Miss Marianne's Disgrace (13 page)

‘Yes.' His honesty shook her expectations. Few people had ever been worried about losing her. Here was one who wouldn't let her run away. It scared her more than any rumour or scandal she'd ever faced and fuelled the hope which had been building inside her since their kiss. If they weren't standing in the centre of the garden, she might slide her hands over his broad shoulders and pull him down to her. She raised her hands anyway, resisting the inclination to cow before her worries and doubts. This morning, she'd thought he'd never want to see her again and here he was in front of her as though she were as important to him as the Prince.

He shifted closer to her as her hands settled on his shoulders, his body hard beneath her palms. He stared into her eyes with mesmerising intensity which drew them closer. She began to slide up on her toes as his arms encircled her, aching to taste him again, to restore the connection between them which had been broken the other day.

Then the squeak of a wheel sounded over the birds. She jumped back from Warren just as Walker came around the corner rolling a wheelbarrow full of dirt. He waved to them. Warren waved back without hesitation. Marianne wasn't as exuberant with her greeting.

‘We always seem to attract an audience,' he joked, but she didn't laugh.

If they kept up these near misses it wouldn't be long before his decision to stand beside her was tested. She expected him to fail, almost everyone else had. It was time for them to exhibit more decorum, especially in Lady Ellington's garden. ‘Walker isn't a gossip. Is Mr Hirst?'

He fiddled with the loose knot of his cravat, the gesture more telling than his words. ‘I made it clear his ruining your reputation would ruin his. Besides, he saw nothing.'

‘It doesn't matter. He guessed enough and it's all he or anyone needs to condemn me, and you too. You could lose patrons and people's support.' She didn't mention what she might lose. She didn't want to think about it.

‘I sold books and earned money before people like the Cartwrights or even the Prince found me. I can do it again. I don't care what they think of me or what they might say.'

‘Some day you will, just like the Smiths, and then I won't be as tempting to you.' She started for the house.

He caught her hand. ‘You think you aren't worthy to be cared for, made to feel important and valuable, but you're wrong.'

She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let go, his hand firm around hers. ‘Experience has taught me different.'

‘I'm not like them.' He drew her slowly back to him. She put up the weakest of resistance, moving step by step closer to him. She didn't want to fight him as she did the rest of the world, but believe in his affection. It was foolish, ridiculous, but her lonely heart didn't care. She wanted to lose herself in his desire for her. They stood so close her breasts brushed his chest with each of her deep breaths. He continued to hold her hand while his other smoothed the wisps of hair from her temples. ‘You're a wonderful person and others are shallow and blind if they can't see it.'

He tilted his face down and she lifted her chin. His kiss jolted her like a carriage thrown off balance in a turn. She clutched his arms to steady herself, not against him, but from the old habit of retreating. Even if she'd wanted to run away from him, his light hand against the small of her back wouldn't allow it. She folded her body into his, lost in his heady heat. She reached her fingers up to touch the hair brushing his collar, the strands as soft beneath her fingertips as his mouth. He'd come here because he didn't want to be without her. In her answering kiss she reassured him she wouldn't bolt, but would stumble with him through whatever was burgeoning between them.

‘Sir Warren.' Darby's voice cut through her joy.

As fast as Warren's kiss had united them, the butler's appearance sent them flying apart. Marianne wanted to scream in frustration. She and Warren should consider sending invitations to their next meeting. It would be more convenient for all involved.

‘A message has come for you from Priorton Abbey,' Darby announced. ‘You're needed at your publisher's in London right away.'

Darby's message delivered, he left the couple. Marianne wanted to stomp her foot at his pretend deference. He wasn't as tight-lipped as Walker and was probably whispering what he'd seen to Lady Ellington already. The Dowager Countess would clap her ring-covered hands in glee. The picture of it settled her anger for it was exactly what she hoped her friend would do. She could now tell Lord Falconbridge there was more to Marianne and Warren's arrangement than impetuous desire or skirting scandal. What exactly it was Marianne refused to say. She was too afraid to give voice to such a thing and kill it like a seedling planted before the threat of frost had passed.

‘I have to go. If Mr Berkshire has sent for me, it must be important,' he explained with notable regret.

‘When will you return?' She didn't want him to leave. It was the rare person who returned to her.

‘I don't know, it depends on what Mr Berkshire wants, but I'll make sure to be back in time for Lady Astley's musical evening. You will be there, won't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then I look forward to it.' He claimed her lips with a swift kiss, catching her off guard. She grasped his firm upper arms, not wanting to let go, his kiss more honest than any words. He broke from her and she wavered on her feet, unable to say anything before he touched her cheek longingly with his fingers, then turned and made for the house.

Snatches of his parting conversation with Lady Ellington carried out of the open sitting-room windows before it faded way.

Smoothing her hair and adjusting the wrinkled fichu over her chest, she returned to the house, trying not to skip back. He'd kissed her, again, and told her she was more precious to him than his brother-in-law. It hadn't happened in a darkened room, or while he was drunk, but in the open for everyone to see, eliminating doubts about his intentions, especially hers. If Darby hadn't interrupted them, who knew what other declarations he might have made.

Her cheeks burned as she caught sight of Lady Ellington waiting for her, a self-satisfied smile adorning her lips. It seems Darby had been quick to report to his mistress.

‘Too bad Sir Warren was forced to leave so soon,' Lady Ellington lamented as Marianne stepped inside. ‘It was quite nice of him to come to see you today.'

‘It was.' Marianne leaned against the door jamb and stared at the desk where his papers had sat a short time ago. The surface was empty again, with no sign he'd been here, but she knew, the whole house did. He wanted her and she wanted him. She touched her swollen lips, his kiss still lingering there and with it the promise of what could happen when they met again. A passion for anything beside the pianoforte was dangerous, but it didn't mean she couldn't wield a little of its power. Perhaps it was time to play up her less musical assets. ‘I've been thinking, maybe a new gown for the musical evening would be a good idea. Perhaps a blue one like you mentioned the other day?'

‘You mean something like this?' Lady Ellington slid a ladies' magazine off of the table beside her and flipped it open. She held it out to Marianne, struggling as much as her young friend to refrain from showing too much enthusiasm. ‘It would be stunning on you.'

Marianne leaned forward, her eyebrows rising at the cut of the neckline, not sure even the stiffest brocade could contain her. Tongues would wag if she wore something so daring, but never in her life had she wanted a man's consideration as she did Warren's and she would have it. A new dress, and the fondness created by his absence, would all but guarantee it. ‘How fast do you think Madame Martine can sew the dress?'

Lady Ellington flipped closed the magazine and set it aside with a triumphant smile. ‘As I've already sent her instructions to do it up based on your last measurements, I'd say very soon.'

* * *

‘What was so important you had to summon me from Sussex?' Warren demanded as he strode into Mr Berkshire's London office, his legs complaining from the three-hour ride. Whatever it was, it had got his notice and was the only thing short of a fire at Priorton which could have separated him from Marianne and her glorious figure against his.

Mr Berkshire pushed himself up out of the leather chair behind his massive oak desk. He wasn't fat, but solidly built like a dockworker. Despite his size, he possessed the authority and self-assuredness of the aristocrats he flattered to secure their patronage for his authors. He also specialised in anonymous memoirs of wronged society mistresses. He had yet to betray a pen name while marketing salacious stories the public ate up. He held out a copy of the
Morning Post
to Warren. ‘Read this.'

Warren took the newspaper and read the headline proclaiming the latest debate in Parliament for the Pains and Penalties Bill against Queen Charlotte. What the devil was he supposed to be reading? ‘I assume you didn't bring me to London to discuss the proceedings against the Queen.'

Mr Berkshire pointed a stubby finger at the paper. ‘Look at the piece about halfway down.'

Warren found the small article near the bottom, under one lamenting the rising price of wheat. Calling it an article was being generous. It was the latest tattle about a duke and his mistress. The next line made Warren start to sweat.

The famous novelist Sir W—has been enjoying the delights of the country and Lady P—n's vast estates. Even the dowager Countess of M's companion, a young lady of dubious background, whose notorious relation caused quite the scandal four years ago, has been snared by the
Lothario's literary ways.

The moisture on his fingers smudged the ink and blurred the last few words.
The
Morning Post
was a cut-rate rag with more gossip than news, but the salacious stories it published were as popular in London as they were in Sussex. It would only be a matter of time before this one found its way to the country, and Marianne and everyone else's attention.

‘What have you been getting up to at Priorton?' Mr Berkshire asked as he took his seat.

‘Nothing with Lady Preston.' Warren flung the paper down on the desk.

Mr Berkshire's bushy eyebrows rose. ‘Then the rest is true?'

‘It's not a dalliance.' It was a great deal more. With the memory of Marianne in his arms, new stories had begun to fill his mind during the hours he'd spent on the road. It had made the endless countryside pass without notice until the smoke of London had appeared in the distance, just like the craving to be near her had carried him from Priorton this morning. When he'd received her note crying off, he'd refused to let it stand or to allow the incident with Rupert to fester and undo all the progress they'd made. He'd gone to Welton Place, expecting to be turned away, not welcomed by both Lady Ellington and especially Marianne. Writing beside her, he'd felt the excitement and potential which used to fill him with each new story return. It had hurt him to leave her and the pleasure of her kiss, but for the first time in too long he felt like the old Warren, the one who could create not only tales, but every aspect of his own life.

‘Whatever it is, it's not time spent writing. It's been a year since you've given me anything new,' Mr Berkshire reminded him, illustrating how much further Warren still had to go until he was his old self.

‘The repairs to Priorton have interrupted me, but I assure you, you'll have something within the month.' If Mr Berkshire doubted Warren's ability to produce, his biggest ally might find himself another author to support.

Mr Berkshire thumped the top of his desk. ‘I warned you not to buy the thing. Being lord of the manor is distracting you from your real purpose. Stay here in London and work in the peace of your town house.'

‘No, I need the quiet of the country and Miss Domville. She's helping me, the way Leticia used to. The rest will soon be resolved.'

Mr Berkshire leaned forward on his burly arms and spoke with more caution than he usually displayed with Warren. ‘If financial issues are hindering your writing, I can always help.'

Warren shook his head. ‘I've never taken money from you that I haven't earned, I won't do it now.'

‘But you will earn it.' Mr Berkshire threw up his hands, unable to comprehend Warren's reluctance. Sometimes Warren didn't either, but it was who he was and he wasn't going to allow difficulty to make him change. He would fight through his troubles like he always had.

‘When I do, you will pay it to me and not before.'

‘Then hurry up with things. You know how fickle the public is. Wait too long and they'll forget you.'

‘Not with pieces like this running in the paper.'

‘Mr Steed is already taking the necessary steps to make sure the publisher of this fish wrap is silenced by the threat of a libel suit.' Mr Steed was one of the best solicitors in London. To be involved with him in a hearing was to have it in all the papers and to lose, expensively. ‘Who do you think sold them the story?'

‘It could have been Rupert.' He explained about their falling out. ‘He's never shown this much initiative, but he has the most reason to hurt me and he needs the money.'

‘Then you'd better make it clear to him that if he sells any more stories like this he'll have Mr Steed to deal with.'

‘I'll see what I can do before I return to Sussex.' Warren didn't pity his brother-in-law. Rupert deserved every punishment he received.

‘I think I'll come with you to the country. Get in a little hunting and see for myself what's going on there and soothe things over with Lord Preston. Can't have him turning his back on you. He's influential, it'll encourage others.' Mr Berkshire shifted back in his chair and hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket.

‘I don't need a chaperon,' Warren retorted. There'd be enough for him to deal with when he returned without Mr Berkshire hovering over him. Including finishing the book and explaining to Marianne why she was now in the gossip column. He'd promised her no scandal. For the second time in a week he'd failed to keep his promise. If he wanted her in his life, he'd have to win her before she found out about this. It was time to prove his faith in her and them, not because of his work, but because of his heart. He'd lost it to her and in doing so he'd regained something of the man he'd been before the tragedy of Leticia's death. His confidence in himself and his stories had returned with her tenderness and understanding. He wouldn't lose it or her.