Laurent smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the dark blue superfine cloth across his master’s shoulders, then stood back and viewed the finished effect critically.

‘For heaven’s sake, man,’ Marcus protested as the valet made another dart forward with the clothes brush. ‘We have been at this long enough. The guests will be here shortly.’ He grimaced down at his legs. ‘Knee breeches. Anyone would think we were in London instead of the depths of Norfolk.’

‘It is à la mode, my lord,’ Laurent demurred. ‘It is expected and, after all, it will be a social event spoken of for months afterwards in the neighbourhood.’ He gave a final, unnecessary polish to Marcus’s shoe buckles and added gloomily, ‘After all, what else is there to talk of in this place which le bon Dieu has undoubtedly forsaken?’

Marcus fixed him with a stern eye. ‘If I have to learn to be a respectable earl, then you must learn to be a respectable valet, Laurent.’

‘Pah.’ He picked up Marcus’s discarded linen and stalked towards the door. ‘I will be respectable, my lord, but do not demand that I like this place. I will die of the pneumonia, sans doute, if I do not first expire from the food.’

Marcus grinned at his own reflection in the glass. The man had been with him for years. He had tried to encourage him to stay in Jamaica, knowing he would hate England, but the valet had insisted that his place was at his master’s side, although it would be the death of him.

Not that Marcus couldn’t see his point. He too yearned for the warmth, not just of the weather, but of the people. The social mores of English society came hard when one had lived a life characterised by informality, driven by the climate and the dictates of nature. And he missed the Caribbean sea. The cold, grey waves washing against the coast here bore no resemblance to the inviting blue depths of Jamaican waters, filled with fish as bright as jewels.

There was little point in dwelling on all that. It was the past and his new life as the fourth Earl of Longminster was waiting for him. Tonight’s soirée was his first foray into county Society, and for the sake of Nicci’s future – and his own – he had to make it a success.

Marcus strolled over to the window, resisting the urge to run one finger under his collar, resenting the control that the formal evening clothes imposed. But Marissa would be expecting to entertain in this style and he could not let her down. He had not failed to notice the air of rigidly suppressed excitement under her perfect poise. Like a cat’s fur in a thunderstorm, her mass of hair seemed to crackle with energy under the restraint of its pins. It reminded him of the night she had found him in the Long Gallery and the one long hair that had curled itself around his finger like a living thing was still where he had placed it, between the pages of his pocketbook.

 

A mile away across the park Marissa was completing her toilette. Seated in front of her dressing table mirror, Gyp curled up at her feet, she watched Mary’s deft fingers capture, twist and pin up her hair.

On an impulse Marissa reached up and teased out the short curls around her hairline.

‘Oh, that is pretty, my lady,’ Mary murmured.

‘Yes. Yes, I think it will do,’ Marissa decided, rather surprised at her own reflection. She had never permitted the slightest curl to escape from its tight chignon but it became her, she realised, emphasising her cheekbones and softening the curve of her brow. ‘Now, the diamond set, I think, Mary.’

The maid fastened the necklace, then began to secure the coiled hair on her crown with matching combs.

Marissa adjusted the cold stones on her throat, then lifted the drop earrings and fastened them to her lobes. She had never particularly cared for the set, although her husband had insisted she wear it often. Now, against the severity of black silk, the stones sparked with a hot fire she had never seen before.

Mary helped her with the long white kid gloves, clasped a diamond bracelet around her wrist then, as she stood, bent to tweak out the heavy flounce around the hem. She puffed up the little sleeves before draping a white silk stole with a long fringe over Marissa’s elbows.

With a tap on the door Jane entered, resplendent in a new plum satin gown. ‘My dear, you look lovely. The carriage is here, and we must be off. It is six o’clock and we promised the Earl that we would be there to help him receive.’

The shadows were lengthening in the park as the barouche pulled up at the front door and Marissa was seized by the strangeness of arriving as a guest at what, until so recently, had been her own house. She was looking forward to this dinner party, she realised. For the first time she would not have to sit in constant fear that some detail would be found wanting, a shortcoming that would be visited upon her later by her lord. It was not the only reason for her anticipation, but it was the only one that she was prepared to acknowledge to herself.

The door was opened by Jackson, dignified in evening black, but still managing to look dangerously out of place. He bowed the ladies in, handed their cloaks to a footman, conducted them past a small string ensemble who were tuning up on the landing and into the Salon.

‘Lady Longminster, Miss Venables, my lord.’

 

For a moment Marcus did not recognise the dazzling young woman in the doorway. He felt his jaw drop and pulled himself together with an effort. He had seen Marissa virtually every day for the last fortnight but she had always been the Marissa he had come to know: poised, rigidly groomed, controlled, friendly yet distant.

But this was a different woman. Her hair sparkled in the candlelight, her skin, always so white, seemed creamy against the diamonds and, with a shock, he remembered that she was not much older than his sister.

Nicole, who was wearing a simple gown of midnight blue appropriate to a young lady who was not yet out, gasped audibly. ‘Oh, Marissa, how pretty you look.’ She dashed over, caught Marissa’s hands in hers and turned to appeal to him, ‘Do you not think Marissa looks pretty, Marcus?’

‘No, I do not,’ he drawled. His sister gasped indignantly but, before she could protest, he said, ‘I think she looks beautiful.’ Marissa blushed rosily and he turned to her companion. ‘Miss Venables, may I be so bold as to compliment you on the elegance of your gown?’

Miss Venables responded with a gracious inclination of the head as Jackson announced, ‘There is a carriage approaching, my lord.’

Hastily the party assembled themselves to receive their guests and before long the Salon was alive with the sound of chattering voices and the swish of silk.

When they had constructed the guest list Marissa had been apologetic about the lack of distinguished company. ‘With the start of the Season so close our more fashionable neighbours are up in Town,’ she had explained. ‘The Blackwoods, the Exeters… I wonder if the Scotts have left yet.’ In the end the guest list had included the local squirearchy and professional people, with a touch of aristocratic eccentricity in the form of Lady Augusta, who now had Sir Henry Ollard trapped next to the mantelpiece and was berating him over the state of his coverts. ‘How you expect to enjoy a decent run if you cannot provide the cover for the foxes I do not know.’

Sir Henry, a mild man. was protesting faintly that his keepers were doing their best, but was making no headway.

He saw Lady Ollard, who was making polite conversation with Mr and Mrs French, raise her eyebrows but she passed no comment. Doubtless, he thought, she was well used to Lady Augusta. He saw with some sympathy that Mr and Mrs French, more recent arrivals on the local scene, tended to start nervously when Lady Augusta approached them. Mrs French, having moved from the bustling heart of the City where her husband had made a substantial fortune, was finding it difficult to adjust to an entirely new social scene, he thought, making a mental note to set her at her ease.

He scanned the room, on the look-out for any guest left without someone to talk to. Miss Catherine Ollard was attempting, not very successfully, to engage young Stephen French in conversation but, as both he and his brother were more interested in Mr Ashforde’s description of a recent shooting trip, her efforts were wasted. The Misses Woodruffe were chattering to Nicci about clothes, but she was only half listening, he saw. Following the direction of her gaze he saw that her shining eyes were fixed on the perfect Classical profile of the young curate. What’s his name? Ashton?

Marcus politely extracted himself from a discussion of a local political scandal which was engrossing Dr Robertson, Mr Hope and Miss Venables and strolled across to where Marissa was standing by herself, watching the group of young people.

‘And what is my little sister up to now?’ he enquired softly.

‘Oh, nothing.’ Marissa smiled tolerantly. ‘She is enjoying the party, which is only natural. I am afraid it has been so very dull for her at the Dower House this past year and she really has been very good.’

Her lips curved in a soft smile and Marcus, seeing where she was looking, frowned. ‘Is that the curate? What's his name, Ashton?’

‘Ashforde,’ Marissa corrected. ‘He is very much a favourite hereabouts, considered quite an embellishment to local Society. He is the second son of Viscount Bassingbourn but very unlike his elder brother. Mr Ashforde is dedicated to his calling, and is very erudite.’

‘Popinjay,’ Marcus muttered.

‘Oh, no, not that. I admit his quite extraordinary good looks draw more attention to him than he would wish, but it has not turned his head in the slightest.’

‘You think him good-looking, then?’ Marcus eyed the white skin, Classical features and elegant figure of the curate with distaste and an uneasy feeling that, with his black hair and cultured manners, Mr Ashforde must offer a reflection of the late Earl to a woman who was still mourning her husband.

 

Marissa turned to stare at Marcus. ‘Good-looking? Why, certainly, he is perhaps the most handsome man I have ever seen: he could take his place on a pedestal here in the sculpture gallery and rival Adonis.’

Marcus’s expression mystified her. What had Mr Ashforde done to displease him? It was so much accepted that the curate combined excellent manners with physical perfection that it seemed quite natural to discuss him as one would any other beautiful phenomenon. He did not cause her heart to flutter but she could understand the effect that he had.

Marcus still seemed strangely out of humour to Marissa when Jackson announced that dinner was served. He offered Lady Augusta his arm and Marissa found Sir Henry, who would sit at her right hand. Gradually the party sorted themselves out and processed past the string quartet into the Small Dining Chamber, a cavernous room only slightly less imposing than the Grand Dining Chamber. Marcus, having viewed the larger room, had announced flatly that he would not use it and had instructed Jackson to move the best silver to the Small Chamber.

Huge fires blazed at either end of the room, despite the mild weather outside, and a myriad of candles reflected off the polished mahogany and massed silver. Marissa took her place at the foot of the table facing the new Earl. She had protested when he had asked her to act as hostess, but Nicci was not yet out and Marcus had flatly vetoed her suggestion that he ask Lady Augusta to preside.

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 glowing 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…