Despite her conviction that she would need an entirely new wardrobe for London, Nicci still managed to pack enough valises to almost fill a travelling coach and Marcus was forced to add two more to the train of carriages that set out from Southwood Hall on a brilliantly sunny day.

The journey was smooth and uneventful, but none the less Marissa was pleased to see Matthews’s smiling face as he stood at the head of the staff gathered to welcome them to the Grosvenor Square house. She had been afraid that he would resent Jackson’s arrival to usurp his position, but it soon became clear that the inexperienced young man welcomed direction in managing the Town house now the family were in residence.

The hall was soon full of servants and luggage and Marissa let Gyp out into the garden at the rear, then slipped away to the morning room which overlooked the garden at the rear of the house. She stood by the windows, reflecting how different their arrival had used to be when she was married to Charles. He had hated commotion and disorder so the luggage had always been sent well ahead to ensure that everything would be in its place by the time the Earl and Countess drew up at the front door.

The Grosvenor Square house was decorated to Charles’s exacting taste yet, although it was as cold and impersonal as Southwood Hall, the memories it held were not as painful. Marissa had known that whenever they went up to London she would hardly see her husband from one day to the other. Charles had left her to her own devices. In fact he would hardly speak to her. He’d had his own circle, his own interests, and had spent much of his time at his clubs. After his initial courtship he had rarely accompanied her to Almack’s or the numerous soirées to which they received invitations, leaving his wife to seek the escort of friends.

Marissa had spent many lonely days in London, but at least she had been free of Charles’s dominating presence. And, curiously, here she had never been summoned to his bed-chamber as she had in Norfolk.

Matthews’s discreet cough behind her recalled her to the present. ‘My lady, I was not certain which chamber you would wish to occupy.’

‘Her ladyship will, naturally, have her usual suite of rooms,’ Marcus said before she could reply.

‘No, surely Lady Nicole should occupy those rooms,’ she protested, turning to find them both in the doorway.

‘I insist. Matthews, see her ladyship’s luggage is taken up before any of the rest.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And Matthews, order some tea to be sent up: her ladyship is fatigued.’

She waited until the door closed behind the under-butler before she snapped, ‘Thank you so much for your concern, Marcus, but I am quite capable of ordering my own tea.’

‘You are as pale as linen, Marissa. I am sorry, I appreciate this must be painful for you.’ Marcus came and took her hand, led her to a chair and urged her into it. ‘I should have realised you would have an attachment to this house and will find it difficult to see it occupied by others.’

‘No, not really.’ Marissa was startled into honesty. ‘I never cared much for it. It is not that I dislike it, simply that it has no character, no warmth. My lord ordered it decorated in the Classical taste but I can’t help feeling that it is not so successful in a house of this scale as it is at Southwood Hall.’

‘Very true,’ Marcus agreed drily, his expression critical as he looked around the morning room. The walls were ice-blue with white mouldings. The curtains, again in chilly blue, were draped with almost rigid perfection around the long casements and two marble nymphs flanked the empty grate. It made Marissa cold just to look at it.

‘Now I’ve seen it I have it in mind to redecorate throughout,’ he said. ‘But I would not want to do anything you would dislike.’

‘Oh, yes, I hope you do redecorate. I have always felt that this could be made into a real family home. The house has beautiful proportions, but it is not served well by my lord’s taste.’

Marcus’s eyebrows rose. ‘So, my impeccable late cousin had at least one failing, then?’

She felt the animation drain from her. Marissa lowered her gaze to where her hands had tightened in her lap. ‘As have we all, my lord.’

Marcus dropped to one knee beside her chair and covered her entwined fingers with his. ‘Marissa…’

She glanced up and found he was looking at her with such compassion that her heart knotted within her. If he would only take her in his arms now, hold her, tell her that her marriage had been a bad dream, that it would not be like that with him…

‘Your chamber is prepared, my lady, and I have had the tea tray sent up,’ Matthews said from the doorway. He left as silently as he had appeared, but the spell was broken.

‘Excuse me, I will go up now.’

Marcus rose silently from his knees, keeping his hand over hers. Marissa stood, releasing his light grasp the moment she was on her feet. The moment of intimacy had passed, yet the pressure of his fingers still remained as though imprinted on her skin.

Her chamber was tidy, but it seemed very full. Mary was shaking out and hanging up her gowns, a pile of trunks was stacked in the corner and Nicci, obviously too excited to sit, was pacing the room, chattering non-stop to the stoical maid.

‘Marissa, there you are. Oh, do not bother with tea – can’t we go out to the shops now, or for a drive in the park? Surely it is the fashionable hour to be seen?’

‘Nicci, please sit down. You are badly in poor Mary’s way and I declare you are positively giving me a headache with your pacing. Sit down and have a cup of tea, then we must finish our unpacking, have a rest and a quiet family dinner. Tomorrow we will go shopping, I promise you.’

‘But I need so much – I cannot be seen in these clothes. And there is a pile of invitations and cards downstairs already. If I do not have the right gowns I will miss all the parties.’

Marissa regarded her over the rim of her cup. ‘This is the start of the Season. There will be time, and parties, enough for you to go to. You know your brother will deny you nothing in the way of gowns.’ Nicci was looking mutinous, so she added cunningly, ‘You would not wish to appear to be a provincial by scrambling to attend every event you are invited to, surely? We will be selective and you must not appear over-eager.’

‘Very well. I expect you are right as usual, Marissa. Tell me about your own come-out. Was it very wonderful? Did you have lots of lovely gowns and admirers?’ She took her cup and sank down in a flurry of muslin skirts, ready for a good gossip.

Marissa looked at the girl’s eager face and chose her words with care. ‘My lord proposed to me within a month of my come-out. And of course thereafter I always attended functions with him. But, yes, I had many lovely gowns.’ And indeed she had. Her father, who had ignored her as an inconvenient expense throughout her childhood, had proved unexpectedly generous when it had come to her first Season. He had gambled away most of her late mother’s jewels, but from somewhere he had found the resources to dress her in the very latest and most flattering fashions when she had made her debut.

Almost paralysed with nerves at her first dance, Marissa had not realised she was under the scrutiny of the eligible, uncatchable, Earl of Longminster until he had asked for a dance. He had appeared to admire her for her looks, for the dignity of her demeanour so unusual, he said, in a girl of just eighteen years. She had rapidly discovered, although her nervousness had diminished and she had soon felt at ease in Society, that her lord preferred her to retain an air of control and distance.

Innocent and sheltered, Marissa had not realised until much later how unusual Charles Southwood’s courtship had been. He had never expressed affection, or even partiality. He had never touched her, except to take her hand in the dance or to assist her from the carriage. He had appeared to admire her, but almost as though she were an object, to be selected and purchased, not a woman with feelings and emotions to be engaged.

And if she had been taken aback by her father’s urgency that she accept this very first proposal and that the marriage should swiftly follow, then her puzzlement had been swept aside in the hectic preparations for marriage.

‘Marissa?’ Nicci's voice broke through the memories. Marissa smiled at her. ‘I am sorry, Nicci. I was just reflecting that I am quite jealous of your freedom. I was engaged within weeks of my come-out, so I never really had the opportunity to enjoy myself as a single girl for long.’ She leaned across and took Nicci’s hand. ‘Nicci, take your time. Do not feel you have to hasten into marriage. Enjoy yourself while you can.’

The girl's expression was first puzzled, then she laughed. ‘You sound just like Miss Venables. Do not worry, Marissa, I do not intend to find myself entangled.’

‘Especially as your heart has still not recovered from Mr Ashforde,’ Marissa replied slyly as the door opened and the footman let Gyp in to the room.

 

After dinner the ladies left Marcus to his brandy and retired to the drawing room where the conversation turned to plans for the next day. Nicci demanded to know the names of all the most fashionable modistes and insisted that Marissa and Miss Venables accompany her to all of them as early as possible the next morning.

‘No, no, dear,’ Jane protested. ‘It will never do to patronise a modiste at random. We must consider who will best enhance your style and make gowns suitable for a debutante.’

‘I have heard well of Madame Franchot,’ Nicci said excitedly. ‘Diane – our dear friend Madame de Rostan, who lived near us in Jamaica – patronises her when she comes to England, and Diane always wears the most stunning gowns.’

Marissa, fighting to keep her composure, said nothing but Jane said, ‘No, dear, that would not be a suitable choice. Madame Franchot does not specialise in gowns for young ladies just out, you will be able to shop at her establishment when you are married. But farther down Bruton Street there is an establishment owned by a dressmaker who previously worked for Madame Lavall and I hear she produces the most charming, fresh gowns that will be quite your style.’

‘Very well. And then I will need shoes, and bonnets, and reticules and stockings…’

Marissa laughed at Nicci’s ambitious programme. ‘We will need to plan our days like a military campaign, Nicci, if we are to get through it all.’

A floorboard creaked and Marcus walked into the drawing room, a wicked smile on his lips, his tall figure immaculate in evening dress. ‘Nicci, I am sorry to disappoint you, but Marissa is coming shopping with me tomorrow.’

Marissa looked up, startled, then sent him a reproving frown for teasing his sister.

‘Marcus, don’t be a beast,' Nicci protested. ‘And Marissa can’t go shopping with you. It would not be proper for her to go to tailors and bootmakers. Even I know that.’

‘Oh, I was not intending to buy clothes, sister dear. No, we have something far more important to engage us. Marissa is going to assist me in redecorating this house.’

Nicci was immediately diverted. ‘How wonderful – I knew Marissa could not really like this chilly place, although naturally I would not say so. Now, for my room I want a pink silk tented ceiling and gauze bed curtains, and a shell-shaped bath in my dressing room…’

‘Tell me, Nicci, how have you managed to imagine a room better suited to a class of female I devoutly hope you will never encounter?’

‘My lord,’ Miss Venables cautioned, but Nicci simply pouted at her brother.

‘Stuffy man! I saw it illustrated in the Lady's Intelligencer last month. It was beautiful.’

‘Well, I have no intention of redecorating your room, whatever your journals say. It will soon be buried under piles of shopping in any case. No, we will begin with the hall and the Salon. Marissa, at what hour tomorrow would it be convenient for you to accompany me to Schomberg House? Harding, Howell and Company are reputed to have the latest styles in furniture.’

The thought of spending an intimate day in Marcus’s company choosing furnishings like a married couple was dangerously attractive. Marissa dropped her gaze. ‘I regret that I will be unable to give any attention to furnishings until we have ordered our gowns, my lord. Surely you would not have the house redecorated but none of us fit to entertain in it?’

Marcus crossed one leg over another and looked at her steadily. ‘Come, Marissa, you are reneging on our agreement.’

‘Not at all. I am more than willing to assist you, but all in good time: I had not realised that you were in quite such a hurry, my lord.’

‘I know what it is,’ Nicci teased. ‘Marcus is going to catch a wife and he wants the house to be in the mode to impress the ladies. Is that not so, brother? Deny it if you dare.’

There was time for two heartbeats before Marcus said, ‘Of course. And I must be sure that the house will reflect the taste of the lady I would marry.’

‘Aha!’ Nicci said triumphantly. ‘Hoist by your own petard – whatever that is. You cannot be in a hurry, for how can you redecorate until you have found the lady and discovered her taste?’

Marcus laughed. ‘Touché, brat. Very well, I release Marissa for your orgy of shopping, but I reserve the right to claim her later.’

Marissa’s heart thudded. What a thing to say. What a wonderful thought. It appeared he was still bent on marrying her but she would not, could not, fall in with his plans for her to be the new Countess of Longminster. The realities of marriage would be far worse this time because she loved Marcus, she knew that now. She could not bear to have that love destroyed by marriage when he would all too soon realise she could never be a true wife to him.

‘If we are to make an early start tomorrow we should retire,’ Jane said firmly. ‘Nicci, if you do not go to bed this instant, I can promise that you will have black circles under your eyes. Come along now, say goodnight to your brother and Marissa.'

Left alone, neither Marissa nor Marcus spoke. She because she could not, he because he seemed quite at his ease simply sitting and regarding the flames of the small fire flickering in the grate.

At last the silence became so oppressive, and the tension of waiting for him to speak so great, that Marissa blurted out, 'May I take the barouche – ’

Marcus spoke at the same moment. ‘Would you like to take the barouche tomorrow morning?’ He laughed as their words collided. ‘We appear to think as one.’

‘On that matter, yes,’ she said, as repressively as she could. ‘I would be grateful for the carriage and, if I may, I will take James. I suspect that the groom will find the number of packages too many for him to manage alone.’

‘Take all the footmen, you will probably need them if my little sister has her way. I think I had better go and speak to my banker tomorrow – I will likely have to sell out of Government stocks to pay for this come-out.’

Marissa bit her lip. ‘Perhaps you should let me know what limit you wish to set on Nicci’s expenditure and then I can ensure she remains within it.’

‘No, let her have what you feel is suitable. There is nobody whose taste and judgement I trust more than yours, Marissa. But do not let her monopolise all your time – you have your own plans, I know. And,’ he added, his gaze warm on her face, ‘I look forward to seeing you out of mourning.’

Marissa flushed at both compliments and rose. Marcus got to his feet in response. ‘Jane is quite right, as usual. I will retire,’ she said. ‘We have all had a fatiguing day, with the prospect of another tomorrow. Goodnight, Marcus.’

She smiled and turned to leave, but he came and took her hand in his, brushing his lips lightly over her knuckles in a formal salute. ‘Goodnight, Marissa.’

 

Marcus continued to stand after she had left, gazing thoughtfully at where she had sat. Marissa was an enigma to him. Behind the perfect facade of control and elegance was a laughing, passionate, instinctive young woman and yet the passion seemed to go only so far and was strangely innocent, at variance with her previously married state. It was almost as if it was curbed by something. He searched his mind for the word, but only fear came to mind. That was too preposterous. He shook his head in denial and went to pour himself another brandy from the decanter. What in the world could Marissa have to be afraid of?