddening her cheeks. ‘Except you took what I told you about my mother and twisted it into a tale to amuse dairy maids and hack drivers.'

‘I took something you've been ashamed of and made it into something you could be proud of. I thought you'd be pleased.'

‘You were wrong.' She glowered at him like a schoolmarm ready to switch a naughty student, except she was the kind of woman who filled a young man's fantasies, not his nightmares.

‘No one will see you in Lady Matilda, or think her story has anything to do with yours. I hid it too well.'

‘Of course they will, especially when they realise we're acquainted with one another.' She whirled around, her blue dress fluttering about the curve of her hips as she marched to the door.

‘Miss Domville, wait.' She didn't stop, but took hold of the wrought-iron handle. He couldn't let her go. ‘I won't publish the story if it troubles you so much.'

She released the handle. It dropped against the door with a thud as she turned to him, as astonished by his offer as he was. ‘You won't publish it?'

‘I won't make money off your unease.' Even if he lost everything else, his word and his honour would still be his, he'd make sure of it. ‘In fact, you may keep this copy of the manuscript.'

He held out the journal to her, his grip tight on the paper as the full weight of what he'd volunteered to do settled over him.

She returned to him and took the story out of his outstretched hand. ‘And your original copy? How do I know you won't send it to your publisher after I leave?'

‘I'll burn it, now, so you can be sure.'

‘You'd do such a thing, for me?' She clasped the journal to her chest and for a moment he was jealous of the book resting against her soft curves.

‘Yes.' He picked up the stack of loose pages and tapped them twice against his palm, hesitating before he tossed them into the grate beside him. The gesture burned him as much as the flames did the parchment. Lady Matilda's story had been a godsend after months of nothing. Now he was no better off than before. ‘It was never my intention to betray your trust.'

She watched with him while his words turned to ashes. ‘Then why did you write it?'

‘Because, until the day you came here, I hadn't been able to write a single useful word for months. With the exception of Lady Matilda's story, I still can't.' He looked at her, noting how the light from the rising flames consuming the manuscript reflected in her clear eyes. He'd hidden his failing from everyone, from his mother to Mr Berkshire. It was a relief to finally admit it someone.

‘I'm sorry, I didn't realise.' Nor did she offer to let him publish her copy of the work. He wouldn't ask her either. He'd made a pledge to her, and he would keep it, as he had all the others he'd made to himself, his mother and to Leticia's memory, no matter how much it hurt.

‘It's all right. I'll write something else.'

She flicked a glance at the wads of papers scattered around his chair. ‘How?'

That's what I'd like to know
.

Warren watched the flames die down, their new fuel spent. Miss Domville's playing had bolstered him like Leticia's encouraging letters used to do when he'd written in the semi-darkness of the ship. The influence Miss Domville's playing had exerted over his creativity had left with her. In the last few days, since finishing Lady Matilda, he'd tried everything he could think of to reclaim it, even hiring a young man from the village church to play while he'd worked, but it hadn't been the same. There'd been something about her presence, as at Lady Cartwright's, which had soothed and encouraged him and he wanted more of it.

He tugged on his loose cravat as an idea as unbelievable as it was tempting began to come to him. If Miss Domville could help him overcome his block once, she could do it again. No, it was foolish to draw her into his struggles, or to tempt himself with her company. She wasn't one of the London widows eager to discreetly amuse him, but a young lady fighting for respectability. For him to suggest any relationship with her outside of a betrothal and marriage was to risk her reputation further and he shouldn't even consider it, except he needed her. With his talent failing him, he might lose everything he'd achieved and find himself as destitute as his father had been at his death. He wouldn't allow it, or be forced by weakness back to the Navy to make his living. With blank pages and bills facing him, he couldn't allow his muse to escape.

‘If you agree to come here and play the piano for me, I can create another story.' He smiled with all the charisma he employed to woo patrons in London, hoping she didn't dismiss the idea outright. He didn't doubt, given her fierce entry into his study, she'd shrink from turning him down.

She laced her arms beneath her breasts and stepped back, the cynical schoolmarm returning. ‘And what instrument do you hope I'll play afterwards? I'm not Madame de Badeau, a woman to be hired as a mistress.'

He didn't blame her for being cautious. Once he'd achieved fame, the number of people he could trust had shrunk significantly.

‘I don't want a mistress, but a muse.' It was difficult to look at her and not think of twining his hands in her golden hair, tasting her pink lips as they parted beneath his and freeing those glorious breasts from their prim confines. He'd better not concentrate on them if he wanted to win her co-operation and keep himself free from distraction, and bankruptcy. ‘I need you.'

‘No one needs me.' The same worthlessness which had torn him apart the morning Leticia had died hung in Miss Domville's words. He gripped his hands hard behind his back, silently raging at himself and the world. A woman of Miss Domville's loveliness and innocence didn't deserve to feel the way he had that awful morning.

‘I do. I realise it's a ridiculous request, but if I don't have something to turn into my publisher soon, I could lose everything.' Lancelot trotted to his side and sat down next to him. Warren dropped his hand on the dog's head and stroked it, the simple motion easing the anxiety of waiting for Miss Domville's answer.

‘Maybe what you need isn't a new novel, but a rich wife.' She slid him a brazen glance from beneath her long eyelashes, inviting him to come closer like a siren eager to dash him against the rocks. If she wrecked him, it would be no one's fault but his own. He only hoped the destruction waited until he was done with his next novel.

‘I'm not so mercenary about marriage and not about to live off a wife, especially not after everything I've done to achieve what I have.' He opened his hands to the room and the very house around them. ‘My request is nothing more than a business arrangement, not a ridiculous courting ruse.'

‘Good, because I have no interest in a husband.' At least they held similar views on matrimony, though it saddened more than heartened him. She was alone and isolating herself further from the world. It wasn't right. ‘I also have no desire to become the talk of the countryside because of this proposed arrangement and the attention my connection to a famous author might bring.'

‘Then we won't tell anyone about it, beyond those who must absolutely know. My mother will act as chaperon.'

‘Even if we tried to keep it a secret, people will find out, they always do. Then what'll happen? Lady Ellington has spent a great deal of time and effort trying to rebuild my reputation. She won't throw it away by consenting to something as ridiculous as this.'

* * *

‘I think it's a lovely idea.' Lady Ellington clapped her hands together, making her many gold bracelets jingle on her arm.

‘I do too,' Mrs Steven concurred, exchanging a happy smile with her guest.

Marianne gaped at them.
They've all gone mad.

‘I don't think you understand what he's asking for?' Marianne stuttered, still not sure what he'd requested. He wanted her to play for him on his marvellous Érard while he worked in the next room, to inspire him. It seemed simple, but it wasn't and she was the only one who appeared to see it.

‘It would be lovely to have your music filling this dreary house,' Mrs Stevens added. ‘All the dark wood and wrought iron is rather oppressive.'

‘Mother,' Sir Warren groaned. He stood beside Marianne, Lancelot at his side.

‘It's true. Miss Domville's playing would cheer it up and give me something besides the workmen to listen to all day.'

Sir Warren levelled his hand at his mother while pleading with Marianne, ‘See, I'm not the only one who needs your talent.'

‘I didn't say I'd stay all day, or at all,' Marianne reminded him, tripping over the word ‘need'. It was the second time he'd said it, but it didn't make it any less awkward to hear than mangled French. People scorned her, they rarely needed her.

‘Nonsense, you spend hours at my pianoforte at home. Why not do it here?' Lady Ellington steepled her fingers and touched them to her lips in amused scrutiny. ‘Say you will, my dear. I'd so love to have your beautiful compositions heard by others.'

Marianne shook her head at Lady Ellington, warning her off further mention of the compositions. If she decided to play for Sir Warren, she certainly wouldn't bring those. She refused to stumble through wrong notes and odd stanzas or reveal her failings, and a good measure of herself through her music while he sat in the next room. No, she wouldn't come here and all she had to do was say so and it would end the matter, but the words wouldn't come out. She'd stood firm against Madame de Badeau's selection of suitors and the woman's more demeaning demands. Why couldn't she simply say ‘no' to this?

Because of Sir Warren. She studied him from the corner of her eye, hesitant to face him straight on. He stroked the top of the dog's head, his ink-stained fingers ruffling the red fur. The relaxed gesture didn't hide his eagerness for her answer or settle the anxiousness in his green eyes. His talent was his sanctuary, just like hers, and he was afraid of losing it. She understood. The summer Madame de Badeau had plucked her from the Smiths' house and dropped her unprepared in London, Marianne's fingers had grown stiff, the keys awkward beneath her hands. The beautiful notes which had always comforted her had faded under the pressure of Madame de Badeau's screeching insults and the lecherous leers of her male visitors. The temporary loss of her talent had been more terrifying than when she'd left France with Madame de Badeau, then a stranger to her, or during her first few days with the Smiths. Without it, she was nothing.

‘Well, Miss Domville, what do you say?' Sir Warren pressed, ending the long silence punctuated by the rough laughter of workmen overhead.

Marianne turned the gold ring on her small finger. He didn't need her. In time, his talent would return just like hers had when she and Madame de Badeau had settled into a tolerable hatred of one another. She should stop making herself so available or vulnerable to Sir Warren. It had already caused enough trouble and this was inviting more. She'd seen too much of gentlemen and their appetites at Madame de Badeau's to trust Sir Warren's motives to be purely innocent. However, he was offering her more than a tryst, fine dresses and a house in Mayfair, but a sense of purpose. To play for him was to use her music for something other than escaping the loneliness which swathed her, but to inspire a story, maybe even one better than Lady Matilda's.