Miss Marianne's Disgrace (14 page)

Chapter Nine

M
arianne entered Lady Astley's ballroom with a nauseating mixture of apprehension and anticipation. Everyone turned to view her, their eyes never rising above the low-cut neckline of her shimmering blue-silk gown. There was nothing vulgar about the dress, not the sleeves covering her upper arms, the length of the skirt or the silver trim beneath the bust and along the hem. However, it was far more revealing than what they'd come to expect from her. If they couldn't see her heart beating against her chest, she'd be stunned. She'd never once showed these people her fear of them. Tonight she wanted to grab Lady Ellington by her massive diamond bracelet and race back to the carriage.

As if sensing Marianne's apprehension, Lady Ellington twined her arm in the younger woman's and drew her deeper into the room. It wasn't just for Marianne's benefit she did this, but for everyone who looked to her and the Falconbridge family to set the tone. Marianne was grateful for the solidarity, but it wasn't enough to stop the women from whispering behind fans or to put an end to the men's lurid looks. These people wouldn't snub her with Lady Ellington present. They'd find more snide and cutting ways to make their disapproval clear, to try and chip away at her like an artist she'd once seen in Paris sculpting a block of granite. She wouldn't let them, not with Warren beside her, encouraging her as he always did, assuming he was here.

She looked over the guests, trying to ignore their silent insults and sneers as she searched among the men for him. It had been three days since he'd left her at Welton Place. She worried he hadn't returned in time for tonight. Then her bravery would be wasted, especially if he'd forgotten her in the rush of London and his work.

I shouldn't be so quick to doubt him.

He had yet to let her down.

At last she spied him. He stood near a gilded table with a stocky gentleman she didn't recognise. As if sensing her, he turned and his jaw dropped open. Instead of wanting to cover herself, she stood up straighter, pressing her shoulders back to give him a better view of her in the dress. He stroked her with his gaze, not just her ample chest, but her entire body. A potent thrill raced along her skin and the tips of her breasts hardened beneath her stays. This wasn't the first time she'd turned a man's head, but it was the first time she'd experienced the power of being alluring and understood why it had so obsessed Madame de Badeau. If they weren't in the middle of the classically decorated sitting room, she'd rush to close the distance between them.

Instead she stood as she always did at these gatherings, as if nothing anyone said or did could pierce her steadfast surety. Even if she was crumbling inside, they'd never know, nor would she reveal the excitement she experienced at Warren's quick stride as he made his way to her. Her heart beat so fast she could feel it in every gloved fingertip.

Warren bowed to Marianne, his pulse fluttering as fast as hers above his at last properly tied cravat. The darkness of his coat across his shoulders contrasted with the green waistcoat beneath his jacket which echoed the tone of his eyes. He wore his light hair swept back off of his forehead. It had been trimmed while he'd been in town so it no longer touched the edge of his white collar.

‘Did you have a good trip to London?' Lady Ellington asked while Marianne struggled to reclaim her voice. It had been startled out of her by Warren's heated regard.

The question stiffened the corners of his smile and trouble clouded his eyes before it vanished. Marianne wondered what had happened in London. Perhaps something with his book? Whatever it was, it bothered him despite his effort to hide it.

‘Very productive. In fact, I brought my publisher back with me. Allow me to introduce him.' He waved over the stocky man by the fireplace. ‘Miss Domville, This is Mr William Berkshire. Mr Berkshire, this is the accomplished pianist I told you about.'

‘Ah, I see.' He nodded appreciatively at Warren, who offered him a terse frown, alluding to something the two of them alone understood. She wondered what Warren had said to his publisher about her. It couldn't be the more salacious tales the bucks who visited Madame de Badeau's used to exchange. Warren wasn't so crude. It was something more disturbing, one she sensed had nothing to do with books. Perhaps Mr Berkshire had doubts about her ability to play or had balked at publishing her compositions. It could easily cause tension between the two men. ‘Warren told me about your gift for music and your interest in publishing your compositions. Will you be playing tonight?'

‘No, I'm not. There are very few people beside Sir Warren who are aware of my playing, or my compositions.'

‘Well, if Sir Warren is as talented a judge of music as he is a writer, there'll be many who learn of your music once we're done with you.'

She smiled graciously at him and his unexpected compliment. At least he wasn't resisting Warren's efforts on Marianne's behalf. It fuelled the hope she'd nurtured since Warren had first made his offer and edged out her previous worries. Maybe she could at last create a new life and reputation for herself, one free of all the people eyeing them with disapproval while she commanded the famous author's attention.

‘Mr Berkshire, no business tonight. Instead, you must tell me all the gossip from town,' Lady Ellington chided with her usual grace.

‘Ah, well, there isn't much to tell,' Mr Berkshire blustered and again there was the knowing exchange between the publisher and Warren. It didn't last as Lady Ellington pulled Mr Berkshire far enough away from Marianne and Warren to give them privacy, but remained close enough so no one could accuse her of abandoning her charge.

‘Did all go well in London?' she asked, eager to learn what was going on.

‘Yes. There was some difficulty with a newspaper, but nothing Mr Berkshire's solicitor won't see to,' he murmured before fixing her with an admiration to make her toes curl. At home, she'd fretted over wearing the gown and at the last minute had considered changing it. She was glad she hadn't. The heat in his eyes was worth every disparaging look from the other women. He, not them, was the only one who mattered. ‘You're stunning.'

Experience warned her to pry and discover what he was hiding behind his charm, but she didn't want to break the spell of his adoration. ‘Careful, if you flatter me too much it will go to my head and I'll think myself too important to play for you.'

‘You could never be so arrogant. You're too kind and enchanting.' He shifted a touch closer and dropped his voice. ‘I missed you while I was in London. Writing wasn't the same without you.'

His breath caressed the tops of her breasts, stoking the fire building deep inside her at the nearness of him. His breathing matched hers and she was sure his pulse did too, both of their hearts beating together like two perfectly timed duet players. If they could be alone, they might move with one another like dancers, his solid body against hers, leading her through every movement of this growing affection and intimacy, one as intoxicating as it was new to her.

‘I've missed you too.' The admission felt as revealing as her gown, but she didn't want to hold back from him. The last two nights, she'd nearly licked her lips raw with the reliving of their last kiss. She cursed the rules of propriety stopping her from falling into his arms now and experiencing again the thrill of his mouth against hers.

The butler struck a small gong from the front of the room, silencing everyone. ‘It's time to take your seats for the performance.'

The room drained as the guests entered the ballroom where the pianoforte had been moved to the centre at the far end. Chairs gathered from all over the house stood in neat rows and ladies and gentleman filed in to fill them up. An attractive but little-known singer from Austria was to perform tonight, accompanied by a young male pianist. The entertainment wouldn't pass muster in London, but it was perfect to while away a dull autumn evening in the country.

‘Shall we?' Warren offered her his elbow.

She laid her hand on his arm and accompanied him into the room, excited to at last be able touch him in the only way allowed. As they fell behind the crowd, she considered slipping off with him to somewhere where they could be alone. She didn't want to share him, not even with the singer. It was tempting, but she wasn't so daring. She couldn't openly defy convention, not even for Warren.

He guided them to the chairs in the back row. She didn't condemn his choice. By sitting behind everyone they'd be as alone as possible in the gathering. No one could turn their heads and frown at her, or watch them and speculate. It would drive them mad, except it wasn't them she wanted to tease, but Warren. She pushed back her shoulders, raising her breasts in the magnificent gown. The corner of her lips curled into a smile when she caught Warren admiring them. Desire wasn't just trouble, but a heady power and for the first time ever, she flirted with the allure of it. With Warren, she felt safe unveiling it.

He took her hand to help her sit and it was his turn to tease her. The pressure of his fingertips through the satin of her gloves reached inside her as did his nearness. She didn't want to let go of him or look away from the passionate smile gracing his fine lips. She wanted to tilt her face to his and feel his mouth on hers again, but with everyone around them shuffling into the rows, she was forced to let go and take her seat.

Lady Ellington and Mr Berkshire settled in on his other side as the singer and her pianist took their places. Most of the audience was here for something to do in the country as opposed to hearing the music, but they were polite and welcoming as the woman began her first song.

Marianne struggled to listen, more aware of Warren's steady breathing than the singer's arias. He was as tempting as the last sweet in a box and it took all her effort to avoid laying her hand on his thigh, pressing her fingers into the firmness of it and resting her head on his shoulder. She'd never wanted to be close to someone, to touch them and be touched by them the way she did with Warren.

The singer's voice rose, drawing Marianne's attention and she settled in to listen to the song. The performer was quite accomplished as was her dark-eyed pianist, a young man who exchanged more than one knowing glance with her. Marianne felt the connection between them as she did the one between her and Warren. His thigh pressed against hers thanks to the tight packing of the chairs and their knees bumped when he shifted in his seat. It was the most he could touch her without drawing either Lady Ellington's or Mr Berkshire's attention. Marianne didn't slide away from him or turn her legs, but left her thigh against his, twisting her foot to caress his heel with hers. He slid her a sly smile and she returned it without hesitation.

The song was in French, a tale of love and the fear it wouldn't be returned. Marianne understood more than the words and the melody carrying them. To need someone was to risk being hurt as she'd learned too many times in the past. She'd needed a mother and the woman had turned her back on her. She'd needed a family and the Nichols and Smiths had cared for her only as long as they'd been paid. She craved love and something more to look forward to than a life alone. Did Warren love her, or would his regard fade the moment he wrote ‘the end'? She wasn't sure. Experience was a difficult thing to shake but it didn't fill her with dread as it had in the past. He was here beside her, in front of everyone. There must be something more to it than inspiration for a story and the prospect of it lifted her spirits as much as the song.

* * *

After a lengthy programme, the woman sang her final song. The guests clapped, the sound muffled by gloves and the bored uninterest of the men.

Lady Astley rose and, as was her custom, invited others to play. A few of the older gentlemen grumbled, but were silenced by their wives. The ladies found it preferable to listen to amateurs than to trudge home to another dark evening with family around the fire.

Miss Cartwright was the first to take up the invitation. Her eagerness to play had more to do with displaying her talents to any eligible gentleman than to amuse the guests. For all Miss Cartwright's other faults, her playing wasn't one of them. She executed a concerto with admirable skill instead of the painful pickings of so many other country ladies.

At the end, Miss Cartwright stood and curtsied to the crowd.

‘You should play,' Warren whispered, the caress of his words across her shoulders as startling as his suggestion. ‘Give them something else to talk about beside tired old rumours or the new ones they're inventing.'

‘No, they don't deserve to hear it.' It had taken enough courage to come here in the low-cut gown. She wasn't going to waste what remained of it to play for these ingrates.

‘Does anyone else wish to play?' Lady Astley asked her guests.

‘Yes, Miss Domville.' Warren rose, giving everyone a genuine reason to finally turn around and look at them. He held out his hand to Marianne and she wanted to smack it away. How dare he make a spectacle of her after she'd told him she wouldn't play? Her music wasn't for these people, but for her and him.

Lady Astley exchanged a desperate look with Lady Cartwright as if hoping her friend might offer a suitably polite but firm refusal of Warren's suggestion.

He didn't give her the chance. ‘Come, Miss Domville. The instrument awaits.'

His encouragement gave her strength. He wasn't doing this to humiliate her, but because he believed in her and her talent. He'd told her before he'd lend her the strength of his name, to stand beside her when she at last decided to make public her talent and he was keeping his word. It was time for her to be courageous and worthy of his faith in her and at last stand up to these people. She'd knock them out of their seats with her talent and prove she was more than they believed her to be.