Miss Marianne's Disgrace (12 page)

The rumble of Lord Falconbridge's laugh filled the hallway before he sobered. ‘But this arrangement could do her more harm than good. Miss Domville doesn't have our stamina for weathering storms.'

‘If you hadn't created so many tempests in your youth, neither would you.' The clink of the crystal stopper in Lady Ellington's plum wine decanter drifted out of the room.

‘What if you're wrong about him and he doesn't pursue her?' Lord Falconbridge pressed.

Marianne clutched the composition book against her chest, the worry she'd carried home from Priorton intensifying. Lord Falconbridge's fears weren't unfounded. Warren had said he wasn't interested in marriage and she'd still flung herself at him moments before his snake of a brother-in-law had walked in. If he hadn't called out and alerted them, who knew what he might have seen.

‘I'm not wrong,' Lady Ellington insisted.

‘For Miss Domville's sake, and her future here in the country, I hope so.'

Panic made it impossible for Marianne to stand here without revealing herself. She hurried away, tiptoeing up the main staircase, past Lady Ellington's impressive collection of Italian landscapes covering the stairway wall.

Once inside her room, she closed and locked the door, then slumped into the chair in front of the writing table. Yet another letter from Theresa waited for her on the blotter. She covered it with her composition book, not possessing the fortitude to open the missive and read about her friend's happiness, not when her present situation was so precarious. Beneath them lay the journal with
Lady Matilda's Trials
, another glaring example of the mistakes she was making with Warren.

She rose to pace across the room. Her lack of discretion and judgement with him was putting her place with the Falconbridges in jeopardy and there was more than her reputation at stake. For all Lord Falconbridge's and Lady Ellington's support, it had only ever been against invented and imagined scandals. Whether they'd continue to stand with her in the face of a real one of her own making, she wasn't sure. She'd been acquainted with Lord Falconbridge through her mother in the days before he'd married Cecilia. Back then, he'd been hailed as one of the most formidable rakes in London. He'd abandoned his old life and reputation when he'd married the Marchioness. He wouldn't appreciate it being revived because of Marianne's wanton behaviour, especially with his children to consider. If Marianne crossed the line of decency, he might insist the family abandon her, just like Mr Smith had.

I should have been more careful with Warren. I never should have kissed him.

She'd resisted the lechers without money and the lechers with it to rise above the filth Madame de Badeau had tried to mire her in. The kiss proved she couldn't resist Warren or his continued eroding of the distance she needed to maintain between them. Except she didn't want to stay away.

She slipped
Lady Matilda's Trials
out from beneath the letter and composition book and flipped through the pages, admiring Warren's fine handwriting filling every line. Marianne traced the large M in Lady Matilda's name, the memory of Warren's light hair curling over his proud forehead, his striking green eyes and the firmness of his body against hers stirring something inside. Their kiss today hadn't been about lust or loss of control, but compassion. She'd offered him a glimpse of her soul and instead of turning away he'd embraced her. If she pushed him out of her life, she might never discover where her heart and his might lead them, assuming he did want to pursue her. Lord Falconbridge was right. Warren might not crave anything more from her than a dalliance. She didn't want to be punished for wanting love or affection, but she feared losing Lady Ellington over something as thin as possibility. She hoped Warren didn't make her regret being so free with him today.

She flicked the book shut
.
What had hope ever garnered her except more heartache?
At the Protestant School, she'd hoped every Christmas for a real family, and then her real mother had snatched her away. In London, she'd hoped to return to the Smiths, but they hadn't wanted her. She pulled opened the desk drawer and shoved the journal inside then slapped it shut. Her agreement with Warren was over. She wouldn't return to Priorton Abbey or perform her compositions for anyone outside this house. She wouldn't risk losing the safety of Lady Ellington's care for the uncertainty of Warren's promises. No matter what came of today, her behaviour from this moment forward must be beyond reproach. It was the safest course, and the most disheartening.

* * *

‘Lord Cartwright, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice about the business.' Rupert all but grovelled beside the Baron, who accepted a loaded gun from his footman.

‘Yes, yes, of course,' the haughty man mumbled as he raised his gun and let off a shot, bringing down a pheasant. His dog took off in search of the carcase. ‘I understand from my man in London Sir Warren is backing this venture of yours?'

‘He believes in it so much, he's—'

‘Wait a moment.' Lord Cartwright raised his gun and let off an ear-piercing shot at another pheasant flying up out of the grass. He missed. ‘Damn it, Alton, something is wrong with this gun.'

‘Yes, sir.' The footman exchanged the empty gun for another and laid the offending piece aside.

‘What were you saying about Sir Warren?' Lord Cartwright lowered his barrel to the ground, keeping an eye on the grey sky as he listened to Rupert.

‘Sir Warren has placed Priorton Abbey up for collateral against any debts the company incurs. Even if things go wrong, you can't lose your investment.' Warren might not know it, but he'd help Rupert one way or another. ‘If a man like him has faith in me, surely you can. He also has the backing of the Marquess of Falconbridge through his connection with Miss Domville.'

‘What's he doing associating with her?' Lord Cartwright raised his gun and fired. This time he hit his mark and another dog went running into the field.

‘Sir Warren and Miss Domville are quite
intimately
acquainted.' Rupert took Lord Cartwright's empty gun and handed it to the footman before taking the loaded one and offering it to the Baron. How he hated these grand men and all their privileges. Warren thought he was one of them and better than Rupert. Rupert would show him and make him pay for insisting he beg before him like one of the serfs in his novels.

‘Really?' Lord Cartwright appeared more interested in the gossip than all Rupert's talk of investments and collateral.

‘I expect the Marquess to invest heavily in the business because of it. You could make a great deal of money, enough to finance your daughter's second Season.' Rupert had heard the rumours of Lord Cartwright's mounting gambling debts and his displeasure at his daughter's failure to make a lucrative match last Season.

Lord Cartwright rubbed his thumb over the shiny brass work on his gun, allowing a few pheasants scared up by the beaters to fly away as he considered Rupert's suggestion. ‘You're sure it's secure?'

Rupert tried not to scream in frustration. What did this man care if it was secure or not? With his lands and money he could stand to part with a few pounds. Even if he couldn't, with his heritage he'd be shielded from his debts in a way Rupert hadn't been when his last venture had collapsed. Even then Warren had lectured him like a child about the need for responsibility. Rupert would teach him a lesson about where his responsibilities really lay. ‘Sir Warren's name and fame is a guarantee against loss.'

‘All right,' Lord Cartwright said at last, handing the gun to the footman. ‘I'll write to my man to deposit double the amount we discussed in your account.'

‘You're too gracious, my lord.' Rupert kept the smile on his face, despite his disgust. This man had nothing but assets and lands and Rupert was forced to cajole and wheedle to get a few pounds out of him. The man should give it willingly and more, he owed it to people like Rupert, just like Warren did. Rupert would see to it they both felt the sting of being selfish, especially Warren who'd regret treating Rupert with so much disdain.

Chapter Eight

M
arianne sat at the pianoforte at Welton Place, trying to reclaim the flow of the music, to allow it to carry her away like it usually did, but she couldn't. It had been a full day since Warren's brother-in-law had stumbled in on her and Warren at the Érard. Every time she passed a clutch of whispering maids, she wondered if they were talking about her. She was sure any moment now the rumours about her and Warren would begin, followed by Lord Falconbridge demanding an explanation.

She glanced at the garden where Walker was raking leaves, considering a walk, anything to settle the nervousness making her tap her foot against the floor. Potential gossip wasn't the only thing making her want to stride out of the French doors. She'd sent a note to Warren first thing this morning to tell him she wouldn't come today. She hadn't gone as far as to end their arrangement, nor had she offered a reason for her absence. After yesterday, she hardly thought one was necessary.

She'd heard nothing from Warren in response. He hadn't sent her a note, come to call or, at the very least, sent his mother for tea. Maybe he'd at last decided she was more of a detriment to him than an asset and it was best to distance himself from her. After all, he had a reputation to protect too. Her chest constricted at the thought, making her fingers clumsy on the keys when she attempted to play again. He was going to turn his back on her like everyone else. She'd been a fool to grow close to him, to reveal so much and to believe it would make a difference.

‘Are you still here, my dear?' Lady Ellington strolled through the room on her way out to the garden to oversee the pruning of her roses. ‘Isn't Sir Warren expecting you?'

‘I don't feel like going to Priorton today.'

‘Did something happen when you were last there?' Lady Ellington perched her elbow on the edge of the pianoforte.

‘No.' She couldn't tell Lady Ellington about the kiss, not because the woman would dance with glee, but because she feared a completely different reaction.

‘Marianne?' Lady Ellington pressed, increasing Marianne's guilt over her lack of faith in her friend. Lady Ellington had always believed in her, she shouldn't doubt her faith now.

Marianne stopped playing and picked at a small imperfection in one of the white keys ‘Yes, something did happen.'

Lady Ellington stood over Marianne and listened as she told her about the brother-in-law and his coming in on them alone together and insulting her. Marianne omitted the kiss, but given the scrutinising tilt of Lady Ellington's head, it was clear she suspected something more than the two of them performing a duet. If she minded or was disappointed in Marianne for having been so weak with Warren, it was difficult to discern.

‘He stood up for you against a man related to him by marriage. It says a great deal about Sir Warren's regard for you,' Lady Ellington observed.

Marianne had a better inkling of his regard for her than Lady Ellington realised, but she didn't dare say so. ‘He was being polite and if Mr Hirst is still there, I don't want to place Wa— I mean Sir Warren in another difficult situation.'

Lady Ellington worked to hide her smile at Marianne's near slip. ‘Sir Warren is a grown man and more than capable of deciding which situations he wants to be in and which he does not.'

‘If he wanted me to come back, I'm sure he would have said something by now, but he hasn't.' Nor had she ventured from Welton Place. She wouldn't run after Warren, but deport herself with dignity.

Darby, Lady Ellington's stone-faced butler, appeared in the doorway. ‘Sir Warren to see Miss Domville.'

Marianne's eyes snapped to Lady Ellington's. He was here. He'd come to see her.

Lady Ellington clapped her hands together in delight. ‘One day without you and he's already sprinting over here to visit you.'

‘It took him quite a few hours to sprint,' Marianne grumbled, wishing she'd gone for a walk in the garden. It would take crossing all of the Falconbridge lands to calm her now since she couldn't very well pace a hole in the floorboards.

‘You'll learn, my dear, it takes men a little longer to come around to things. Darby, show Sir Warren in at once.'

The butler left before Marianne could stop him.

‘What if he isn't here to see me, but to end things?' This was what she'd wanted when she'd drafted the letter ending the agreement, the one sitting unsealed on her writing table in her room. She should have sent it and made things clear before he could come over here and clarify them for her. It would hurt less if she was to break with him instead of him breaking with her.

‘If he wanted to end things he'd send a note, not come here in person.'

She hoped Lady Ellington was right. She didn't want to endure another rejection like the one the Smiths had sent her four years ago.

Marianne dropped her hands in her lap and twisted around to face the sitting-room door. She attempted to affect her usual air of indifference, but it wasn't easy. Whatever he said, she would disregard it as she did Lady Cartwright's snide remarks. She could cry over it later.

No, I won't cry.

Warren entered the room and Marianne willed the creeping smile from her lips. He wore a dark blue coat as wrinkled as his untidy cravat. His hair was combed smooth over the back of his head, but the ends possessed a wildness which matched his attire. A generous smile lightened the dark circles beneath his eyes and increased the faint flutter in her stomach. No one smiled so wide before they ended an affair as she'd seen more than once at Madame de Badeau's.

He bowed to them, clutching a notebook and writing case in his left hand. ‘Good morning, Lady Ellington, Miss Domville. I'm very sorry Miss Domville was unable to come to Priorton today. I hope it isn't too presumptuous of me to ask if I may work here instead.'

He wants to be with me, to keep our arrangement.

It thrilled her as much as when new sheet music arrived from London. Dread quickly squashed it. She still had no idea what was happening with Mr Hirst and what, if anything, had come of his visit. She wanted to ask Warren about it, but with Lady Ellington present she couldn't. Whatever had taken place between them after she'd left it must not have been too awful if he was here.

‘What a lovely idea,' Lady Ellington answered while Marianne remained too lost in her thoughts to speak. The Dowager guided him to the escritoire to the left of the pianoforte. It sat against the window so anyone working there could see the garden with their back to the instrument. ‘I've missed having music in the house these last few days. Are you sure you can work here?'

He leaned one hand on the rounded chair back, his other hand perched on his hip and drawing his coat back to reveal his solid middle. The sensation of his body against hers, his wide hand on her neck, his flat chest firm against hers made her skin flush at the memory.

‘I used to write aboard ship, in the middle of storms. A foreign desk and some lovely playing won't distract me.' His eyes met Marianne's. She kept her outward stature as impassive as possible while inside she was running in circles. He hadn't left her, but had sought her out as though she were more important than rumours or brothers-in-law or anything else. However, it had taken him a day to do so. Had he wavered during their time apart or considered not coming here? If he held any doubts they were not in his soft eyes or the sureness of his stance. ‘I won't disturb you, will I?'

‘Of course not.' She flicked through the pages of her composition book, searching for something to play as if he were not here. For all her excitement at his arrival, the old caution refused to release its hold on her. She'd been careless with him yesterday and she wouldn't allow it to happen again.

The shift of his shoulders while he arranged his things on the desk undermined her determination. She studied the width of his back, noting how the wool wrinkled and flattened with each movement, sliding up over the curve of his buttocks as he leaned forward to set out his ink. She gripped the book tight, wrinkling a whole note near the edge of one page. She wanted to wrap her arms around his waist, lay her head on his shoulder and breathe him in like the mist in the morning.

Don't be silly
.

She smoothed the wrinkled edge of her music and set the book on the stand. Her mother had thrown herself at any man with a title and money. Marianne had never behaved so basely. Her experience with Warren was an exception, not a habit, and she wouldn't allow it to continue. She'd find out more about Mr Hirst later, then make it clear to Warren their behaviour from the other day was not to be repeated. He wanted a muse and she'd be one. He could find more physical inspiration elsewhere.

As Marianne played, Lady Ellington waved her fingers in time to the music, her smile so wide one would think she'd arranged this. She probably had. Marianne should be annoyed by her friend's meddling, but she wasn't. At least the Dowager was more conscientious in her chaperon duties than Mrs Stevens.

Marianne paused to scratch a few notes in the composition book when Lady Ellington interrupted. ‘If you'll excuse me, Walker is waiting for me in the garden.'

And there went the chaperon. Marianne frowned as the breeze fluttered the hem of Lady Ellington's grey pelisse as she hurried out of the French doors to where Walker waited with his pruning shears to trim the roses.

Warren turned in his chair, about to speak, but Marianne resumed her playing, not wanting to talk. It had already landed them both in too much trouble. He didn't interrupt her as he returned to his writing.

Under the influence of her music, she began to relax and enjoy his presence. In their separate spaces, they worked in tandem as if they'd done this for years. The clink of his pen against the ink jar punctuated her notes every now and again. It didn't disturb her pace, but at times enhanced it like a harmony from an accompanying flute. It settled the tension from his presence and the other day's debacle.

The melancholy tune which had teased her last night, the one she'd been reluctant to sit down and write this morning, faded into the background as a new one came forward. It startled Marianne with its effervescence and she followed its lead, playing with a vigour she hadn't experienced since the last time she'd performed for Mrs Nichols. It wasn't the piece but Warren's presence creating the change. She didn't fight it and slid into the music, not like a cave to hide in, but as if it was a pool of cool water on a hot day.

* * *

A long time passed before Lady Ellington returned. Pollen from the last of the summer roses clung to her dark skirt as she carried them to the vase on top of the pianoforte. While she arranged the flowers, she looked back and forth between the two young people and smiled with a self-satisfaction Marianne didn't mind. When Marianne reached the end of the piece, Lady Ellington clapped.

‘It's too lovely a day for you both to be inside for so long. Marianne, why don't you show Sir Warren the garden?' Lady Ellington suggested to Marianne's amazement.

The peace Marianne had enjoyed while playing ended. Why didn't Lady Ellington draw the curtains and lock them in the room together? It would be more effective.

‘Yes, I need some exercise.' Warren stretched over the back of the chair, the arch of his body more appealing than the buds in the vase.

We shouldn't be alone together...we can't be trusted.

She couldn't beg Lady Ellington to stay with them like a child afraid of the dark. Warren had been brave to come here unannounced. She could summon enough courage and self-control to walk with him in the garden, in broad daylight and in plain sight of the house. It wasn't as if she were dragging him to the orangery, as tempting an idea as it might be. No, it wasn't tempting but ridiculous and it was time to compose herself like a proper lady and not some hoyden. ‘All right, then.'

She rose from the piano bench and led him outside. Lady Ellington's excuse for not coming followed after them. A stiff wind whipped through the garden, blowing dead leaves off of the fading summer vines and revealing more of the provocative statuary. Marianne regretted bringing him here to walk. She should have taken him to the front of the house. Perhaps he wouldn't notice the statues.

‘Lady Ellington has some very unique garden decorations,' Warren remarked as they passed a well-endowed satyr.

‘The house used to belong to her brother, the prior Marquess of Falconbridge. These were his statues. For some reason, she's never got rid of them.'

‘Maybe they remind her of him.' With a smile, he nodded to the naked Zeus entwined with a nymph.

‘Given some of the stories she's told me about him, they probably do.' Marianne had never minded the garden decor before. Today, all the naked marble bodies in a variety of suggestive poses made the unspoken between her and Warren even louder. She still didn't know what to think of the kiss, or him. He hadn't groped her like other men, but it had still been secretive, with no promise of anything else except possible rumours. She kicked a small pebble with her boot. It didn't matter. There was no future with him or any respectable man and no reason for her to think of one.

‘Your playing has had quite an effect on my story today. I couldn't write my war scene so I finished the feasting one instead. Sometimes critics accuse my novels of being too dark. I don't think they'll say the same about this one.' He laughed with an agility Marianne admired. ‘I hope you don't mind the intrusion, but I needed to see you.'

‘For me or my inspiration?' She stopped and faced him, needing the truth.

‘Both.' He studied her, his green eyes intense like a field of fresh grass in the spring. ‘I cut off my dealings with Rupert because of what he said to you.'

‘You think there's more to be gained by associating with a woman like me than a man like him?' It didn't seem possible.