She saw him watching her as he listened to a lecture from Lady Augusta on the probable shortcomings of his cook. Judging by the array of dishes that the servants were even now bearing in, Mrs Wood’s cooking would stand up to the worst criticisms from Aunt Augusta, as usual.
Even so, Marissa could not help herself worrying about the arrangements, but she relaxed as the dishes were laid out. Stuffed soles, a fricassee of veal, chickens, curry of rabbits, a vegetable pudding, sweetbreads, buttered lobster and a fat goose created a cornucopia of local fare which Marissa hoped would show Marcus the best that his estate could offer.
She met Jackson’s eye and saw a glimmer of satisfaction in their depths as he supervised the footmen removing covers and pouring wine. The volume of conversation began to rise and with a sigh of relief she smiled down the length of the table at Marcus. At that distance the likeness to her late husband disappeared and all she was aware of was Marcus’s mane of blond hair, the relaxed grace of his body, the broad set of his shoulders. Despite the formal evening clothes he still managed to radiate a dangerous sense of exoticism.
And yet she felt safe with him. If it had been Charles in that seat she would have been picking at her food, her stomach churning with nervous anticipation of an error, a slip by the servants which would mar his expectations of perfection.
Marcus caught the smile, read the pure, uncomplicated pleasure in it, and his irrational jealousy and bad humour vanished. Of course she was not hankering after that young puppy of a curate. Nor, for the first time since he had known her, did she seem trapped in some sad memory.
His attention was distracted momentarily by the giggles of the Vicar’s daughters and Miss Ollard. They, and Nicci, seemed so much younger than Marissa and made him dread the thought of someone like them for a bride. He had resigned himself to the thought that sooner or later he was going to have to go up to London, brave the Marriage Mart and find some suitable young lady to be mistress of Southwood, mother to his heir.
He looked again at Marissa, almost luminous at the other end of the table, her skin g
lowing in the candlelight, the diamonds glinting at her throat and in her dark hair. Why had he not thought of her before? There was no bar to marriage with a cousin’s widow. She was beautiful, intelligent, mature beyond her years, well used to running a large establishment. Nicci loved her, that much was plain. And she was not averse to him, he thought. When he had kissed her it had been as though a fire had kindled into life.
Yes… why not Marissa? In fact, why not broach it this evening after the guests had departed?
Marissa was too far away to read Marcus’s expression, but she noticed his sudden stillness, the intensity with which he was gazing at her. Was something wrong? She checked the room hastily, then he seemed to recollect himself and began to talk to Lady Ollard on his left-hand side.
It was time she stopped daydreaming and paid more attention to her guests, Marissa chided herself. She turned and listened intently to Mr Woodruffe’s knowledgeable suggestions for plants for her refurbished gardens at the Dower House.
‘Now roses are always safe on these heavy soils and of course you are sheltered from the worst of the winds in that dip. Lavender, however, might suffer, although if you get your gardener to dig in plenty of gravel that will stop any root-rot…’
He was well away, needing only occasional nods and murmurs of encouragement. Marissa glanced down the table and frowned slightly to see Nicci’s heightened colour. Her laugh was becoming rather shrill and she had been talking to Crispin Ashforde almost exclusively. It would never do for her to be setting her cap at him too obviously, especially when Marcus seemed disinclined to like the young man. She would have to do something to change that opinion because she was still convinced that the curate would be the ideal husband for Nicci.
The servants were removing dishes, re-laying the table with an array of sweetmeats and desserts. Syllabubs, jellies, a confection reproducing the frankly hideous fountain in the West Court in sugar, custards and baskets of pastries were set before them. One of the footmen lifted the heavy epergne loaded with fruit from the sideboard to place in the centre of the table. It was off balance, and another man hurried to help him, but before he could do so the top layer of fruit spilt over, thudding onto the table and scattering between the chairs.
Footmen scrambled for the fruit. Jackson seized the epergne and set it firmly on the table and Marcus laughed out loud. The guests, cheerfully fielding fruit as it rolled in their direction, joined in.
Marissa dared breathe when she saw guests laughing, the amusement on Marcus’s face. She made herself release her grip on the arms of her chair and smile too.
The meal seemed to drag on as she toyed with three grapes on her plate without lifting even one to her lips. At last she could rise, catch the eye of Lady Augusta and lead the ladies out, leaving the gentlemen to their port.
Marissa struggled to regain her composure as they entered the Salon. Mechanically she encouraged Lady Augusta in her efforts to set up a four for whist and found music for the young ladies to play later.
Was she never to be free of Charles? Would her husband always haunt her, dominating her in death as he had in life? She shivered as she remembered what had always followed any domestic transgression for which he held her responsible. The late Earl had believed that physical punishment was necessary to discipline servants, hounds and his wife. He would never show the slightest sign of displeasure in public: chastisement belonged in the bedchamber…
Chapter Nine
Half an hour later, when Marcus led the gentlemen back in to join the ladies, the whist table was already established and Miss Catherine Ollard was turning over the pile of music sheets on the piano, rather too obviously hoping that she would be asked to perform.
‘Will you not play for us, Miss Ollard?’ Marissa asked.
‘Oh, well, that is, I do not know if my playing is… But if you insist, Lady Longminster.’ She sat at the piano, settled her skirts and opened a volume of ballads on the music rest before her.
The younger Mr French stepped forward. ‘May I turn for you, Miss Ollard?’
The Woodruffe sisters raised their eyebrows at each other but sat politely to listen and the remaining gentlemen disposed themselves about the room.
Marcus came and sat next to Marissa on one of the pair of sofas flanking the fireplace. He stretched out his long legs. folded his arms and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Did you have to do that?’
He was rather too close for convention, the sleeve of his coat almost touching her gloved arm. Melissa felt the warmth of him, smelled the sandalwood cologne he wore and felt her heart begin to thump. Somehow she managed to give him a reproving stare and whisper, ‘Shh.’
Under cover of the opening bars he leaned closer and whispered in return, ‘You look even more magnificent when you frown at me.’
‘Do not be ridiculous.’ She could feel the colour rising up her throat and turned her head away. Why he should be flirting with her she could not imagine, but that was undoubtedly what he was doing. She might never have been involved in flirtation before, but she could recognise it when it was happening.
‘There is nothing ridiculous about it, you must know how beautiful you look this evening.’