‘My dear, that is quite the most provocative nightgown I believe I have ever seen.’

His voice was a growl dipped in honey, and his weight on the bed next to her angled the mattress so that her hip touched his flank. His skin was hot.

‘You forgot the candles.’ The room seemed bright as day.

‘Oh, no, I haven’t.’ Justin’s fingers were tangling with the ribbons at her neckline, not with any apparent urgency, but with the leisurely pleasure of someone trailing wool for a kitten. ‘I love looking at you, Mari. I love it when you blush. I love it when you drop your lashes like that to try to hide the expression in your eyes.’

She gasped again as his fingers brushed the line of her collarbone. Focus on how it feels. Do not think... How hard that was to do. Her mind ran off along its own unhappy path. He loves all those things about me, but he does not love me. He does not trust me. He will not share his life or his worries or his secrets with me. His secrets.

LOUISE ALLEN has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember, and finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past. Louise lives in Bedfordshire and works as a property manager, but spends as much time as possible with her husband at the cottage they are renovating on the north Norfolk coast, or travelling abroad. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite atmospheric destinations.

Recent novels by the same author:

ONE NIGHT WITH A RAKE

THE EARL’S INTENDED WIFE

THE SOCIETY CATCH

A MODEL DEBUTANTE

THE MARRIAGE DEBT MOONLIGHT AND MISTLETOE (in Christmas Brides)

THE VISCOUNT’S BETROTHAL

The Bride’s Seduction

Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Copyright

Prologue

June 6 1817

‘With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship...’

Marina was thankful for the protection of her veil as the blood surged hot in her cheeks. What am I doing? How did I let it come to this? If only I had more resolution. She resisted the temptation to look up at the tall figure standing next to her and made herself concentrate as the ceremony took its course. Finally,

‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’

A soft murmur went round St George’s. Relief? Marina wondered, or surprise that the old maid of the Winslow family had found herself such an eligible husband? Or perhaps it was simply a sentimental sigh. Her distraction was cut short by Justin raising the edge of her veil and setting it back from her face. She looked up at him and saw the look in his eyes that had convinced her to accept his proposal: kindness and honesty that had made her trust him, had made her feel safe and able to set aside all her doubts and scruples. Suddenly her nervousness seemed foolish.

Then, as he bent to touch his lips to hers, she saw a spark in his eyes, which turned their hazel to green. Not so safe, a panicky little voice whispered as their lips met. She returned the pressure until another murmur, this time an unmistakably sentimental one, brought her to herself. She was standing almost on tiptoe, one hand raised to rest against her new husband’s chest, and there was the strange fluttering through her veins that she was coming to expect whenever he touched her. Whatever she did, she must not betray her true feelings, not to this man she had just married.

Blushing in real earnest now, and without her veil to protect her, Marina let Justin place her hand on his arm as they turned. Slowly they began to walk back down the aisle and she made herself behave as her position now required. Nodding and smiling from side to side, the new Countess of Mortenhoe was conscious of genuine smiles, of her mother unashamedly weeping into her lace handkerchief, of some speculative looks and one or two less friendly glances.

Well may they stare and wonder, she thought as they emerged on to the steps of St George’s overlooking Hanover Square. They probably find it as hard to believe as I do that Justin Ransome should marry Charlie Winslow’s sister, a woman who has been on the shelf these four years past.

And what possessed me to agree? she wondered as she had done almost every waking hour since Justin’s proposal, the panic rising in her breast again. Whatever made me think I could make a success of a marriage to a man I have known only eleven weeks and who makes no pretence of the fact he does not love me?

As the animated, chattering guests thronged out of the church into the bright sunshine, she turned, catching their mood all of a sudden. She threw her bouquet with a laugh into the mass of young ladies who reached and jostled for it. Beside her Justin laughed too, amused by the sight of ladylike behaviour abandoned for a few moments, and she glanced up at him again.

And why did he ask me? she queried for the hundredth time. Why should one of the most eligible men in London wish to marry me? She had gone over his words again and again, had dreamed them, analysed them to the point of exhaustion. It was too late to wonder now, she realised as Justin helped her into the waiting carriage. Far too late.

Chapter One

Eleven weeks earlier—3 April 1817

Take a deep breath. Justin Ransome stood on the upper step of the double-fronted house in Cavendish Square with his life in the balance. Today, after twenty years, if he could keep his temper in check and his wits about him, he was going to achieve the ambition that had driven him since he was eight years old.

He found his right hand was in his coat pocket, the thumb and forefinger rubbing the small crystal lustre that had been a talisman for all of those years. The sharp edges had become dulled with handling, the ball of his thumb had a callus from the habitual, unthinking gesture.

Now. He raised his hand, let the knocker drop with a thud that echoed the knocking of his own heart against his ribs. Almost immediately he heard faint footsteps from inside the house. They were expecting him, of course. He stepped back slightly as the door opened, a fortunate move; for, instead of the impassive figure of the family butler, a small boy erupted out of the opening pursued by a frantically barking dog almost the same size.

At the sight of the tall man on the step the hound skidded to a halt and regarded him hopefully, head on one side. Justin braced himself to repel a leap, but the creature simply dealt his highly polished Hessians a swipe with a slavering tongue and bounded after its young master.

So much for working oneself up into a state of high drama: fate had a sure way of bringing one down to earth.

‘Giles! Hector! Oh, sir, I can only apologise for my brother.’

Justin looked up from the rueful contemplation of his footwear to find himself being regarded with anxiety by a fine pair of silver grey eyes.

‘Which is which?’ he enquired of the owner of these admirable features, smiling as the anxiety in them was replaced with something closer to amusement. The lady was dressed for walking, presumably in the wake of the harum-scarum child.

‘Giles is my little brother. Hector is the abominable hound. I am Miss Winslow and my brother—my elder brother—is Charles Winslow. Just so you know how to direct the account from your bootmaker.’

‘Good morning, Miss Winslow.’ Justin, by now diverted by the situation, held out his hand. The gesture was met with a warm smile and a confident handshake in return. ‘I am Justin Ransome. I am sure only the most superficial damage has been done: a wipe will put it to rights.’

‘Lord Mortenhoe.’ Miss Winslow nodded. ‘I recall Charlie said you would be calling. I cannot conceive where Bunting has vanished to. Ah, there he is. And I should not be keeping you standing here on the doorstep—you must think you have arrived at Bedlam, not a respectable home. Bunting, here is Lord Mortenhoe to see Lord Winslow, but first, please see if Kyte can do something with his lordship’s Hessians—that hell hound of Master Giles’s has been slobbering all over them.’

‘Of course, Miss Winslow. My lord, if you would care to step into the salon, I will fetch Lord Winslow’s valet to you immediately. One trusts no lasting damage has been done.’ The butler relieved Justin of hat, gloves and cane and opened the door into the front reception room as another young lady came down the stairs.

Justin bowed slightly to the new arrival, succeeding in reducing her to blushing confusion. She was a pretty child of perhaps fifteen, still childishly plump but with wide blue eyes, a pert little nose and abundant blonde ringlets emerging from under her somewhat plain bonnet.

‘My lord, this is my sister Elizabeth. Lizzie, Lord Mortenhoe has called to see Charlie and unfortunately has encountered Giles and Hector.’ Miss Winslow held out her hand. ‘My lord, I can only apologise once more and leave you to the care of Bunting and Charles’s valet. If I delay much longer, I shudder to think what havoc will have been wrought upon the gardens in the Square.’

‘Miss Winslow, good day. I trust you have an uneventful walk.’

She smiled up at him, drawing on her gloves. ‘No hope of that, my lord. Good day to you. Come, Lizzie.’

Justin was left with the impression of amused tranquillity, a pleasing sensation. Not a beauty, the elder Miss Winslow, with her soft brown hair, oval face and wide grey eyes, but a soothing presence, which was very much in tune with his needs just now.

The valet descending upon his Hessians with a cry of distress distracted him from further thoughts of the Misses Winslow. ‘The merest dabbing with a little warm water, my lord, then a buff with my own polish and a chamois cloth, and all will be restored. If your lordship will permit me to remove both boots...’

Justin submitted and was therefore at the disadvantage of standing in his stockinged feet when his host sauntered in. ‘Mortenhoe.’ They shook hands and the younger man peered at Justin’s feet. ‘Raining, is it?’

‘No, my lord,’ the butler hastened to intervene. ‘That Dog, my lord.’

‘Oh. Enough said. Is Kyte fixing things? Good. Do you want to borrow some slippers? No? Then let’s make ourselves comfortable in my study.’

Winslow led the way across the hallway and waved his guest to a chair. As Justin sat he found he had an admirable view out over the Square to where young Master Winslow was engaged in hot pursuit of his dog while his sisters, parasols unfurled, looked on.

‘Brandy?’ Lord Winslow was unstopping a decanter.

‘Not for me, thank you. But please—’

His host needed no encouragement, pouring a good measure into his glass before dropping into the chair opposite. Justin regarded him thoughtfully. Having now, he assumed, seen all the brothers and sisters, he could see the likeness between Charles and his younger sister, despite Charles’s dark brown hair and Lizzie’s blonde curls.

But in the brother the good looks were already blurred at only twenty-seven by what, from his reputation, was a mixture of late nights and strong drink. The elder Miss Winslow with her well-bred, pleasant face seemed to have missed out; she would never have been an Incomparable, which he suspected Lizzie one day might be. Young Giles was still blessed with the chubby features of any small boy; too early to tell how he would turn out.

‘We’ll wait until Kyte brings your boots,’ Winslow announced. ‘We don’t want to be interrupted while we talk business.’

‘No, indeed,’ Justin agreed equably, hiding the stab of impatience he felt. Calm, he told himself. This is the most significant piece of business you will ever have to do, just keep calm. Without conscious thought his eyes strayed again to the window from whence Miss Winslow could be seen. She was fending off a now filthy hound, which had decided it wanted nothing more than for her to throw its ball. She was laughing out loud, he could see, and felt a sudden curiosity to hear what her laughter sounded like.

Marina’s laughter was, in fact, nearer a series of breathless and indignant gasps as she did her best to keep Hector’s large paws off her skirts. ‘Sit, sir!’ she ordered, more in the hope than the expectation of being obeyed. ‘Giles, come and get hold of this animal at once. It defeats me,’ she added to Lizzie, who was giggling, ‘how this creature manages to get muddy on a fine day like today. Thank you, Giles. Now please put a cord through his collar and let us attempt to present the appearance of a normal family out for a walk and not a group of wandering circus performers.’

Giles, finding this vastly humorous, captured Hector and allowed himself to be towed off around the flower beds that edged the curving paths in the centre of the Square. Lizzie fell in beside her sister and the two began to pace more decorously.

‘Who was that gentleman?’ she demanded.

‘Lord Mortenhoe. I did introduce you, Lizzie, you must make a push to remember introductions. It will present a very off impression when you come out if you cannot recall people’s names. A true lady takes an interest in other people.’

Lizzie, sublimely confident that her come-out would be a great success and nothing but a pleasure from start to finish, ignored this good advice. After all, poor Marina had been out for three Seasons and had quite failed to catch a husband, so really, fond though one was of her, her advice could safely be disregarded.

‘I am taking an interest, I just could not recall his name. And why is Lord Mortenhoe visiting Charlie?’

‘I have no idea,’ Marina said repressively. ‘A matter of business, no doubt, and no concern of ours.’

‘You mean that one of them owes the other some money?’ Lizzie deduced pertly. ‘Let us hope Lord Mortenhoe owes Charlie, for that would be a great comfort to poor Mama.’

‘We have no reason to suppose Lord Mortenhoe is a card player,’ Marina pointed out, giving up the effort to turn her sister’s thoughts to a more seemly topic.

‘It might be anything,’ Lizzie countered. ‘Racing, cards, hazard—anything. Someone told me Charlie would even bet on which of two flies would land upon a window first. When I am out in society and playing cards I will be like dear Papa and always win. I do not know why Charlie never does.’

Marina contemplated a lecture on how fatally fast it would be to be seen gambling and decided it was pointless just now. There were two more years before Lizzie came out—if the money lasted that long. Time enough to instil some decorum.

‘He is very good looking, is he not?’ Lizzie observed. ‘Is he an earl?’

‘Lord Mortenhoe is an earl, yes. As for looks, I am sure he presents a most amiable and gentlemanlike appearance.’ She was certainly not going to agree that the breadth of Lord Mortenhoe’s shoulders, his classically moulded features or the flexible, deep voice were more than enough to flutter any lady’s pulse. They had certainly fluttered hers, an unusual occurrence in a well-regulated existence. It was a surprisingly pleasant sensation. ‘That,’ Marina added firmly, more to herself than to her sister, ‘is all a lady should be concerned with.’

‘Poppycock,’ Lizzie announced reprehensively. ‘I think how a gentleman looks is very important. After all, fancy being married to someone with bad teeth like Mr Percival or to a man who looks like a codfish.’

Much struck by this, Marina swallowed a laugh and demanded, ‘Whoever do we know who looks like a codfish?’

‘Sir Willoughby Cavendish. Have you not noticed?’

Now it was pointed out, Marina could easily see the likeness. ‘Certainly not. And what are you about, young lady, thinking of gentlemen at all, let alone about marrying one?’

‘Well, I will have to, will I not?’ Lizzie pointed out. ‘A rich one, because of not having any dowry. So it would be nice if he was handsome too, I think.’

Kyte returned the now gleaming Hessians and assisted Justin into them with much play of gloved hands and soft polishing leather.

‘I venture to say, my lord, that your man will be unable to detect the slightest defect. We must be thankful that the Animal did not paw at them.’

Justin had a strong suspicion that Shepton would be distinctly put out that another valet had so much as touched the boots, especially since the finish obtained was so fine, but he smiled and thanked the man. With a final pat at the tassels, Kyte bowed himself out.

His host did not immediately take advantage of their privacy, fidgeting around the room and pouring himself another brandy before finally returning to his seat.

‘I suppose you find it strange that I should decide to sell Knightshaye after all this time,’ he said abruptly.

‘Considering that I have offered to purchase it on at least a dozen occasions since I came of age seven years ago, and first your father, and then you, has always refused to even discuss it, then, yes, you may say I am surprised.’ Justin kept his tone even. He had no reason to distrust the young baron, no reason to suppose that, however rackety his reputation, he took after his father in any way. To project his loathing for the late Lord Winslow on to his son would be both unfair and counterproductive.

‘My father always swore he would never sell to you, and he would never sell to anyone else either, in case you approached them. He told me I must do the same thing. Damned if I know why.’

‘You do not?’ Despite his control, the words sounded sceptical to Justin’s own ears.

‘And you do know? Something to do with a quarrel between our respective fathers, that is all I could ever gather.’ Charlie shrugged. ‘Ancient history now, and whatever it was, I can’t afford to cut off my own nose just to prolong some pointless feud.’

‘Then you definitely intend to sell?’ Justin was conscious of a tightness in his chest and switched his gaze from the face opposite him to the scene outside. Feigning indifference was pointless, but pride forced him to at least an appearance of calm. Miss Elizabeth threw the ball for her brother and an ecstatic hound to race after while Miss Winslow stood gracefully, watching. She had a calm poise, which suggested not only that she was past her green years but that, despite her single state, she had acquired much of the style of a young married lady. He found his lips had curved into a smile; she seemed to have that effect on him.

‘Fact is, I’m going to hell in a handcart,’ his host announced abruptly, startling his attention back.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I drink too much, game too much and, unlike my revered Papa, I lose too much. I’ve tried reforming my way of life, and it don’t last above a week or two, mostly.’ Winslow shifted uneasily in the high-backed chair. ‘But I’m not so far gone I can’t see what effect it’s going to have on the family if I don’t do something about it. So I’ve spoken to the lawyers and what I’m going to do is sell Knightshaye to you, put the whole lot in a trust and that will look after Giles’s education, Lizzie’s dowry and set Mama up comfortably in the Dower House, which is where she’d rather be most of the time anyhow. I won’t be able to touch a penny, even if I wanted to.’

‘An admirable plan,’ Justin said drily. ‘I am honoured by your confidence.’ Odd he had made no reference to Miss Winslow, but perhaps she would be expected to become her mother’s companion. Or perhaps there was a respectable suitor in the background.

‘You do still want it?’ Lord Winslow looked anxious.

‘Yes,’ Justin admitted, suddenly wary. ‘Considering it is my family home and I have been intending to retrieve it for twenty years, you may be confident that I still wish to buy it back from you.’

‘Twenty years? But you must only have been, what, six, seven...?’

‘Eight. I was eight when my father lost Knightshaye to your father in a card game and eight when he...died three months later.’ And he had been ten when his mother died, apparently of no other cause than a broken heart.

‘Why do you question whether I still want it?’

‘Well, I, er... Have you been there recently?’

‘No. I have never been back.’ As the carriage had pulled away, his mother weeping, his father with a face set like stone, he had vowed never to set foot on Knightshaye land until it was his again. But he saw no reason to confide that to the son of the man who had taken it from the Ransomes. ‘Why do you ask? Is something wrong there?’

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Charlie said with a somewhat suspicious carelessness. ‘Never been there myself. The tenanted farmland’s all in good enough heart—the rents are fine, so my steward tells me. The house is shut up. My father left instructions for its maintenance, so I just told our steward to get on with everything in the same way as before.’

So, the late Lord Winslow had taken Knightshaye entirely for revenge, not because he wanted it for itself. If spite had not been the reason, then surely the family would have used it: it was a far finer mansion that their own small estate. It was as Justin had always suspected, and he knew the reason why, even if apparently old Winslow’s heir did not.

‘Why not name your price?’ Justin suggested, unclenching his left hand, which had fisted until the nails cut into the palm.

Charlie Winslow got to his feet and began to pace again, finally coming to rest by the window where he stood watching his brother and sisters. ‘There’s a price—and a condition,’ he said finally.

Justin raised his eyebrows. He had been willing to buy back Knightshaye without negotiation and without insisting on examining the books. Winslow had him over a barrel as far as striking a bargain was concerned; it was not possible to conceal his interest, not after seven years of persistent requests to buy the place. ‘What condition?’

‘That you marry my sister.’

‘What?’ Justin found himself on his feet, staring at the baron.

‘That you marry Marina,’ Charlie said stubbornly. ‘Or I won’t sell. There won’t be enough for a dowry for her as well as for Lizzie and she doesn’t deserve to dwindle into a spinster aunt or my mother’s unpaid companion. I’m dashed fond of my sister,’ he added, ‘and I am damned sure my reputation and the lack of the readies is what scuppered her chances on the Marriage Mart.’

‘So you hit on this idea to provide for her,’ Justin observed coldly. ‘And what does Miss Winslow have to say to it, might I ask?’

‘She knows nothing about it. And that’s another thing, you must not tell her, not a word, or she will never agree.’

‘You flatter me.’

Charlie flapped a hand, dismissing his own tactlessness. ‘Don’t mean you’re not as eligible as they come—title, fortune and all that—and now that other matter with Miss Henslow has blown over, there’s no reason why—’ He broke off in the face of the hard glint in Justin’s eyes. ‘Well, no need to go into that, all a hum, I dare say, but you aren’t involved with anyone now, are you? You’re not engaged—if you ever were, that is...’ He found himself in the mire again, took a deep breath and restarted. ‘Thing is, Marina’s dashed proud and she wouldn’t like it if she thought I was fixing something up, do you see?’

‘I think I do,’ Justin said grimly, trampling firmly on thoughts of his former love’s golden beauty and avaricious little heart. The two men sat down again, eyeing each other warily. It was as though they were sitting over the opening hand of a game of cards, sizing up the odds, deciding their wagers. ‘And what is the price—beside your sister’s hand, that is?’

Lord Winslow named a sum that was at the top end of Justin’s expectations and sat there, looking hopeful.

‘I will pay that and add another two thousand—but I will not marry your sister.’

‘Thought you might say that,’ Charlie said equably. ‘But it’s the money and Marina, or nothing. If you won’t buy on my terms, I’ll sell to someone else and I will get the lawyers to put a clause in the deeds so it can never be sold to you or your heirs.’

Justin felt the anger surge up hot and powerful and was surprised to find himself still sitting down, hands calmly clasped. His self-control must be better than he thought.

‘So, like your father, you have a talent for blackmail,’ he observed evenly.

‘Damn it—’ the younger man looked hurt, but not insulted ‘—I’m doing it for my sister.’ He frowned. ‘What do you mean about my father?’

‘That there was no reason why my father, had he wished to gamble with yours, could not have met any money stake, however high. He wagered Knightshaye because he was blackmailed into it.’

‘Why?’ Charlie demanded bluntly. ‘He was a hard devil, my father, I’m not denying that, but blackmail? What did he know about your father that could force him to that risk?’

‘He had nothing on Father, but it was a matter that concerned two other people, one dead now, one still alive. It is not something I can speak of. You will just have to take my word for it.’

The younger man grimaced. ‘Very well. But you can call it what you like, you won’t insult me—take Marina or the deal is off.’

‘And if your sister does not wish to marry me?’ Even as he spoke, Justin knew he was giving way simply by letting himself consider the proposition. There was something about Charlie Winslow’s demeanour that warned him the younger man was absolutely determined on this plan. He might be weak, but that very weakness made him stubborn when he was driven into a corner. If Justin wanted Knightshaye, he was going to have to dance to Winslow’s tune.

‘If you give me your word of honour you will do your best to attach her interest and she still won’t take you, then we’ll call it quits. Damn it, I can’t blame you if she turns down a chance like that. But I want your pledge you’ll give it your best effort for two months—and that you won’t ever breathe a word of this arrangement to her.’

Justin got to his feet and walked to the window. The Winslow family were making their way back to the house: young Giles was more or less in control of a muddy, panting Hector; Miss Elizabeth was talking vehemently and using her hands to describe what appeared to be an elaborate hat. And Miss Winslow—Marina—was listening attentively. As they reached the steps she glanced up at the window, saw him—and smiled.

It was a flash of friendly goodwill in a face distinguished more by pleasant symmetry and colouring than beauty. And it conjured up a vivid opposite in his mind. Golden hair, blue eyes, a perfect little nose and red lips always trembling on the edge of a calculated pout.

He turned back, holding out his hand. ‘Very well. I agree to your price and your condition. You have my word on it.’

Chapter Two

‘Take Hector down to the scullery and do not dare to bring him back up until he is completely clean and dry,’ Marina ordered firmly, as Giles with his hound bundled through the front door behind his sisters.

‘Charlie should engage another tutor for Giles,’ Lizzie said crossly, twisting to examine the hem of her walking dress, which had been trodden on by large paws.

‘It seems such an extravagance when I can teach him; besides, recall how distracted he made poor Mr Livingstone. When he is older, of course, and needs to begin classics—’

She broke off as the study door opened and Lord Mortenhoe emerged, her brother on his heels.

‘Miss Winslow, Miss Elizabeth. How was your walk?’

‘Very pleasant, thank you, my lord.’ What was Charlie about? He appeared to have positively propelled his guest into the hallway and now was making no effort to either call Bunting or show him out himself. Lord Mortenhoe was regarding her and she felt her colour rising; no doubt she was unbecomingly windswept from the excursion. ‘If you will excuse me...’

‘I’ve invited Mortenhoe to dinner tomorrow night,’ Charlie said abruptly.

‘Oh! I mean...how delightful.’ Charlie must be out of his mind! Aunt and Uncle Thredgold and Cousin Hugh were no sort of company to entertain an earl. Leaving aside Uncle Thredgold’s tendency to talk of nothing but his experiments in cattle breeding, Aunt’s deafness and Hugh’s almost perpetual fit of the sullens, the table would be unbalanced with too many men, and the menu, unless some drastic alterations were made, would be decidedly uninspiring, having been chosen with the Thredgolds’ bland preferences in mind.

‘I am sure it will be.’ The earl was accepting his gloves and hat from Bunting. ‘Until tomorrow evening, Miss Winslow.’

Charlie escaped back into his study before the front door had closed on Lord Mortenhoe, leaving his sisters regarding each other speculatively in the hall.

‘It is too bad of Charlie,’ Marina declared, pulling off her gloves. ‘Now who can we possibly ask at this late notice? For, fond as we are of the Thredgolds, I really do not think Lord Mortenhoe will be much entertained by them.’

‘They are dead bores,’ Lizzie retorted. ‘Thank goodness they have taken rooms and are not staying with us as they did last year.’

‘They are family,’ Marina said repressively, leading the way into the drawing room before Lizzie made any more unfortunate remarks in front of the servants. ‘It behoves us to be hospitable, and besides, it gives Mama much pleasure to be with Aunt.’ She cast off her bonnet and sat on the sofa, not troubling to remove her pelisse. ‘Now, who would not be offended by a late invitation? We need another lady and another couple at the very least to leaven the mix.’

‘I could come,’ Lizzie offered hopefully, then subsided at a look from her sister. ‘How about Mr and Mrs Philpott? They never stand on ceremony.’

Certainly their next-door neighbours were a sensible suggestion and, as they had just that morning returned from a visit to an ailing parent, such short notice could be explained away. ‘And I will ask Priscilla Hinton,’ Marina said with a flash of inspiration. ‘Her husband is out of town and we are good enough friends for me to explain the situation.’

‘Mrs Hinton is very pretty.’

‘Well, yes. What of it?’

‘You do not want Lord Mortenhoe to flirt with her, and he is sure to.’

‘I am sure the earl will do no such thing, and, even if he should, Priscilla is more than capable of dealing with it,’ Marina retorted, flustered. ‘Now, I must go and speak with Cook about the menu. I do wish Charlie would think things through sometimes.’

‘He is very good looking.’ Lizzie, the picture of innocence, was twirling the strings of her bonnet.

‘Charlie?’

‘No, silly, Lord Mortenhoe. I think he looks nice.’

‘And I think he looked angry,’ Marina said thoughtfully, recalling the flash of green in his eyes as they parted in the hall and the controlled tension in his long frame. ‘I do hope Charlie is not up to something.’

Marina gazed distractedly around the drawing room and prayed she would never have to live through another evening that threatened so much social embarrassment.

Mrs Hinton, the sprightly wife of a diplomat and an old friend of Marina’s, was giving an excellent impression of fascination with Uncle Thredgold’s lecture on the finer points of Devon Red cattle, Mrs Philpott was doing her best to communicate with Mrs Thredgold, who stubbornly refused to use her ear trumpet in company, and Lady Winslow was discussing the benefits of the Harrogate waters with Mr Philpott while anxiously watching her nephew Hugh.

With a sinking heart Marina saw the young man had abandoned his usual sullen slouch, adopting instead a brooding silence that he doubtless believed to be Byronic. From under thick brows he stared moodily at Mrs Hinton, who fortunately appeared unaware of his attention.

Charlie meanwhile was quite impervious to any awkwardness or lack of social sparkle. ‘What is Cook intending for dinner?’ he enquired with a glance at the mantel clock. ‘I’m devilish hungry.’

‘A loin of pork, lobster with a white wine sauce, Milanese escalopes, a timbale—’ Marina broke off the recital of the dishes she had persuaded Cook were the bare minimum to lay before an earl and regarded her brother with a frown. ‘Why are you looking at me like that, Charlie?’

‘Just thinking you look dashed pretty this evening. Why have you got that cap thing on, though?’

‘Because I am a twenty-six-year-old spinster and it is appropriate evening wear.’

‘Wish you’d take it off.’

‘Certainly not! Really, Charlie, since when have you taken the slightest interest in what I wear?’

‘Um...’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Ah, there’s the knocker, must be Mortenhoe.’

Oh, good! What dreadful timing, Marina thought, flinching as Aunt Thredgold raised her voice in the apparent belief that Mrs Philpott was as deaf as she. ‘...disgusting behaviour! I said to the Vicar...’

‘Need sturdy hocks if they’re to be the slightest use at stud...’ That was Uncle Thredgold, well away now.

‘...unfortunate smell of rotten eggs, of course,’ Mr Philpott remarked just as Lord Mortenhoe entered the room.

Marina fixed a smile of welcome on her lips and wondered if it were possible that his lordship had missed any of this sophisticated conversation. His eyes met hers and he bowed gravely. There was just the hint of a twitch at the corner of his mouth as he straightened up and turned to his host. No, of course not, he had heard every word. At least he showed no sign of considering himself above his company; her apprehension ebbed a little.

‘Lord Mortenhoe.’ Mama sounded her usual placid self as she shook hands, blissfully impervious to the fact that one of the leading lights of society was facing an evening of the deepest boredom at her table. ‘May I introduce you to my sister Mrs Thredgold, her husband...’

She moved around the room, making the presentations, finishing with her daughter. Justin smiled. ‘But I already have the pleasure of Miss Winslow’s acquaintance. How are Master Giles and his hound?’

Lady Winslow drifted away, apparently content that her guest of honour’s entertainment was in safe hands. ‘In what can only be described as rude health, my lord, although Hector is in disgrace and has been confined to the stables for treeing Mrs Philpott’s cat in the Square and then growling at the gardener when he tried to rescue it.’

‘Deplorable,’ Lord Mortenhoe agreed. He was regarding her in a way that made her feel as though they were alone in the room—a most disconcerting sensation. Marina decided she had been living rather too quiet a life recently if the arrival of one tonnish gentleman for dinner was enough to put her out of countenance. It was a seductively pleasant experience, though, to be looked at in quite that manner.

‘Mrs Philpott has been very forgiving about it, although the gardener had to be placated with a gratuity. Do you still keep a pet dog, Mrs Hinton?’ She turned slightly to include her friend in the conversation and Hugh, who had been edging closer with his habitual gaucheness, lounged away again.

‘No, not since little Tottie died just after Christmas.’ Mrs Hinton, a slender honey blonde, looked up through her lashes at Lord Mortenhoe. ‘Doubtless you find me foolishly sentimental, my lord, but I could not bear to replace her.’

‘Not at all,’ he said sympathetically. ‘I lost my favourite hound last year and it was months before I could consider looking for a new pup. What do you think, Winslow? Are we both too sentimental?’

Once drawn into the discussion, Charlie was soon agreeing that the loss of a favourite pet was a dashed miserable business. Marina could not quite work out how it happened, but suddenly she was talking to Lord Mortenhoe again and Charlie was bearing Mrs Hinton away to see his aunt, who just happened to have a litter of pug puppies to dispose of.

It was too bad of Charlie, removing the most personable of their guests from Lord Mortenhoe’s vicinity! She now had to find him someone else congenial to talk to; she had been counting on her friend’s vivacious conversation and sophisticated charm to distract him from the Thredgolds’ oddities. What might he have in common with the Philpotts?

‘Have you ever taken the waters at Harrogate, my lord?’ She steered him gently in the direction of their neighbours. ‘Mr and Mrs Philpott have just returned from there.’

‘No, I never have. Did you find it a pleasant experience, Mrs Philpott?’ There, now, that was better. Mrs Philpott was a conversable, well-bred woman with an easy style. She and Lord Mortenhoe were soon engaged in a discussion of the waters and whether the accommodations in the spa town might suit an aged aunt of his lordship who suffered greatly from gout and who was bored with Bath and Cheltenham. Mr Philpott joined in with a recommendation for a local livery company and Marina was just thinking she could safely slip away and have a second look at the place settings when her mother appeared, her sister at her side.

‘Araminta dear, Mr and Mrs Philpott are just explaining the benefits of the Harrogate waters to his lordship. I am sure you would find them most energising. What do you think, Mrs Philpott?’

Once again Marina found herself on the outside of the group with Lord Mortenhoe at her side. ‘I am sorry,’ she murmured as they moved away slightly. ‘My aunt’s deafness makes her a little unaware of the fact other people are engaged in conversation. I do hope you had heard enough to be able to advise your relative.’

‘Quite enough, I thank you.’ He regarded her with mock-seriousness as she glanced across the room to her uncle. ‘Would you think me very rude if I did not engage your uncle in conversation on the subject of cattle breeding? I must confess to being terrified of the beasts and he is sure to despise me.’

That surprised a gurgle of amusement from her. The earl was proving to have a quiet sense of humour, which threatened to overturn her poise. ‘My lord! I really cannot believe such a thing, although I have to confess that my uncle is somewhat single-minded in his enthusiasm.’

‘And what are your enthusiasms, Miss Winslow?’ He stopped, leaning one hand negligently on a sideboard, and effectively foiling her efforts to guide him across the room. This was mystifying. Much as she might enjoy his undivided attention, surely the last thing he wanted was the company of the old maid of the family?

‘Mine? Why, I hardly know how to answer you, my lord—’ She broke off, perplexed at the question. ‘I have many interests, of course; Mama allows me to run the household and I oversee Giles’s education. Then there is Lizzie to accompany about town, and my sewing. And my friends, of course, although they are all married now and have young families.’

‘But no enthusiasms?’ he persisted.

‘Ladies do not on the whole have enthusiasms, my lord! Oh, perhaps for good causes, although to really throw oneself into that I always feel one needs to be older and better endowed with wealth than I am. Or perhaps I am just using that as an excuse.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Gentlemen may have enthusiasms—for politics or sport, for example.’

Lord Mortenhoe’s eyes were on her face and something in them, some gentleness, made her feel suddenly sorry for herself, which was ridiculous. For someone who had singularly failed to oblige her family by attracting even one eligible offer in the course of three expensive Seasons she was most fortunate in her lot.

‘What are your enthusiasms, Hugh?’ she asked her cousin, aware that he had once more strayed into their orbit, and grateful for the distraction. Another moment and she was going to succumb to the sympathy in those hazel eyes and start explaining just how fortunate she was.

The youth shrugged with his habitual lack of grace. ‘Haven’t any.’

‘Not sport?’ his lordship enquired. ‘Horses, perhaps?’

A trace of animation crossed the sullen features. ‘No point, but, if I could, racehorses—’

‘Surely not gambling, Hugh?’ As soon as she had spoken Marina could have bitten her tongue, for the shuttered expression descended again.

‘Or bloodlines and breeding?’ Lord Mortenhoe suggested.

‘Oh, yes, breeding. To be able to produce such beauty and strength is above everything. I read all the stud books, follow form—but Papa will not hear of it. Says I know nothing about it and I would do better to study his work with cattle. Cattle!’

‘If he has built up a flourishing line, I can understand he might be disappointed if you do not intend to maintain it,’ Mortenhoe said thoughtfully. ‘But horse breeding could run alongside cattle breeding, do you not think?’

Stunned by being asked his opinion, Hugh merely gaped. ‘Er...yes.’

‘Would you like to visit my stud at Newmarket? I will ask your father after dinner. If you would be interested, that is.’

‘Oh, yes! Thank you, my lord. Your stud! I’ll speak to him now, try to persuade him.’

‘That was kind of you. I do not think I have ever heard Hugh utter so many words at one time before.’ Marina watched her cousin talking animatedly to his surprised parent.

‘He is lonely, I think. Possibly he has no one to share his interest. And here he is rather out of his depth. You are the only young person present and you have to talk to the visitors, not to family.’

‘Now you are being ridiculous, my lord,’ Marina chided. ‘Hugh is seventeen, I am...considerably older.’

‘Of course, I should have realised you were on the shady side of thirty.’

‘Certainly not—!’ She broke off, choking back a laugh at her own instinctive indignation. ‘You are teasing me, my lord.’

‘Only a little—after all, you have just done your best to convince me you live the life of a sober spinster.’

‘I do not!’ Natural honesty caught up with her tongue and she added, ‘Well, perhaps, but that, after all, is what I am.’

‘And do sober spinsters go driving with gentlemen?’

Was that an invitation? Surely not. ‘I see no reason why not, my lord, should they be asked.’

‘Good. We will discuss the where and when of that later. If I am not mistaken your uncle is coming over.’

He does intend to invite me to drive with him! But why? Flustered, Marina managed to smile at her uncle, who had Hugh in tow.

‘My son tells me you have invited him to visit your stud, my lord.’ Mr Thredgold was, as usual, abrupt.

‘Yes, sir, unless you should dislike it. He seems to have inherited your interest in animal breeding, doubtless as a result of observing your renowned expertise at close hand.’

A faintly smug expression came over Mr Thredgold’s face at the compliment. ‘Horses, though—how is that going to contribute to the Thredgold herd?’

‘Diversification, sir.’ Marina watched with something approaching awe as Lord Mortenhoe played on the older man’s obsession. ‘Think, in twenty years’ time they will speak of the Thredgold herd and stud with equal admiration—and of you as its founding genius.’

Now that was both kind and clever, Marina decided, seeing how struck her uncle was by this thought. She turned her own approving gaze on his lordship, wondering why he should trouble with an unknown youth. She found he was watching her and experienced a sudden fancy that perhaps he had done it to please her. But why should he? It must be because he was bored by this party and seeking diversion.

‘Dinner is served, my lady.’ As Bunting held the door Lady Winslow appeared at Lord Mortenhoe’s side. Charlie was already offering his arm to Mrs Hinton and the other guests sorted themselves out, leaving Marina to bring up the rear with Cousin Hugh.

She had arranged the place cards earlier, positioning herself between Mr Philpott and Hugh, but as she neared the table she realised that the two remaining places were between Lord Mortenhoe and Mrs Philpott.

‘Bunting, the place cards have become muddled,’ she hissed.

‘No, Miss Marina, Lord Winslow moved them earlier,’ the butler assured her.

It was too late to make a change now. Putting a good face on it, she took her place, trusting that Mrs Philpott would not feel slighted by being next to young Hugh. At least their neighbour was happily occupied in conversation with Charlie at the head of the table. She began to talk to Hugh about his plans for the summer, leaving Lord Mortenhoe to her mother. It would no doubt be a relief to him: the poor man must be thoroughly tired of her company by now.

Far from experiencing any ennui, Justin was pleased with how the evening was going. Lady Winslow and her son had managed to throw him together with Marina with considerable aplomb and she appeared quite ignorant of any ulterior motive to his presence. Her clear, unselfconscious gaze was a pleasure to meet, even while he experienced an uneasy pang of conscience about deceiving her. How he was going to propose marriage without breaking his agreement with Winslow and yet at the same time salve his own conscience was a puzzle.

Lady Winslow was pleasant, vague and, he suspected, a lady of little energy. Certainly she appeared to rely heavily on her elder daughter and he soon realised that it was to Marina that Bunting looked for direction during the service of dinner. Another count in her favour if she was as competent a housekeeper as she appeared. Knightshaye would be a far bigger household than this, of course, but he did not think she would be daunted by it.

It would be neglected now, he knew that, mentally bracing himself for finding the immaculate, warm home of his memory dusty and unloved. Winslow had said something about continuing his father’s arrangements for its upkeep, but that was not the same as it being lived in by a family. What would his mother have felt if she knew she would be succeeded by the daughter of the very man who had ruined their lives and left her a widow?

He hoped that he would have had her blessing in recovering Knightshaye, even in such a manner, but he had to force a lightness into his voice as he replied to a question from that man’s wife. And yet, although he doubted she knew it, Lady Winslow was another victim of her husband’s arrogance and cold-blooded selfishness.

She was certainly in her son’s confidence over his scheme for Marina. Her expression as it rested on Justin was benevolent and satisfied. As well it might be, he thought with a flash of resentment. Without arrogance he knew quite well he was a considerable matrimonial prize for the daughter of a baron; there had been enough encounters with matchmaking mamas to convince him of his worth.

But not such a big a prize as all that, he reminded himself grimly as he passed a dish of minted peas to his hostess. Not such a prize as would hold a woman once she had seen she could land an even more prestigious catch. It was as well for his pride that no engagement had been announced, although, from what Winslow had said, it seemed rumours had got around about his relationship with Serena Henslow, now the Marchioness of Andover.

‘And have you any family in town?’ Lady Winslow was asking, making a good show of not knowing his family history inside out.

‘No, ma’am, none in town and few at all except for some distant cousins in Scotland and a great-uncle in Cornwall.’

‘How sad,’ she said sympathetically. ‘All the more reason for settling down soon and starting your nursery.’ Her vague smile settled on her daughter and lingered just as Marina turned her head to look at them.

Chapter Three

What are they staring at me for? Marina glanced down, convinced that her bodice must be gaping or that she had spilled butter sauce on the silk. A rapid glance assured her that everything was as it should be. But now Mama was regarding her with a fond smile and Lord Mortenhoe was positively...no, not blushing, he was far too assured for that. But his colour was certainly up and that spark of controlled anger was back in his eyes.

There was a stir as the footmen brought in the next course and Marina turned her attention to what they were doing. By the time she had nodded approval to Bunting and turned back again, her mother was conversing with Mr Philpott, and Lord Mortenhoe was patiently waiting to offer her a dish of asparagus.

‘Thank you.’ She took some spears, then, without allowing herself to consider too carefully what she was saying, asked, ‘Did something in the conversation just now anger you, my lord?’

‘Did I appear angry? I beg your pardon, Miss Winslow.’ His eyes were a calm hazel now and the flash of green was gone.

‘No, not angry,’ she corrected herself, struggling to find the right words. ‘You had your...dangerous look. Your eyes turn green then—did you know?’

One dark brow rose slowly and Marina felt colour staining her cheeks. ‘Forgive me, my lord, that was an impertinent observation.’

‘Not at all, merely perceptive. I apologise if I appeared dangerous. Lady Winslow had made a perfectly innocent remark that happened to touch a nerve, that was all. My momentary irritation was with myself for my own weakness.’

‘What...?’ Marina shut her mouth with a snap. She had been within a whisker of asking what the sensitive subject was. Whatever has come over me? she thought frantically. It was this man, that was the trouble. She looked at him and felt an immediate affiliation, a sense that she could tell him anything, ask anything, rely on him.

‘What did she say? That was what you were about to ask me, was it not?’ He ignored Marina’s flustered murmur of denial. ‘Lady Winslow referred to the fact that I am unmarried and implied that perhaps I should be seeking to remedy that.’

‘Ah.’ He did not seem annoyed now, but she could quite understand that he might well be. How on earth to turn the subject?

‘She is quite right, of course,’ he said calmly, slicing through an asparagus spear.

‘Oh.’ Marina gave herself a little shake; she really could not sit here uttering monosyllables like a dummy. If his lordship wished to confide in her, then so be it. ‘Perhaps there is a lady with whom you have an understanding?’

She watched his profile and saw the black lashes sweep down, momentarily hiding the betraying eyes. When he looked at her, the hazel gaze was clear and friendly. ‘I believe I am far from understanding women, let alone reaching an understanding with one.’

He had turned her question very neatly and she experienced a sense of relief that she could step on to safer ground. ‘We are not so difficult to fathom, my lord.’

‘You smile, Miss Winslow, you are obviously mocking me.’

It was he who was mocking her, she was certain. ‘No, I would not dream of it. Everyone is different, of course, but I think that all women would want to feel wanted, needed, to have a loving family and to know that they are useful in whatever way they can be.’

‘That is very laudable, ma’am, but I cannot help but feel we are back to ladies not admitting to enthusiasms! What about rank and status, riches and luxury? Do ladies not covet those?’

Marina felt that she should piously point out that covetousness was a sin, but the crinkle of humour at the corner of his eyes made the unspoken thought seem prissy. ‘To have enough money to indulge in little luxuries is very pleasant, of course.’

‘And rank and status?’

‘Those would bring great responsibility,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘but I can see that they might have a certain allure.’ He smiled and she laughed back at him. ‘But you are teasing me again, my lord; I can tell.’

‘Why should I do that?’ Justin’s voice dropped, became warmer. ‘You speak as though you are immune to such temptations and I see no reason why you should be.’ She opened her mouth to protest, but he carried on remorselessly. ‘You are about to remind me of your advanced age and that is, if you will forgive me saying so, a nonsense. Now, Miss Winslow, may I tempt you?’

‘T...tempt me?’ What with, for goodness’ sake?

‘These almond fritters look almost irresistible to me.’

‘They are,’ Marina agreed, seizing the opening with gratitude. ‘They are quite the best of Cook’s specialities and I defy anyone to refuse another once they have sampled one.’

The meal proceeded harmlessly, much to Marina’s relief, with conversation about the difficulty of finding a really reliable cook, the latest balloon ascension and if the weather could be expected to continue so fine.

Eventually Lady Winslow rose, gathered the attention of the other ladies with a glance and made her way out of the dining room. Marina followed meekly at the back, unsure whether she was glad or sorry the meal was over.

Conversation in the drawing room was animated, for it seemed that Mrs Thredgold had heard the most fascinating intelligence about the Brighton Pavilion, now supposedly reaching completion after years of building work, and was anxious to share it with the other ladies. As she was too deaf to hear their replies and raised her own voice almost to a shout, a number of cross-conversations were soon in process, allowing Marina to muse on her conversation with Lord Mortenhoe in peace.

If she had not known better, she would have thought he had been flirting with her. Perhaps he was, she thought, a little frown line appearing between her brows. Men did not flirt with Marina any more, a circumstance she accepted without rancour. Men flirted with young, pretty girls and even when she had first come out she had known herself not to be pretty. And they expected girls to giggle and flirt back, to make sheep’s eyes over the edge of their fans and gaze at them as though they were wonderful.

Marina had rapidly discovered that she was really very bad at flirtation and that nothing would persuade her to gaze with wide-eyed admiration at some callow youth simply because he was male, had a title and a respectable degree of wealth—she felt rather an instinct to laugh at them. She also discovered that sensible, poorly dowered young ladies with a satirical twinkle in their eye eventually found themselves seated firmly on the shelf.

‘May I sit here, Miss Winslow?’ The men had entered the room without her noticing.

‘Yes, of course, my lord.’ Please go and talk to Mrs Hinton, my lord. Mrs Hinton is pretty and amusing and will flirt very elegantly with you.

But Lord Mortenhoe appeared oblivious to the fact that her friend had left a carefully judged space on the sofa next to her and sat down beside Marina, settling back and regarding the drawing room with every appearance of approbation.

‘This is a very charming room, if I may say so.’

‘Why, thank you, my lord.’ Marina could not help but feel flattered. The room had cost her much work and careful budgeting, but she did feel that it had turned out well and showed no sign of having been created on a shoestring.

‘And may I presume to deduce from that modest look that you are the creative hand behind it? I suspect that Lady Winslow relies very much upon you.’

‘Mama does let me run things more or less as I will, my lord. I find it interesting to manage the household.’

‘Then perhaps I might ask you for some advice—can you recommend a good agency for domestic staff? I will be engaging a complete household for a rural estate shortly and it is not something with which I have much experience.’

‘My goodness! A complete household? I would have to think about that, for there are several agencies that I could recommend and I think that it would be prudent to approach more than one. You have acquired a new shooting lodge, I imagine?’

Now, what have I said to amuse him? Lord Mortenhoe’s lips quirked in a wry smile. He really did have the most expressive mouth. I wonder what it would be like to be kissed...

‘No, not a shooting lodge, a mansion of, if I recall correctly, twenty bedrooms.’

‘My goodness, that is large.’ Marina wrenched her eyes and her unruly imagination away from Lord Mortenhoe’s mouth. ‘Then you will most definitely need more than one agency. There are no staff there at present?’

‘I am not sure, I must ask your brother, but I imagine only a skeleton staff, and he will doubtless wish to retain them and move them to one of his other establishments.’

‘My brother? You mean Charlie is selling you a house?’ Marina’s brow furrowed, then cleared. ‘Then he must be selling Knightshaye. I had no idea it was not entailed like everything else.’

‘It used to be in my family. Your father acquired it, I am retrieving it.’ Marina shivered. Lord Mortenhoe’s voice was pleasant and unemotional, yet she felt a sudden frisson of danger as though a blade had been drawn hissing from its sheath.

‘That is good for all of us, I am sure,’ she commented, more for something to say than anything else.

‘Indeed? Do you dislike it so?’

‘I have never been there—in fact, I do not believe Charlie has either. No, I meant it is good that you have been able to get it back and that Charlie has realised money on it.’ His profile looked somewhat forbidding, so, in an effort at lightness, she added, ‘I shall have to tease a new pair of dining-room curtains out of my brother on the strength of the sale.’

‘I should imagine you could tease rather more than that out of him should you try, Miss Winslow. Your brother strikes a hard bargain. But the deal has not yet been concluded.’

Was that resentment in his voice? No, not that, more a wry admiration. Perhaps that was why she had sensed so much tension on his first visit—Charlie had set too high a price and they were still negotiating. But the thought of what realising the value of a large mansion would do for the shaky family fortunes was thrilling—just so long as Charlie did not promptly gamble it away. Why on earth have Charlie and Mama not mentioned it?

‘Have you ever been there?’

‘It was my home until three weeks after my eighth birthday.’

‘Then it must have a most sentimental attachment for you,’ she said warmly. ‘I am so glad you are regaining it. Is it as you remember it? I always find that going back to places I knew as a child is most disconcerting—they either seem bigger or much smaller than I recall.’

‘I have never been back.’ He seemed to hesitate, then added, ‘I swore as we drove away that I would never return until I owned it again.’

‘What a very determined little boy you must have been.’ She smiled at the thought of the childish resolution.

Justin turned to look at her and she almost drew back at the look in his eyes. There was the ghost of pain there, overlaid by an iron-hard will. ‘And now I am a very determined man,’ he remarked evenly. Then, with a smile that transformed his face, ‘But I do not want to bore you with business, Miss Winslow. Might I hope to find you at home tomorrow afternoon if I called to take you driving in the park?’

‘So soon?’ His eyebrows rose in sharp interrogation and Marina had the fleeting thought that she had said something to surprise him. ‘I mean, I may not have assembled all the details of the agencies you will need by then.’

‘But that is not why I invited you to drive with me.’ His smile was producing the most extraordinary sensations, as though her skin was suddenly too hot, or someone had drawn a piece of velvet across it. Once again she had the illusion that they were alone in the room. I really must stop looking at his mouth.

‘It is not?’ Can he be flirting with me? Surely not, not with Priscilla Hinton, lovely, sophisticated and very willing to engage in such an activity, only an arm’s reach away. No, he was simply being kind to the sister of the man with whom he was doing business.

‘No. I only had the desire to drive in pleasant company. Has anyone ever told you that you are a most soothing companion, Miss Winslow?’

‘Soothing? Why, no.’ And why, even if she did possess this quality, would a fashionable gentleman wish to seek it out? Marina was mystified. ‘I think you are teasing me again, my lord.’ Soothing, now she came to think about it, sounded somewhat staid.

‘I have said the wrong thing; perhaps a young lady does not wish to hear she is soothing. Possibly I should have said lovely, charming...’

A gurgling laugh escaped Marina’s lips. ‘Now I know you are talking fustian! Here is the tea tray. Please excuse me, Lord Mortenhoe, Mama will wish me to pour.’

‘Might I assist you?’ He was on his feet before she could answer.

‘Oh...thank you.’ Marina poured tea and handed him two cups. ‘For you and for Mrs Hinton. Do you take milk or lemon?’

‘Lemon, thank you.’ In the face of two tea cups almost thrust into his hands Lord Mortenhoe carried them across to Priscilla Hinton and, as Marina hoped, was invited with a pretty smile to sit beside her.

Marina dispensed the rest of the tea and came to rest next to Mr Philpott, with whom it was possible to carry on the most comfortable conversation without the slightest discomfiture. Mr Philpott, a serious but kindly man, neither flirted nor teased but spoke in measured tones on dull and unexceptional subjects of interest that allowed one to survey the room and ensure that the company was all provided with refreshment and suitably entertained.

Mama, to Marina’s surprise, was regarding her with a less than approving expression. When she had her daughter’s attention, she swivelled her eyes to focus on Mrs Hinton’s sofa and produced a frown.

Marina responded with the slightest of shrugs. She was more than happy to see their two most distinguished guests amusing themselves, although, now she was watching them, it did seem rather fast of Priscilla to be popping a morsel of her almond cake between Lord Mortenhoe’s lips. There was nothing he could be expected to do about that, of course, other than accept it with good grace.

He seemed to sense her gaze upon him and turned his head to meet her eyes, holding them with his own as he slowly licked a crumb of cake from his lower lip. Marina felt herself drawn in as though she had risen to her feet and taken a step towards him. Her skin was hot again with that strange velvety sensation and she broke eye contact with a shiver of alarm.

She sipped her tea, marvelling at her own lack of propriety in reacting so. But no one has ever flirted with me before, not like this. I do not know what to do.

No, that was not strictly true. Gauche young men had attempted to flirt with her when she was equally gauche and just out, but, with neither liking nor aptitude for it, she soon found herself eclipsed by more confident, assured and beautiful young ladies such as her friend Priscilla Wilde, now Mrs Hinton. The trouble was, she realised, that either she had not liked the young gentlemen enough to suspend her natural reticence or she found the posturing and play-acting funny, but could find no one with whom safely to share the joke.

But Lord Mortenhoe did seem to be a man who would know immediately what the joke was, and was also someone who could make flirtation rather stimulating. Probably it was the fact that he was older than those callow youths and simply more experienced.

Just how experienced? Marina wondered, watching him over the rim of her tea cup while listening with every appearance of attention to Mr Philpott speaking about the health of the King. Had Charlie introduced her to a rake? The thought made her smile; in the safety of her own home a rake seemed more interesting than alarming. The gentleman in question looked up as she did so and answered the smile with one of his own, a fleeting look of warmth and communication.

Bunting entered, a footman with fresh hot water on his heels. Goodness! Was that the time? It only seemed moments since she had poured the first cups. Marina glanced round hastily, half-expecting to see her guests looking reproachfully into empty teacups. But no one appeared to have noticed her abstraction. With a murmured excuse to Mr Philpott she rose and refreshed the teapot, then began to circulate around the room, checking to see who would like another cup.

This time, much to her surprise, her cousin got to his feet and helped ferry the drinks to and from the tea table. ‘Why, thank you, Hugh.’ Marina tried not to sound too surprised at his thoughtfulness.

‘Thank you, Cousin Marina,’ he responded as they stood together at the table. ‘Papa has been thinking about what Lord Mortenhoe said, and says that he wonders he never thought of horse breeding himself. And he says he will send me to Ireland, to a friend of his with a stud out there so I can buy my first horses with his guidance.’ Hugh’s normally sullen countenance was transformed by a broad grin he appeared quite unable to control and Marina’s heart warmed to him. ‘My own horses—think of it!’

‘Do not thank me—it is all due to Lord Mortenhoe’s suggestion. Why do you not tell him yourself? Here, take the cups for him and Mrs Hinton.’ The youth hastened over to the seated couple, his grin replaced with a frown of concentration as he attempted not to spill the tea. As he approached, Priscilla Hinton got to her feet, waving Lord Mortenhoe back into his seat and, taking her cup from Hugh, strolled over to join Marina.

‘My dear! I had no idea, you sly thing.’

‘What do you mean?’ Marina checked that the other guests were comfortable and steered Priscilla to a distant corner. ‘Don’t be provoking, Pris.’ Despite being as dissimilar in most things as they could be, the two young women had been fast friends for years, ever since they had shared a piano teacher and dancing lessons.

Priscilla was an elegant blonde with fine blue eyes, an open and spontaneous manner and a love of frivolity, luxury and fun. Marina could never get her to take anything seriously other than the acquisition of a rich husband, a duty Pris took with the utmost earnestness as being the passport to all the things she enjoyed most.

By great good luck she found a man who was not only rich but who adored her and whose chosen profession of diplomacy gave his young wife the perfect showcase for her charm, looks and love of entertaining.

Now she turned her aquamarine gaze on Marina and said reproachfully, ‘It is you who is being provoking, Mar! Here I am, your oldest friend, and you keep the most incredible news from me.’

‘What news? I cannot think of a thing that has happened since we went shopping last week that you would be remotely interested in.’

‘Lord Mortenhoe, of course! You attach an eligible suitor and do not breathe a word. Honestly, Mar, I feel positively hurt.’

‘Suitor?’ Marina regarded her friend with alarm. ‘He is no such thing, Pris, we only met yesterday. He is doing business with Charlie, buying some property.’ She took a deep breath—it was suddenly very important to disabuse Priscilla of this ridiculous misunderstanding. ‘I assure you, Lord Mortenhoe has no more interest in me than I have in him. In fact—’

She broke off at a sharp jab in the ribs from Mrs Hinton. ‘He is coming over.’

His lordship was indeed coming towards them. Marina found herself looking at him through her friend’s eyes: a powerful, assured, very masculine gentleman with looks that turned foolish female heads. And it seemed she was no more rational than the rest of them, for her heart was beating very strangely and she could feel the colour rising in her cheeks.

‘Ladies.’ He came to a halt just in front of them. ‘I must bid you goodnight. Mrs Hinton, it was a pleasure to meet you. Miss Winslow, I hope two o’clock will be a convenient time for me to call for our drive?’

‘Yes, perfectly convenient, my lord.’ It came out sounding squeaky, but at least it was a coherent sentence.

‘Then, until two tomorrow. Thank you for a delightful dinner party.’ He bowed slightly, turned and strolled over to take his farewell of Lady Winslow, his elegant figure tracked across the room by two pairs of eyes, one blue, the other grey.

‘Well?’ Priscilla demanded. ‘What did I say? And you still maintain he has no interest in you?’

Chapter Four

‘Yes,’ Marina said firmly. ‘He is merely being courteous because he and Charlie are negotiating some business and he will doubtless be in and out of the house for a while. That is all.’

‘Mar, there are times I utterly despair of you!’ Priscilla looked set to continue, but the clock struck the hour and she jumped to her feet with an exclamation of annoyance. ‘Look at the time—and I promised darling Henry I would be home before he got back tonight, poor hard-working lamb that he is.’ She looked down at Marina, biting her lip. ‘There is nothing for it, you need taking in hand, this is an emergency. I will cancel all my appointments and will be with you by ten tomorrow morning. Now, whatever you do, get a good night’s sleep, dearest.’

She bent, kissed Marina’s cheek and began to walk away, turning after a few steps to stare at her friend’s hair. ‘I wonder if I can get Monsieur Lamerre at such short notice?’ It appeared to be a rhetorical question, for she hastened off to her hostess and in a few moments was gone, along with the Philpotts.

Marina stared rather blankly after her, long after the door had closed, unconscious of the bustle surrounding the Thredgolds making their way off to their lodgings.

‘Miss Marina?’ It was Bunting, checking for any last orders or comments on the evening.

‘Thank you, Bunting, everything was delightful. Please thank the staff and especially Mrs Leeming. That was an excellent dinner, and at such short notice.’

Marina made her way over to where her mother and Charlie were chatting by the fireside, Charlie nursing a bumper of brandy between his palms.

‘I think I will go to bed now, Mama.’ Her parent smiled at her and nodded. Marina bit her lip, then added, ‘Lord Mortenhoe has invited me to drive with him tomorrow afternoon.’

‘That is nice, dear,’ Lady Winslow remarked comfortably. ‘Goodnight, my love.’

‘Goodnight, Mama. Goodnight, Charlie.’

Marina had reached her bedroom before anything about that exchange struck her as odd, but, as she sat in front of her dressing table while her maid removed the pins and bushed out her hair, she frowned at her reflection.

Why was Mama so unconcerned that she was going driving with a gentleman who was virtually unknown to her? Surely she should be in as much of a tizzy as Pris was? Had she known already that Lord Mortenhoe was going to ask her?

Then common sense took over her jumbled thoughts. It was Pris who was acting oddly by being so excited about it. Mama and Charlie put exactly the same construction upon the matter as she herself had—it was a polite invitation to the sister of a man with whom he was doing business and nothing more need be read into it.

This was so obviously the case, Marina decided as she tied her nightcap ribbons, that it was ridiculous that she had considered anything else even for a moment. After all, she was twenty-six years of age, the virtually dowerless daughter of a baron, of no beauty and with no talent other than for housekeeping. Justin Ransome, Earl of Mortenhoe, must be one of the most eligible bachelors in London.

If he was a bachelor. That had not occurred to Marina, but a moment’s thought assured her it must be so. Mama would not countenance her driving about town with a married man.

Satisfied that she had the matter aright now, she climbed into bed and blew out her candle. A good night’s sleep, then she must fit in time to make a list of the most suitable domestic agencies to recommend to him before Pris descended upon her.

Half an hour later, a wide-awake Miss Winslow slipped out of bed, pulled on her robe and padded downstairs to the library to consult the Peerage.

In the master bedchamber of a distinguished town house a few minutes drive away, the peer in question lay back against his pillows and examined his conscience.

His first reaction when Charles Winslow had stipulated his outrageous condition had been to reject it out of hand. He had then, Justin acknowledged to himself, capitulated with very little struggle—and therein lay the rub. Why had he given in to what his instinct told him was wrong?

He wanted Knightshaye. Regaining it had been his single purpose for twenty years, during eleven of which he had been in the position to work single-mindedly to amass sufficient funds to do so. Most of the family income had been tied up in the great house and estate, and what he had inherited from his father had been but a fraction of his former fortune. Which in itself was a puzzle—surely even as dedicated a gambler as Charlie Winslow could not have worked his way through the rents or the income of the Home Farm? On the other hand, there was nothing to have stopped him selling off parcels of farmland locally.

Justin pushed this new worry to the back of his mind and resumed the even less pleasant exercise of examining his motives. Was he really so obsessed that he would have married anyone to obtain Knightshaye? No. His long, lean frame jerked as he hauled himself upright in rejection of the thought. He had his name to consider. But it was more than that. To marry a woman for whom he could not feel liking and respect was to create a hollow sham, as cruel to her as it was repugnant to him.

But he was uncomfortably aware that he had agreed to court Marina Winslow, knowing nothing about her other than that she had beautiful eyes, a sense of humour, considerable grace and made him feel calm. That was not enough. He should have become better acquainted with her before agreeing to Winslow’s condition.

Restless now, Justin swung his legs off the bed and began to pace, still in his shirtsleeves and evening knee breeches. At least now he knew his first impressions of Marina were borne out by closer contact; on longer acquaintance he believed he could come to like her very well. Was that enough to be fair to her?

Moodily, Justin regarded himself in the cheval glass in the corner. Brought up almost exclusively by a trio of old friends of his grandfather, he had never been encouraged to think too highly of his natural attributes, only to value what hard work and the application of his intelligence won him.

He supposed he cut a well-enough figure. His tailor and valet both appeared satisfied and ladies less strictly brought up than Miss Winslow were not reticent in admiring his height, length of leg, breadth of shoulder and ability to avoid standing on their toes on the dance floor. The fortune his hard work had brought him was more silently valued.

Moving closer, he narrowed his eyes at his reflection. Black hair that would never conform to a fashionable crop, even if he could be persuaded to try one. A nose that contrasted disappointingly with the aloof features of the classical bust standing on a column next to the mirror—but then the model for that had presumably never got himself into a fist fight with the blacksmith’s son at the age of eleven. A mouth that he considered too wide and had had to learn to keep absolutely in repose when playing cards because, as his last mistress was fond of saying, ‘It is so expressive, darling,’ and those dark-fringed hazel eyes that would change colour so betrayingly with his emotions.

Your dangerous expression. Justin grinned at himself. Marina Winslow could speak her mind when she wanted to. In fact, he had a suspicion that behind that well-bred reticence she harboured all sorts of thoughts and opinions and that it would be interesting to explore them.

So... He prowled back to the bed and resumed his supine position on it. So, he liked Miss Winslow and she appeared to have the intelligence and strength of mind to suit him. So, he reasoned further, he was not being hypocritical in courting her. But, and here was the rub, what did she want and what did she make of him, given that she had no inkling of his intentions?

‘She can always refuse me.’ Justin considered his own words. Was that likely? He had a shrewd idea of the pressures that would be put on a young lady by her family if an offer to marry an earl came along, years after they had given her up as an old maid. ‘So...I had better make sure she does not want to refuse me.’ And do it without lying and pretending a love he did not feel.

What was it she had said any woman wanted?

‘I think that all women would want to feel wanted, needed, to have a loving family and to know that they are useful in whatever way they can be.’ And what else? ‘To have enough money to indulge in little luxuries is very pleasant, of course.’

And he had asked about rank and status and her response had been that they would bring great responsibility and yet have a certain allure.

She was not then averse to the wealth, the title and the position he could give her. He could certainly make her feel needed, hopefully give her the family she desired. Could he make her feel wanted? Justin was certain she had no intention of referring to physical wants—her clear grey gaze had been innocent and perfectly serious.

It was an important consideration. Justin had no intention of maintaining a mistress once married, whether he was in love with his wife or no, and it would be hard to be leg shackled to a woman for whom one felt little desire. And just at the moment the only way of describing what he felt for Marina Winslow was friendship. That in itself was a novelty. Brought up in a series of masculine households, carefully introduced both to the haut ton and the world of expensive pleasures for sale, women had simply never entered his orbit as friends.

At least he felt that he could now look his conscience in the eye, if only after a somewhat shaky start, but he felt no further forward in how, honourably, to advance his courtship of Marina after tomorrow’s promised drive in the park.

Restless again, he got up, threw on a robe and ran downstairs to the study. Pulling out a portfolio of suggestions from his agent for property acquisitions in the newly expanding area of St Mary-le-bone, he began to study them with close attention. Having enough money to buy back Knightshaye was one thing, to restore it and support a wife meant he could not rest on his laurels.

Back in Cavendish Square his proposed bride was also sitting poring over documents, although in Marina’s case it was a pile of her household account books and notes which she was scanning in an effort to recall which domestic agencies had been most effective in providing the Winslow household with staff.

Having satisfied herself by careful study of the Peerage that Lord Mortenhoe was indeed a single man, she had then taken herself to task for even thinking it important to check. Ten minutes later she had been alarmed to find herself still sitting at Charlie’s desk, her chin cupped in one hand, brooding on the puzzle of why he seemed so interested in her company.

By then she was too awake to make bed seem at all attractive, so, despite the clock chiming one o’clock, she took herself off to the morning room, which served the ladies of the house as their private sitting room, and found her notebooks.

Half-an-hour’s work produced a respectable selection of agencies. Marina took another sheet of paper and began to draft a list of what servants might be thought necessary for a house the size of Knightshaye. That Lord Mortenhoe might think it presumptuous of her to do such a thing did occur to her, but her perusal of the Peerage had shown neither mother, sisters nor sisters-in-law to perform such a service, so she decided to keep it aside and produce it if further conversation showed a need for it.

The night watchman crying the hour outside jerked her out of her thoughts. Two o’clock. Yawning, Marina folded the papers, picked up her chamber stick and made her way upstairs, reflecting sleepily that it was satisfying to do something that, hopefully, would be a service to a friend. That she was thinking of Justin Ransome in those terms did not even occur to her as strange.

* * *

Priscilla swept into the Cavendish Street house at ten on the dot, her maid at her heels clutching two hat boxes and a portmanteau. She took one look at Marina, who had been conning her accounts in the morning room, and let out a faint shriek of horror.

‘What have you been doing? You have bags under your eyes and you are positively sallow.’

‘Good morning, Priscilla. You are looking delightful as always.’ Marina refused to rise to the bait.

‘Do you think so?’ Priscilla eyed herself in the mirror as she untied her bonnet strings. ‘Well, this is a prodigiously pretty hat. Susan, run upstairs and find Miss Marina’s woman and show her what we have brought.’ She sat down in a ruffle of skirts and peered at Marina more closely. ‘A brisk walk around the Square will bring your colour back, but you look as if you hardly slept last night. Do you have any cucumber in the house? Because, if not, you must send out for one—it is the only thing for your eyes.’

‘I expect we have.’ Marina pushed her books to one side. ‘But there is really no need to fuss, Pris, I am only going for a carriage ride.’

‘With one of the most eligible men in London! I despair. And what is worse, I could not persuade Monsieur Lemerre to cancel his appointment with the Duchess of Porton, so we will have to manage your hair as best we can.’

‘I have done my hair for the day,’ Marina said firmly. ‘I mean it, Pris—I am not going to get into a tizzy about a simple invitation from a friend of Charlie’s.’

‘Don’t you want to marry and not remain a spinster all your days?’ her friend demanded in exasperated tones.

‘Yes. But I also wish I had the talent to play the piano, blue eyes and the opportunity to visit the East and none of those things are going to come to pass either, so I am certainly neither going to repine, nor weave ridiculous fantasies about earls.’

Priscilla leapt to her feet and marched towards the door. ‘I have given up my morning, I have brought you my newest hat to wear and you are not the slightest bit grateful. Well, you can wither into an old maid, Marina Winslow, just don’t blame your friends!’

‘Pris, don’t be cross, I know you want to help, but do face it, I am not going to attract an eligible earl whatever I do.’

Mrs Hinton swirled round and looked at her. Marina winced inwardly. However affectionate the look was, it was shot through with a pity that Priscilla was always careful not to express. But Marina recognised it and it hurt, just as sharply as her mother’s less-well disguised disappointment that she had failed to ‘take’ or Lizzie’s occasional tactless remark.

‘But do you not want to enjoy his company, flirt a trifle, enjoy a little envy from others by being seen to be driving with him?’

‘No, of course not. I enjoy his company and I would like him for a friend, I think. And going driving would be a treat. Naturally I would not dream of embarrassing him by appearing poorly turned out, but I would hate to have him think I was angling for him.’ Marina could feel herself going quite hot at the thought.

‘A friend?’ Her huff completely forgotten, Priscilla sat down again and looked at Marina with astonishment. ‘You mean like Dr Johnson and Mrs Thrale? I do not know of anyone else who is friends with a man.’

‘But are you not friends with Mr Hinton?’

‘Husbands are completely different,’ Priscilla pronounced airily. ‘So, if you do not wish to be obvious, we must simply be subtle.’ This was rather an alien approach for her, but she was obviously prepared to throw herself into the attempt. ‘But the first thing is a walk, then the cucumber and a lie down, or he will think you have been awake all night thinking about him.’

It would never have occurred to Marina that one could spend an entire morning getting ready for a simple carriage ride. Priscilla even monitored what she had for luncheon with care. ‘You must eat something or your tummy will rumble and that would be fatal, but not too much because of tight lacing.’

‘I do not want my stays laced tight,’ Marina protested, helpless as, between them, two maidservants, carried away with enthusiasm, and Priscilla, happily directing, removed her morning dress and pulled on her stay laces. Her bosom swelled to an alarming extent over the top of her chemise. ‘My walking dress will not fit.’

‘That old thing!’ Priscilla threw the lid off a bandbox. ‘I have brought my new walking dress with a braided Russian bodice.’

‘Now that certainly will never fit,’ Marina stated confidently, but with an envious glance at the rich green cloth and intricate braid work.

In reply Priscilla gave a last heave on the stay laces. ‘Yes, it will.’ And it did, provided one was prepared not to breathe. Marina blinked in astonishment at the effect. She had what she considered a reasonable figure, but now she appeared to have a tiny waist and a quite stunning bosom, fortunately modestly covered.

‘It is all in the cut and the corsetry,’ Priscilla remarked complacently.

‘But I cannot breathe!’

‘Why do you need to? You aren’t walking anywhere. Sit back, smile prettily, flutter your eyelashes—which reminds me, lamp black—and greet every one of his observations as if it was brilliant. One hardly needs to breathe to do that.’

At last the excited maids were dismissed and Marina was permitted to descend to the drawing room and await his lordship’s arrival. ‘He is bound to bring a high-perch phaeton,’ Priscilla remarked. ‘Or possibly a curricle, but I think the phaeton would be more likely for the park. And naturally he will be driving his famous Welsh bays, or perhaps the matched blacks. I asked Henry last night and he says Lord Mortenhoe is famous for his horses and for having made most of his fortune himself by being a clever investor, because there was a scandal when his father died and he was left very poorly off.’

Unable to sit comfortably, Marina fidgeted about the room, trying to suppress a secret smile whenever she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the glass over the mantelshelf. It was lowering to consider how frippery fashions could turn one’s head, but it was a delightful novelty to have an expensive outfit on and to know one’s beautifully curled locks were topped off by a bonnet in the very first stare of fashion. It was also exciting to imagine being driven behind a team of high-stepping horses in a dashing equipage.

When the door-knocker thudded she started towards the door, only to be pulled back by her friend. ‘Not so eager, dearest.’

Priscilla waited, one ear almost on the door panels, then threw the door open and sauntered out, saying over her shoulder, ‘Well, I must be going as you cannot accompany me to the library. My lord!’ The start of surprise was a masterpiece. ‘How charming to see you again. Marina has just reminded me that you are going driving, so I will go and say good afternoon to Lady Winslow.’ She fluttered off up the stairs, leaving Marina torn between admiration and exasperation.

‘My lord.’ She stepped forward and shook hands, surprised at how glad she was to see him again.

‘Miss Winslow, how very punctual you are.’ His smile touched something inside her, something that warmed and expanded into a flutter of happiness. ‘Shall we go?’

At her nod, he took her arm and guided her to the door, which Bunting threw open with some élan. Marina stepped forward, eager for her first glimpse of the fabulous carriage and team.

At the kerb a groom was holding the head of a neatish grey cob, which, although of a pleasing conformation, was clearly of mature years and showing not the slightest sign of exciting high spirits. It stood between the shafts of a plain gig with blue wheels, its top folded down.

Nothing could have been further from her imaginings of making a stylish appearance in Hyde Park.

Chapter Five

Justin watched Marina’s face covertly as she stood on the step beside him. Yes, she was disappointed, although one had to be studying her closely to register that flicker of expression before her innate good manners took over.

‘What a pretty gig.’ She said it with a smile that seemed entirely genuine.

‘Thank you,’ he replied gravely, taking her arm and guiding her towards the cob who was being held by a liveried groom. ‘And this is Smoke, who is an old fellow and somewhat on his dignity, although he can be persuaded to trot out like a young one if he is in the mood.’

Instead of asking him why he was intending to take her driving in an ordinary gig behind an elderly horse, Marina stroked Smoke’s nose with confidence. ‘Hello, you are a handsome fellow, are you not?’ She was rewarded with a slobbery kiss on her leather gloves, but she wiped them on his mane with a lack of fuss that Justin approved.

‘You think you will feel confident behind him, then?’ He handed her up into the gig and gathered the reins. ‘Thank you, Thomas, you may return home.’ The man touched his hat and strode off as Justin clicked his tongue at the cob and they rolled sedately down the road.

‘Why, yes. Did you think I would be a nervous passenger?’ Marina swivelled on the seat to look at him. ‘I assure you I am not, although I have not driven in an open carriage very often. Mama uses a closed carriage and Charlie prefers to ride.’ He had also, Justin knew, recently sold his driving horses, presumably to meet some of his debts.

‘Not at all, it was just that I thought you might care to learn to drive, and a single horse is much easier to begin with.’ He waited with some apprehension for her response. It had seemed, at two in the morning, an excellent idea and one that would allow him an excuse for repeated, informal, excursions in her company. Now he was not so sure; if Marina had wanted to drive with him in order to be seen in fashionable places behind a showy team, she was not going to look kindly on his suggestion.

He risked a glance at her face and realised that her silence was due to delighted surprise and not disapproval. ‘Truly? I would so enjoy it!’ Then the animation vanished and she added politely, ‘But I cannot accept, it would be such an imposition on your time.’

Justin, far from being a selfish man, was still not often in the position of offering treats and that eager flash in her eyes touched him more than he could have expected. It also threw the rest of her daily routine into sharp relief for him. Good grief, I’d go mad in her shoes—confined to household duties, fetching and carrying, expected to behave like an old maid. Not that she was looking like any old maid he had ever seen, not in that hat. And how could he have overlooked that voluptuous figure?

‘It would give me much pleasure,’ he responded, biting down a peremptory demand that she kick over the traces and just enjoy herself for once. ‘It would interest me to teach you and you would be doing me a favour.’

‘I would?’

He glanced at her again, trusting Smoke to plod stolidly through the traffic of Swallow Street. There was a decidedly sceptical glint in her eye.

‘I am much involved with business lately. Somehow many of my former recreations pall. To drive quietly with you, to teach you to enjoy the sport, would be a delightful distraction.’

Silence. Had he mishandled it?

‘What made you think I would care to learn?’ She sounded genuinely interested.

‘You have the air of confidence that is necessary, but you also have patience and sensitivity. And I thought perhaps you would enjoy a small adventure.’ Now she was blushing rosily. Deliciously.

‘In the face of such compliments I shall have to try hard to acquit myself.’ It was acceptance of his suggestion and, relieved, he turned his attention back to his driving. They were almost upon Piccadilly. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I thought Green Park, if you would not dislike it. Far less fashionable than Hyde Park, of course...’

‘Good.’ It was said with heartfelt relief. ‘If I am to make an exhibition of myself, I would far rather it was before an audience of nursemaids, dairy maids and elderly scholars than the fashionable crowd.’

‘You will not make an exhibition of yourself,’ he remarked somewhat absently, concentrating on turning right on the busy street past Burlington House.

‘You are very confident, my lord!’

‘I am teaching you,’ he responded, unaware of how arrogant that sounded until a gurgle of laughter escaped her. ‘Hmm, that was a somewhat dogmatic remark, was it not? I can see I must rely on you to take me down a peg or two when necessary, Marina.’

The use of her first name was a calculated risk and he was prepared for the sharp intake of breath beside him, pretending not to notice as he negotiated the park entrance.

‘My lord...’

‘Justin. It will be much easier to teach you if I do not have to include “Miss Winslow” in every sentence. And if you wish to berate me for bullying you, or being too demanding, then “Justin” will be so much easier.’

‘Will you bully me?’ she enquired demurely with that underlying thread of laughter that so attracted him.

‘Most certainly. We have just established that I am dogmatic and overconfident, have we not?’ He surveyed the greensward in front of them and guided Smoke towards a long track, away from the park’s resident herd of milk cows. ‘Does anyone shorten your name? Marina suits you when you are on your dignity and being gracious, but it is a somewhat stately name.’

‘The family always call me Marina. Priscilla—Mrs Hinton—calls me Mar, but that is just a childhood name.’

‘Mari. I will call you Mari.’ The thought of a pet name for her, something no one else used, was a pleasing idea. She was blushing again.

‘Very well, Justin. I do not know what Mama would say.’

‘I promise to address you with the strictest propriety within earshot of Lady Winslow.’ He registered the touch of pleasure her hesitant use of his name gave him and made himself concentrate on the lesson. It was like gentling an unbroken horse—he had no intention of alarming her by taking anything too fast. Yet.

Marina attempted to sort through her jumbled emotions and discovered that, underneath the shyness and the fear of making a fool of herself in front of a accomplished whip, she was quite simply happy.

Justin pulled up and handed her the reins. ‘Here you are. One horse and a plain snaffle bit, so only two reins, which you hold like so...no, thumb here. We will leave the whip for a later date.’

‘Oh. Good,’ Marina said fervently, already feeling that her hands were rather too full of things and nervously aware that she could feel Smoke mouthing the bit.

‘Just keep contact with his mouth. Perfect, now shake the reins slightly and click your tongue. You can say “walk on” if you like.’

One grey ear swivelled back and Marina laughed. ‘He is listening. Walk on, Smoke.’ If the cob took exception to a rather overenthusiastic shake of the reins, he showed no sign of it, pacing off down the long drive. Marina, hardly daring to take her eyes off the ground in front, exclaimed, ‘I am driving!’

‘Certainly you are driving. Now, relax your hands and your arms or Smoke will think there is something to worry about.’ Beside her Justin turned so that his left arm was behind her and he could take the right rein out of her hand. ‘Put your hand over mine and feel how relaxed I keep my fingers. Go on, Mari.’

Tentatively she did as she was told, shaken by the close proximity of his body. It is no worse than waltzing, she chided herself, feeling how loose his grasp on the rein was. ‘I see.’ Justin handed her back the rein, turning to sit straight in the seat again, and she felt a little pang at the loss of the contact.

‘What do I do now?’

‘Go down this drive to the next bend, then turn right.’

‘How?’

‘Tighten your fingers on the right rein. I will tell you when.’

And by some miracle it worked. Marina spent a happy hour guiding the old cob round and round Green Park at a steady walk, glowing with Justin’s praises and blissfully unaware that if any of his friends had seen him they would have assumed he was fit only for Bedlam.

At last he pried the reins from her fingers and took them home. Marina sat flexing her shoulders which were surprisingly stiff and asked, ‘May I trot tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Oh, I am sorry, I spoke without thinking, it is too much to expect you to let me drive two days running.’ How mortifying, to have presumed on Justin’s good nature in such a way. He was a busy man, he had told her so, and he was only doing this for some whim of kindness.

‘Not at all, you may certainly trot tomorrow; I thought you might have been bored.’ His questioning glance was so open that she smiled back without constraint.

‘I am enjoying it so much. The driving and your company. You see, I never had a male friend before. I suppose it is one of the benefits of being out of the Marriage Mart—one does not have to consider those stuffy conventions so much any more.’

‘You see me as a friend?’ She tried to fathom any meaning behind the question. ‘Why?’

‘Because I trust you and it is easy to talk to you.’ The gig drew up outside the house and Marina hopped down before Justin could assist her. ‘Would you care to come in and take tea? I can ask a footman to come and hold Smoke.’

The door opened before he answered her and Charlie emerged, setting his fashionable hat at a rakish angle on his head. ‘Good God, Mortenhoe, what are you doing in that rig?’

‘Teaching me to drive, Charlie. Is that not kind of Lord Mortenhoe?’

‘Dashed good of him. Look, old chap, there was something I wanted to discuss if you have a moment, only I’m on my way to the club.’

‘Step up, I’ll drive you. Thank you, Miss Winslow, I will take up your kind offer on another occasion. The same time tomorrow?’

Marina agreed and stood watching with glee as her brother climbed reluctantly into the unfashionable vehicle and was driven off.

Justin regarded Winslow’s efforts to pull his hat low enough to render himself unrecognisable. ‘I will drop you off in a minute if you like. What did you want to say to me?’

‘Only to ask how it was going with my sister. The driving’s a dashed good idea, I must say.’

‘I thought so, and Miss Winslow seems to enjoy it. The only trouble is, I am not sure it will achieve much.’

‘Why not? Alone together, lots of opportunities to hold hands, not a chaperon in sight. Damn it, man, if you can’t make love to her under those circumstances, I don’t know what it would take.’

‘Miss Winslow considers me to be a friend. I am sure she thinks of me in no other light. If I start to flirt with her now, she is going to take me for a complete coxcomb.’ And Marina’s good opinion of him was something, Justin realised, that he valued.

‘Hell!’ Charlie lapsed into thought. ‘Leave it to me, I’ll see what Mama advises. Look, can you drop me off here, I can see some chaps I know coming.’

With a grin Justin pulled up to let Winslow escape before he was spotted and drove home, wondering what hare-brained ploy Charlie was going to come up with.

Marina recounted the tale of her first driving lesson at dinner, much to Lizzie’s wide-eyed interest. ‘Has he wonderful horses? A whole team? Did you canter?’

‘No, Lizzie, one steady cob and I walked around Green Park.’ Marina regarded her sister tolerantly. ‘You would have been bored to tears.’

‘I’m sure I would! When I come out I will be driven everywhere in the greatest style by all my beaux, you wait and see.’

‘If you cannot speak in a more modest and becoming manner, young lady, you will not be joining us for dinner again,’ her mother interjected frowning. ‘I had thought you old enough, but now I wonder if I was wrong. You may go to your room directly after dessert.’

When a sulky Elizabeth had trailed off to her room, Lady Winslow swept Marina into the drawing room and patted the sofa beside her. ‘I am glad of the opportunity to talk to you alone, dear. Now, you know Charlie is selling Knightshaye to Lord Mortenhoe? Well, the dear boy has a clever scheme to put the money in trust for Giles’s education, Lizzie’s come-out and my comfortable retirement to the Dower House. He has spoken to me very openly about his rather regrettable tendency to gamble and has hit upon this way of keeping the money safe for all of us. Now, is that not good news?’

It was, but there was an unpleasant hollowness in Marina’s stomach. ‘And what are his plans for me, Mama?’

‘He thought you would be living with me at the Dower House.’ The hollowness turned into an icy hole. ‘But I thought of something much better.’

With a rush of relief Marina stammered, ‘I can stay here and keep house for Charlie?’

‘Goodness, no, child! What are you thinking of? You are far too young to be keeping house for a bachelor brother in London of all places, and we could never afford a chaperon for you. No, I will have Lizzie’s companionship for a year or two until her come-out, so you would be much better employed with Aunt Maria.’

‘Great-aunt Maria in Bath? But she never goes out.’

‘Exactly. Poor creature, stuck in a gloomy house with only that cantankerous creature Cousin Phillipa for company and a pack of smelly lapdogs—you will do her good. Read to her, go for walks when she ventures out in her chair, generally make yourself useful.’ Lady Winslow smiled benignly at her elder daughter. ‘I know how you like to feel useful, Marina dear.’

It was a prison sentence, the punishment for the crime of failing to marry, meted out by those she loved in the cheerful belief that it was all for the best. Marina bit down the angry words that rose in her throat, the pleas to have this decision reconsidered. After all, what else was she fit for at twenty-six? Her family was too well bred, too respectable, for her to escape into the only genteel occupation that she might espouse—that of governess.

There was one hope. ‘But do you not need me to teach Giles?’

‘I think he is too old now for female tuition, dear. He is becoming a little wild. The Vicar is taking one or two other local boys of good family for tuition and Giles will do well with him, I am sure.’

‘When? When are we leaving London?’ How much longer did she have to walk freely with her maid, to visit Priscilla, to shop, to explore the lending libraries? How much longer to enjoy the company of her new friend and to learn to drive, a skill that would become immediately useless in Bath?

‘I think in about six weeks, if Charlie’s negotiations with Lord Mortenhoe are successful.’

Somehow Marina managed a tranquil face for the rest of the evening and through the next, interminable, morning. Neither her brother nor mother commented on the dark circles under her eyes, although Lizzie, with typical tactlessness, announced that she looked positively haggard and wondered loudly what could have kept her from sleeping. Without Priscilla’s attentions and finery—for her friend was engaged for the day with relatives of her husband—Marina felt that her appearance for her next driving lesson left something to be desired, although at least she could now breathe without Pris’s severe tight lacing.

Or she could if it were not for the lump of leaden misery that seemed lodged under her diaphragm.

Justin was prompt again, and her spirits could not help but be lightened simply by his company and the stimulation of their progress through the crowded streets. Marina made conversation and flattered herself that her self-control was equal to the occasion.

Then Justin put the reins in her hands just inside the park gate and pointed to a grove of trees. ‘Just walk over there, get used to the reins again.’ He was silent as they approached it, other than to say, ‘Circle around to the back.’ When they reached the little clearing the trees enclosed, deserted of all walkers, he took the reins back, tied them round the whip stand and clasped both her hands in his.

‘What is wrong, Mari?’ She shook her head. ‘No, do not try and tell me nothing is wrong, I can see it in your eyes. Who has hurt you? As your friend, I must either call him out or at least land him a punch on the jaw.’

It was said humorously, but the gentle expression in his eyes and the warmth of his hands clasping hers was almost too much for her self-possession. ‘You cannot.’ She struggled to find a humorous tone to match his. ‘It was only something Mama told me and you most certainly must not punch her.’

‘Tell me.’

Why can he not pretend everything is well? Marina realised that she was within an inch of blurting it all out and bit her lip hard. She looked at Justin and forced a smile as she shook her head. His eyes were hard and green and she realised he was angry.

‘Is it because of me?’

‘The driving lessons? Oh, no, Mama and Charlie seem quite sanguine about those, they hardly asked me about them.’ For some reason that did not seem to quench the angry colour.

‘Then what? Tell me, Mari, it matters to me.’

Shaken, she stammered, ‘When Charlie has the money from the sale of Knightshaye he will set up a trust for Mama and Giles and Lizzie.’

‘And you will live with Lady Winslow and Miss Elizabeth?’

‘I wanted to stay here and keep house for Charlie, but Mama says that is quite ineligible. So then I thought I would be living at the Dower House with her, but she thinks she would not need me...that I would be of more use with Great-aunt Maria in Bath.’

‘And do I deduce that will be no treat?’

Marina nodded. ‘She is very reclusive and lives with Cousin Phillipa, who is rather cross, and many lapdogs. Mama thinks I can read to her.’

‘And how long will this last?’

‘Until she dies, I suppose. And then Cousin Phillipa will need me, I expect.’

‘Oh, Mari, poor love, that sounds hellish.’

‘Please stop being sympathetic, you will make me cry.’ She sniffed resolutely. ‘I can manage if I do not feel sorry for myself.’ Before she could protest, Marina found herself enfolded in Justin’s arms and held against his chest.

It felt wonderful. Strong, safe and remarkably comfortable. Marina snuggled closer into Justin’s shirt front and let out a sigh of relief as though she had escaped from a pursuing beast and had found sanctuary. His arms were around her quite tightly, but she had no instinct to struggle. One-handed he appeared to have removed her bonnet and was stroking her hair soothingly while he murmured something unintelligible into it.

Then the feeling of overwhelming peace began to change subtly into something unsettling, something that made her pulse quicken and the heat come into her face. She was aware of his warmth and the scent of him: clean, somehow spicy and definitely male. His heart was beating under her cheek and the soft linen seemed suddenly as sensuous as skin against her own flesh. She realised that her hands had slipped around his body under his coat, her palms were braced against hard muscle and that she was touching a man in a way utterly different from the hugs she exchanged with her brothers.

Slowly she disentangled herself and sat up on the seat of the gig, looking at Justin for reassurance and meeting green eyes that were anything but angry.

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