‘No, please do not. How could we explain how it happened?’ Marissa protested. ‘Witch hazel will soothe it, please do not concern yourselves.’ She took a sip of the brandy and coughed as it burned its way down her throat. She tried to hand the glass back to Marcus, but he urged her to take more.
Jackson went out as she turned to Marcus. ‘I am so sorry. I apologise for my father’s disgraceful behaviour. I would not have admitted him, but Matthews was unaware of my lord’s orders forbidding Sir George the house and, by the time I had realised who it was, it was too late. Goodness knows what the neighbours will make of the hubbub in the street.’
‘Then this behaviour is not new?’
‘I wish I could say yes, but sadly I have never known him be anything but domineering and given to frequent rages when crossed. I believe that strong drink aggravates it. My lord tolerated him until we were wed, but my father’s constant demands for money and his drunkenness so disgusted Charles that he forbade him the house. He made him a small allowance, which of course I have continued.’
It was so humiliating to have to recount her father’s weaknesses in front of a man she loved and respected. What must he think of her now that he had seen her parent at his very worst?
Marcus got to his feet and stood at the window looking out across the Square. ‘You should not have to deal with him. I will speak to Mr Hope and have him offer your father a single – final – payment in return for the ending of his pension and on condition that he never troubles you again.’
‘No, please.’
‘But why not? Better to get rid of him now than to have him constantly dogging your footsteps.’
Marissa stared at him, her mind able to comprehend nothing but the fact that Charles had paid five thousand guineas for her hand – no, for her body. The thought of Marcus following in her husband’s footsteps to buy off her father for a second time was too abhorrent to contemplate.
It was on the tip of Marcus’s tongue to ask if her father was attempting to blackmail Marissa. He had heard the tail-end of Sir George’s threat to create a scandal that would blight the Southwood name. He knew that Marissa’s loyalty and pride would force her to do whatever lay in her power to prevent such a disclosure, whatever it was. Yet if she would not confide in him, how could he ask? He felt the same frustration he had felt so often before with Marissa, the instinct that at the core of her was another, secret woman he could not reach.
‘You do not know him like I do,’ she was explaining. Marcus jerked his attention back to the present. ‘My father would spend whatever you gave him in a matter of months – gamble it away, drink it away, spend it on – ’ she hesitated, biting her lip, ‘Loose women. And he would still come back for more. The only hope is to continue to pay his pension because he would be reluctant to lose that.’
‘Then I will pay it so he will have no excuse to approach you in the future.’
‘But he is my father, it is my responsibility.’
‘You are my responsibility now, Marissa,’ he said quietly. He went to her, took her chin gently in his palm and tipped up her troubled face. For a long moment they gazed into the others’ eyes, then he got his breathing under control, said. ‘You are my cousin, after all and I am head of the family.’ He dropped a chaste and cousinly kiss on her flushed cheek.
Marissa did not know what to say, or do. She was overwhelmed by his closeness, by the warmth of his body, by the scent of his cologne. Whatever else she wanted to be, it was not his cousin, or sister or whatever he was trying to tell her with that kiss. With an effort she banished her thoughts from her face. ‘Thank you, Marcus. I would be glad to be rid of the responsibility, I must admit. I am happy to abide by whatever you and Mr Hope decide is for the best. Now, if you will forgive me, I think I will go and lie down.’
In her room Marissa found Mary tidying drawers and sent her off for witch hazel and lint to bind her bruised wrist. The girl wanted to make a soothing tisane and help her mistress into bed but, despite her excuse to Marcus, Marissa was determined not to give in to her nerves. Fresh air and sunshine were what she needed, not moping inside letting her mind run endlessly over her father’s words, the realisation that her husband had effectively bought her.
A new primrose-yellow pelisse with wide cuffs hid the bandage around her wrist, and a deep-brimmed cottager bonnet shaded her face from scrutiny. Marissa picked up her gloves and reticule and went down to the carriage waiting at the front door. The under-footman swung up behind and the coachman took the corner into Grosvenor Street at a stylish clip.
She was human enough to be pleased with the picture the stylish equipage presented. Once into the street the coachman was forced to rein back the spirited team, but the slower pace gave Marissa the opportunity to bow to acquaintances as the open carriage passed others out for jaunts or on shopping expeditions in the warm sunshine.
Marissa found, despite her recent shock, that the expedition was raising her spirits. It would be hard to remain indifferent to the colour and bustle of the streets as they drove through them, occasionally coming to a complete halt as a heavy wagon loaded with coal manoeuvred around a corner or a hackney carriage plying for trade created a temporary jam outside a fashionable establishment.
Street traders cried their wares: ‘Pots mended… Chairs caned, chairs caned… Fresh milk, straight from the cow… Ribbons and laces, French laces… Knives sharpened. Bring me your knives… Latest broadsheets! Read all about the hanging of Black Hook the Highwayman!’
New Bond Street gave way to Old Bond Street and they turned left into Piccadilly, past the front of Burlington House. Marissa had dutifully accompanied her husband to view the Elgin Marbles when they had been exhibited there, but had not admired their cool beauty. The Earl of Longminster, on the other hand, had been deeply impressed and, Marissa had suspected, not a little put out that it was Lord Elgin and not himself who had acquired them.
The memory of Charles was uncomfortable, and Marissa metaphorically shook herself as they approached Hatchard’s. The coachman skilfully pulled into a space right outside the double windows of the bookshop and the footman jumped down to lower the steps and open the door of the carriage. Marissa took his arm and stepped down, making her way past the bench where footmen in livery chatted and gossiped while their masters and mistresses browsed inside.
Mr Hatchard himself hastened forward to attend personally to such a distinguished customer and led her to a table where the latest novels were set out. ‘The set in half-calf, my lady, or the blue tooled leather? A very handsome set in that binding, but perhaps a little masculine?’
Ashamed of her mood at breakfast time, Marissa purchased the half-calf edition of Guy Mannering for Jane, then browsed happily. It was pleasant buying gifts and she found some thoroughly frivolous love poems for Nicci and Southey’s stirring Life of Nelson for Marcus.
Finally back in the barouche, with her parcels piled on the seat beside her, Marissa ordered the coachman to return to Grosvenor Square through Hyde Park. The sunshine was so bright that she raised her sunshade, a new acquisition in amber silk that cast a flattering glow over her complexion. The Park was green and fresh and, despite the fact that it was early for the truly fashionable promenade hour, many members of London Society were taking the air on horseback, in open carriages or on foot. The coachman was cal
led upon to pull up several times for Marissa to exchange greetings with acquaintances or simply because the press of phaetons, curricles and barouches slowed the traffic to walking pace.
After half an hour their circle through the Park had brought them almost to Grosvenor Gate Lodge and their exit into the top of King Street. The footman leaned over. ‘Excuse me, my lady, but I do believe that is Madame de Rostan waving to you.’
‘Pull up, please, Morton,’ Marissa ordered, firmly quelling a desire to pretend she had not seen the other woman. To her surprise, Diane was alone and on foot and there was no sign of Nicci. ‘Good morning, Madame,’ Marissa said, managing a smile. ‘Has Nicci returned to Grosvenor Square already?’
The older woman laughed. ‘She met the Misses Richardson in the linen drapers and they invited her to luncheon. I let them take my carriage – and of course my maid is with them and will ensure Nicci comes directly home afterwards. I do hope you have no objection?’
‘Indeed, no. How could I?’ Marissa said, rather coolly. ‘Nicci is not my ward, nor do I have power to control her doings. I am sure her brother would have no objection to any decision such an old friend as yourself might make.’