The sooner I speak to the Earl about leaving, the better, Marissa thought as she walked back to the small parlour that did duty as a morning room. As she opened the door Gyp, her Cavalier King Charles spaniel, jumped down from the window seat with a sharp bark and danced around her feet, plumed tail waving. Marissa scooped up the little dog, rubbed her fingers through his silky hair and laughed as he tried to lick her face.

‘There’s a good boy. Has James taken you for your morning walk? We will have a run after luncheon, I promise. Now, sit down while I look at the accounts.’

Gyp, recognising that he was not going to be taken out just yet, settled down in front of the fire with a sigh and promptly fell asleep. Marissa sat at her little French bureau in the bay of the window and opened her account book. But she made no attempt to total the columns of figures, or to puzzle out why the cost of wax candles had become so high.

As she had thought, she could see clearly across the frosty courtyard into the estate office window. If she kept an eye on it, she would be able to intercept the Earl when he left and speak to him before luncheon. After all, she reasoned, biting the end of her pen, she could hardly speak about the Whitings moving to the Dower House in the presence of the butler himself. And one or two of the relatives who had come for the reading of the will had decided, in view of the inclement weather, to wait a few days for the harsh frost to thaw, so they too would be at the table.

She shifted uncomfortably on the padded seat. She felt guilty about her bitter words to Marcus – Cousin Marcus – in the corridor. This was no way to deal with the man who was now master of Southwood and, apart from her father, now her closest male relative, if only by marriage. He would be returning to London and then to Jamaica within a matter of weeks. By the time they met again that awkward encounter in the Long Gallery would be long forgotten. Must be forgotten.

Cousin Marcus appeared to be pacing the small office. She could see him passing and repassing the window, occasionally gesticulating with both hands to drive home a point. It appeared to be a perfectly amicable conversation because, when she caught a glimpse of Poole, the steward was nodding in agreement.

At eleven o’clock a footman crossed the courtyard, balancing a tray with some caution. The cobbles were rimed with frost in the shadows which still lay around the edges of the courtyard and Marissa suppressed a smile at the sight of the man mincing along in his leather-soled buckled shoes, while struggling to keep level the load of two tankards and a platter of bread and cheese.

The arrival of the food did not appear to halt the discussion and Marcus continued to pace, despite the tankard in his hand. It was almost an hour later before the door swung open. With a clap on the steward’s shoulder Marcus strode off leaving Poole looking somewhat dazed in the doorway.

There was no doubt that Mr Poole was finding that the fourth Earl was a very different proposition from his predecessor. Charles had made his expectations crystal-clear and had then interfered only on the rare occasions when they had not been met.

Marissa dropped her pen and whisked out of the door, running downstairs to waylay Marcus before he reached the Hall. ‘My lord! Could you spare me a few moments?’

‘Of course, Cousin.’ He turned to follow her up the stairs.

‘I realise it is unusual to receive you in my parlour,’ Marissa began as she pushed open the door to her sanctum, ‘But I have a particular reason for wishing to speak to you alone.’

At the sight of the answering glint in his eyes she sat down hastily by the fire and gathered Gyp onto her lap. The spaniel curled a lip at the intruder but Marcus, sinking into the chair opposite, snapped his fingers and the little dog jumped down and trotted over to sniff at his feet. After a moment he curled up again, his chin comfortably on one of Marcus’s boots and went back to sleep.

‘Gyp!’ Marissa was indignant at her pet’s perfidy. Gyp disliked men generally, although he tolerated the footmen who took him for walks, and he had particularly hated the late Earl.

‘I do not know why you should object,’ Marcus observed mildly. ‘He is much more of a handicap to my improper behaviour lying on my feet than he ever was in your arms.’

Marissa could feel a blush heating her cheeks. And I must stop thinking about him by his first name. ‘I think we should forget that incident, Cousin; put it behind us and pretend it never happened.’

‘Feel free to pretend what you like,’ he returned ambiguously.

‘Er… Yes, well, what I wanted to speak to you about was the Dower House.’

‘I wanted to discuss that too. Poole tells me it is in good condition and well furnished, if not in the latest style. That will be rectified, but of course you must stay here for as long as you wish. I will be gone for many months, perhaps a year, in Jamaica, and when my sister and I return there will still be no need to drive you from your home. You have only to say which suite of apartments you wish to retain and they are yours.’

‘No.’ The word burst from her before she could contain it, and he looked at her in surprise. ‘I mean, no, thank you, Cousin Marcus. The Dower House will do me very well, and I intend to move there as soon as my companion, Miss Venables, arrives from Cumbria and the funeral party disperses.’

Marcus steepled his fingers and regarded her gravely over the top of them. ‘I do beg your pardon, Cousin. I should have realised that this house must hold unbearably painful memories for you now.’

Marissa dropped her gaze to her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. ‘Indeed, yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I will be glad to be gone from it.’ After a moment she rallied slightly and added, ‘But of course I will regard it as my duty to oversee the housekeeping here in your absence.’

 

Marcus noted her use of the word duty, yet again. She was young to be so serious about that. He could imagine her over the coming year, clad in her unrelieved mourning black, forcing herself day after day to revisit Southwood Hall in pursuit of her duty.

‘This is a charming room,’ he remarked, in an attempt to ease the tension. The colours were soft: rose-pinks, delphinium-blue, touches of coral. There was an Aubusson rug on the polished boards, the furniture was in the country style and the upholstery bore the marks of Gyp’s scrabbling claws. It was warm, cosy, slightly untidy, with books overflowing the table, the dog’s drinking bowl in the hearth, a sewing basket with the lid askew and skeins of thread spilling out.

‘It is a very untidy room.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘But then, my lord never came in here…’ She stopped, as if aware she was in danger of saying too much, revealing too much about herself.

Rather hastily she went on, ‘But the reason I wished to speak to you alone is the question of the servants. Mrs Whiting has told me that she and her husband are finding this big house too much for them now. They would like to come with me to the Dower House, but we are all conscious that you must have reliable people in place. Perhaps you will be bringing staff from Jamaica?’

‘I have my own butler, Edward Jackson: I could not leave him behind if I tried. If the Whitings wish to go with you, then they do so with my blessing. Is there a reliable couple you could recommend to take their place here temporarily? It will, after all, be very quiet for at least a year while I am away and you are in mourning.’

‘The butler at Grosvenor Square, Matthews, is a good man and Whiting considers him ready for greater responsibility. Besides, I imagine you will close the London house while you are away. However, he is unmarried, so you will need to engage a housekeeper. Mind you,’ Marissa added thoughtfully, ‘Mrs Wood, our cook here, is quite capable of managing the housekeeping while there is no one in residence. And with the Whitings close at hand, if she and Matthews have any difficulties they will have ready advice.’

Clearly satisfied with such a neat solution, Marissa sat back against the cushions with a sudden happy smile which illuminated her face and made her look absurdly young.

Gyp started out of his doze, as though the foot he was resting against had moved, and Marcus said abruptly, ‘An admirable solution. Shall we visit the Dower House after luncheon?’

 

Marissa asked Mrs Whiting to accompany them on their expedition to the Dower House. It was. of course, entirely proper to take a chaperone but that aside, Marissa recognised in herself a growing susceptibility to Marcus’s charm that made her wary of spending too much time alone with him. It would never do to become accustomed to his company, she chided herself.

The housekeeper was delighted at the opportunity to survey her future domain. ‘The Dower House was the home of Miss Anne Southwood for many years, my lord,’ she explained as the carriage made its cautious way along the frozen drive. The coachman was concerned about the horses’ legs on the iron-hard ground and the slow progress made the three occupants of the carriage glad of the foot-warmers and thick fur rugs they were wrapped up in.

‘She died just before you came here, my lady, if you recall. But the house has been well looked after, so we should not find much to concern us.’ She chatted on comfortably about how she had instructed the elderly married couple who had stayed on after their mistress had died to light fires and to clean and air all the rooms. ‘For once you let damp in, with us so close to the sea, my lord, you never get rid of it.’

‘It seems strange that we are so near to the sea yet cannot see it,’ Marcus remarked. ‘I can smell it when the wind is onshore, but I can neither hear nor see it, and I am used to doing both at home in Jamaica.’

‘Yes, the land rises so gently to the house, and there is over a mile of saltings and marsh before the beach, so that you must ride almost to the dunes before you see it,’ Marissa explained. ‘If it were not so cold I would suggest going down there, but the wind will cut like a knife beyond the protection of the trees.’

‘I find it hard to believe it could be possible to be any colder,’ Marcus said with a grimace as the avenue of holm oaks widened out to reveal the neat little Queen Anne Dower House. Marissa always thought it sat like a doll’s house in its hollow, surrounded by walled gardens.

The Bishops, the elderly caretakers, were watching out for them and hurried the chilly party into a snug hall with a fire burning in the grate and cheerful brocade hangings shutting out the draughts.

Mrs Bishop soon took Mrs Whiting off to discuss the vexed question of the kitchen range and its persistently smoking chimney, leaving her husband to conduct Marissa and the Earl around the house.

‘I had forgotten how charming this house is,’ Marissa exclaimed in delight as they entered the drawing room. She walked across to look out of long windows which opened onto what would be a flourishing rose garden in the summer. ‘How nicely you and Mrs Bishop have kept everything.’

Bishop, clearly much flattered by the attention, proudly conducted them round every one of the three reception rooms, the little library and the six bedrooms.

‘This will suit me very well,’ Marissa declared as they climbed the back stairs to check that the servants’ accommodation was in good order.

‘I agree it is a charming house and very home-like and comfortable,’ Marcus agreed. ‘But, Lady Longminster, do you not feel it is perhaps a little old-fashioned, especially in contrast to the Hall? Shall I order a complete redecoration and refurnishing to be set in train? I have to confess I find it delightful and don’t find the worn fabrics or faded paint objectionable. It is welcoming, a house that has been home to happy people. But you are used Southwood Hall, in all its Palladian magnificence. It is showpiece and it will take me a while to feel at home in it, I fear.’

‘Oh no, leave this as it is, please.’ Marissa spoke vehemently, and then saw the quickly suppressed look of surprise on Marcus’s face at her warmth. ‘I mean I would prefer to live here a while and get to know the house before I decide on any changes.’

Marcus was still regarding her quizzically so Marissa fell back upon a tactic she had always fund mollified Charles. She dropped her eyes and murmured, ‘I will be guided by you, my lord, but at the moment I feel too shaken to make any decisions.’

There was a pregnant pause. Marissa kept her eyes down, sensing that this man was not convinced by a show of feminine weakness from a woman who had only hours before been most decided in her plans to leave the Hall, engage a companion and arrange her own domestic staff. However, he merely said, ‘It will be as you wish, Lady Longminster. You have only to command the steward when you have decided what you want to do.’

Mrs Bishop bustled in, bobbed a curtsey and turned briskly to her husband. ‘Now then, Bishop. What are you about, keeping my lady and his lordship up here in these attics? Come you down, ma’am. I’ve laid tea out in the little parlour.’ She led the way, chattering as she negotiated the winding stairs, and pushed open the baize door into the main house. ‘Not that the little parlour is the right room for afternoon tea, I knows that, but it is the cosiest on a day like today, there’s no denying that…’

As the door closed behind her Marcus laughed. ‘Does that woman ever stop talking?’

‘Probably not, but Mrs Whiting knows how to manage her. Tea, my lord?’

‘Thank you.’ He leaned across to take it, his fingertips just brushing hers on the rim of the saucer. ‘I thought we had agreed that you would call me Marcus when we are alone.’

Marissa met his gaze across the tea table. ‘And I thought I had consented to call you Cousin.’ She really could not afford to be sent into a fluster every time she found herself in his company. It was the informal manners of the West Indies, of course; that was why he seemed so warm, why his conversation felt so intimate. But underneath it all he was a man, and they all had the same expectations, the same demands. On the surface Marcus Southwood simply had a different style.

 

They fell silent, sipping tea in the comfort of the parlour and gradually Marissa relaxed, apparently letting her mind fall to wool-gathering. Marcus could not tell what she was thinking, but he thought he had never seen her look so… so… He groped for the word in his mind… So real. When he’d first seen her she had seemed another marble statue in the gallery, or one of the portraits come to life. Everything about her had been constrained and stiff. Now, in this cosy little parlour, he felt he was with a flesh and blood woman.

The fire had brought a glow to her cheeks, her shoulders were no longer set as she leaned back against the faded chintz and one tendril of hair had worked loose and hung behind her left ear.

‘Will you not be lonely?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Lonely? Living here?’ Marissa seemed taken aback. ‘Why, no more than usual.’ Her lashes fluttered down, hiding the wide hazel eyes. ‘I mean, I will have Miss Venables, and Mrs Whiting, of course. And Lady Augusta will visit, even though we are in mourning.’

‘No, I mean – Forgive me, but do you not have any friends of your own age?’

‘No, Cousin,’ she said simply. ‘I came straight from my father’s house in Hampshire. I met my lord at the start of my first Season, so I had no opportunity to make close friends amongst the others making their come-out. And my lord, being older than myself, had his own circle of friends, which of course became mine.’

Marcus cursed himself for his tactlessness. The conversation had brought a tautness to her face and the old wariness back to her eyes. Her devotion to her late husband was unquestionable, and he was a fool to keep reminding her of a pain so newly inflicted.

To cover the awkward moment he said bluntly, ‘Would you advise me, Cousin? I have an idea in my mind concerning my sister Nicole which I would like to explore with you. She is very young – only sixteen – and she found the sea voyage exhausting. Despite being used to inshore boats all her life, she was sick from the moment we reached deep ocean and I know she dreads the return journey.’ He leaned over to put his cup down. ‘Now I have to tell her that we must return almost at once, that she must say goodbye to her home and friends and face yet another long ocean journey.’

‘Oh, poor thing.’ Marissa said, with ready sympathy. ‘What an awful prospect for her – and for you to see her suffer so.’ It was obvious to Marcus that Marissa’s idea of his sufferings – those of a caring and sensitive brother – were far removed from the reality of living with a wilful and tempestuous girl. Nicci had been allowed to run wild and so far had never been asked to face anything unpleasant in her life. There would be endless rows, sulks and tears from the moment he broke the news until they arrived back in London, perhaps a year hence.

‘I want – I would like – to leave her here in your care and not to expose her to the rigours of both the journey and the pain of parting from her home again.’ He leaned back in the chair and watched Marissa’s face, gauging her reaction. ‘I know it is asking a lot to take on the care of a young, high-spirited girl under any circumstances, let alone these.’

He watched the calm, thoughtful face before him and realised with a start that Marissa could only be a few years older than Nicci and had married scarcely older than his sister was now. Had she always had this grave air of reflection, of inner constraint? Had she ever been a headstrong young girl and, if so, what had it taken to effect the change in her?

‘But of course she must come here to me,’ Marissa exclaimed. ‘I could not bear the thought of her having such an experience. Whatever happens she will plunged into an unknown world, having to learn the rules and expectations of a new way of life, cut off from everything that was familiar. Better by far that she does not have to experience two more long voyages first. Poor little thing. She must be so homesick, and missing you. With whom is she staying?’

‘A West India merchant by the name of Montfort and his wife. I usually stay with them on my visits to London and fortunately they have several children, including a girl of Nicci’s age.’

‘It must be a comfort to you to know she is in the care of friends. Mrs Montfort will be helping her to buy her mourning, I expect.’

Marcus reflected ruefully that if Mrs Montfort was succeeding in getting Nicci to concentrate on anything as dull as buying mourning, let alone wearing it and behaving in a manner befitting her new station in life as sister of an earl, then he would eat his hat.

‘I cannot tell you what a comfort it will be to have her living quietly in the country. I only hope it is not an imposition on you in your present state of mourning.’

‘Oh, no, it will be a pleasure to have her here. It will be a pleasant novelty too, to have someone to look after. And sixteen is such a vulnerable age for a young girl.’