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Fanny had always been impractical, he recalled. Of course his eighteen-year-old self had not seen further than her deep blue eyes and blonde curls. Like John, he had become completely infatuated with Fanny when she and her family had moved to the district. Spending the summer at Ledbury House that year had been ecstasy, agony and ultimately a severe lesson. For of course she had chosen John.
And he and John had fallen out over it.
They had both said words intended to hurt the other and, stupidly, had never put it right. Ash had attended their wedding—as John’s cousin he had been obliged to—but afterwards had avoided him. At the time Ash had not been able to bear to see John and Fanny together. In his youthful mind he had thought that what he was experiencing was heartbreak, and the only way to recover was to cut Fanny out of his life—which had meant it was easier not to make the effort to repair his relationship with John.
Somehow years had gone by, and then had come the message that John had died, following a long illness.
His thoughts drifted back towards Fanny again. How did he feel about her now? Despite the momentary echo of his former infatuation when he had first encountered her in the library, it was clear that now he saw her differently. She was an attractive woman, certainly, and yet neither his heart nor his loins showed any interest in her. In fact, his predominant mood when he found himself in Fanny’s company was one of irritation.
And she had known it—had seen straight through him. The governess—Miss Bolton.
He pictured her in his mind’s eye. Now, there was a woman to stir him! She was gently bred—that much was obvious—and somewhere in her early twenties. She was also extremely pretty, with dark hair, gentle brown eyes and a pleasantly plump figure.
His connoisseur’s eye had assessed her at the inn as she had stood there gaping at him. Miss Bolton possessed an indefinable quality that had attracted his attention. At the time he had felt as though something significant had passed between them, but had dismissed the notion as fanciful. Had the circumstances been different, he believed he would have tried to strike up a conversation with her.
Today, though, filled with irritation at having had to leave London and come to this godforsaken place, Ash had not been in the mood to charm unknown young ladies. He had not followed up on his attraction towards her but instead had been consumed with the frustrations of an earldom, an estate and a ward that he had never wanted.
When he had discovered he was to be forced to convey Miss Bolton to the house his annoyance had increased. And that had been before she had criticised his driving! Oh, he had heard her gasp, seen how she gripped the side of the phaeton. For goodness’ sake—did she think him a cow-handed amateur? Why, he was known as one of the best drivers in London!
To be fair, he had warmed towards Miss Bolton a little as they’d neared the house—her innocent approval of his driving skills had amused him, and he had felt sorry for her when he’d heard Fanny call her a lightskirt. As if he would be so crass as to bring a paramour to Ledbury House!
But then he recalled that Fanny had never been known to show insight. Or common sense. Suddenly the qualities that had attracted the eighteen-year-old Ash—particularly Fanny’s flightiness and love for drama—seemed much less attractive in a thirty-year-old Dowager Countess.
And Fanny had never read him as the governess had tonight at dinner. Somehow Miss Bolton had known that he was about to react to Fanny again—that he was prepared to keep the argument alive. Her still, calm gaze had discomfited him.
He shifted uncomfortably. What right had she—an almost-servant in his employ—to behave so towards him? Miss Bolton, he decided, was much too presumptuous.
Draining his glass, he set it down with a thump and went in search of the ladies.
Chapter Six
Thankfully the fire in the parlour was high, and the room was actually warm. For the first time since arriving in Ledbury House a few hours ago Marianne felt warmth getting through to her bones. The excellent food had helped, of course—though the frosty atmosphere had somewhat spoiled her enjoyment of the best meal she had had since leaving home three days ago.
Frowning, she reflected on the difficult situation she had found herself in. Lady Kingswood and the Earl were at loggerheads, and likely to remain so. And Lady Cecily, she thought, was caught in the middle—loyal to her mama but disliking the conflict. Surely Marianne’s first duty was to her charge? It was not in Cecily’s interests for her to witness what might prove to be an ongoing open battle.
Marianne herself hated quarrels, and often acted as peacemaker between her friends, and even occasionally between the servants at home. She knew that sometimes even difficulties that seemed intractable could be resolved, and wondered if that might be the case here.
She also knew that if people were determined to hurt others—if they genuinely had no care for others—then walking away was the only safe option. Which was why she herself had left home. There was no misunderstanding
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