Miss Marianne's Disgrace (7 page)

It was dangerous and wrong to agree to this, but she'd caught the torment of his past in Lady Matilda's tale, the one he'd been willing to put aside to protect her. Sir Warren wasn't just overcoming his time in the Navy, but trying to excise it from his life. He couldn't do it without his work and she couldn't leave him to suffer without the thing which had sustained him through all his difficulties. It would make her as cruel and unfeeling as her mother and she'd vowed never to be like that witch.

* * *

Lady Ellington's carriage pulled away from Priorton Abbey, leaving Sir Warren and Mrs Stevens standing in the drive. Marianne crossed her ankles beneath her dress, refusing to peer out of the back window at the man.

What in heaven's name did I just agree to?

‘I don't know how this won't result in a scandal.'

‘What if it does? We've weathered them before, we'll weather them again.' Her companion rarely fretted about stories, but she'd never been this cavalier either. It, and Lady Ellington smiling from across the carriage as if she'd just purchased a new diamond ring, made Marianne suspicious.

‘What are you about?' Marianne demanded, not sure what to be more irked about, her inability to refuse Sir Warren's request or Lady Ellington's encouragement of it.

‘Nothing.' Lady Ellington snapped open her fan and waved it in front of her face. The warm October day was a surprise after the previous cooler ones. ‘Except, I've always said your music shouldn't be hidden away.'

‘Priorton Abbey isn't a concert hall.'

‘But from here who knows where you may go? Perhaps to Paris now all this business with Napoleon is at an end, or even Vienna.'

‘Are you eager to be rid of me?' Everyone else, especially the Smiths, had been quick to distance themselves from her when the scandal with Madame de Badeau had broken. At some point Lady Ellington and the Falconbridges would grow tired of shielding her too, especially if gossip about this silly arrangement between her and Sir Warren lit up the countryside.

‘Of course not, my dear. I adore you, but you need a life of your own, to have friends your age.'

‘Theresa is my age,' though in reality she hadn't seen her in quite some time. Theresa's contentment made Marianne's lack of it more stark and it was hard for her to be near her friend.

‘And I adore her, but she's a wife and mother now. You need to be around other young people who wish to enjoy their time before those sorts of responsibilities come about, friends who will help you be frivolous once in a while instead of so serious. It won't happen in my sitting room.'

‘But you think it'll happen at Priorton, with Sir Warren?' With the medieval swords and armour hanging on the walls, frivolous was not a word she would use to describe the old priory.

‘No, he's a touch too serious. I've read his books and some of his battle scenes are quite dreadful, but at thirty he is closer to your age than I am.'

Marianne leaned back against the squabs and peered out of the carriage window. On a rise in the distance stood Falconbridge Manor. The light stone of its columns was stately against the forest of red-and-orange leaves behind it. This summer, Marianne had been more agitated than a sparrow hopping around a garden, bored with the endless quiet days. Lady Ellington was right, Welton Place was no longer enough. It didn't mean Sir Warren was the answer to her dilemma, or she the answer to his, no matter what he might claim. The man was famous and the attention paid to him would magnify her notoriety when all she sought was to disappear into obscurity. A connection to her would also taint him.

‘Why would a man like Sir Warren, whose livelihood depends on the good opinion of everyone, want to entangle himself in all my scandals?'

‘Because he's taken an interest in you.'

Marianne fingered the manuscript resting in her lap, refusing to entertain the hope Lady Ellington's observation sparked inside her. The day she decided she wanted a man it would be for a sensible reason like companionship or a travelling partner, not for something as foolhardy as desire. ‘Because he thinks I can benefit him, or he wants my money like Lord Bolton and all the rest. It's the only reason any man would risk tying himself to me.'

‘My dear, you think you're an expert on gentlemen from your time in London, but I assure you, you've learned all the wrong things from all the wrong sorts.'

She wondered what sort Sir Warren was. He'd been no different in admiring her breasts than any other man, simply more discreet about it. She adjusted the fine silk covering her generous cleavage, for the first time thankful she wasn't one of those flat-chested women she saw near the walls at dances. When his eyes had flicked down, she'd wanted to remove the chemisette and not smack him for his insolence. It wasn't her usual reaction.

‘Even if I go there every day, what you're hoping for won't happen. He made sure to tell me he isn't interested in marrying.' His announcement had bothered her as much as her inability to refuse his request. Was it marriage he was against, or just marriage to her?

‘You can't believe everything a man says,' Lady Ellington dismissed with a wave of her bejewelled hand. ‘Randall was quite adamant about never marrying and now he and Cecelia are happily wed.'

Lord and Lady Falconbridge had fallen in love in their youth. Despite a separation of ten years and the entire Atlantic ocean, they'd found one another again, thanks, in no small part, to Lady Ellington's involvement. Now, it appeared the Dowager Countess was attempting to throw Marianne and Sir Warren together. If so, she was wasting her time. Marianne didn't share her companion's faith in love. For all the poets' writings about motherly love, Madame de Badeau hadn't been able to conjure up enough concern to even admit to being Marianne's mother, much less care for her. She doubted any sweeping ardour would change Sir Warren's stance on matrimony, not while he was struggling to save his house and his career, unless landing a rich wife was his intention, but she was sure it wasn't. Despite the outrageousness of his suggestion, nothing he'd told her today had been false, unlike all the ‘confidences' Lord Bolton had tried to share with her, most of which had been in his breeches.

‘Sir Warren may not be interested in marriage, but he must know a number of young gentlemen who are. It is to your benefit to become better acquainted with him.'

Marianne wasn't so convinced, but if Lady Ellington saw an advantage to this arrangement, then perhaps Marianne should too. This could be her chance to at last capture something of the normal life every other young lady in the county enjoyed, assuming their time together didn't create more problems for them both. It might, depending on whose notoriety more powerfully influenced whose.

She opened and closed her gloved fingers, wishing she were home and at the keyboard. She needed the calm of the ivory to better view this situation clearly. Sir Warren had cajoled her into this arrangement with flattery and a small measure of guilt. It didn't mean she'd allow herself to believe there was anything more to the arrangement than his need to write another book. She'd play for him, uphold her end of the agreement and nothing more. After all, once he realised she was a liability rather than an asset, he'd drop her like a hot stone. His loss of interest would sting less if she maintained her distance.

Chapter Five

M
arianne finished the Mozart and began a Haydn. She glanced over her shoulder at the open door between the music room and Sir Warren's study, wondering if he was listening. No one else was. As fast as Mrs Stevens had ushered Marianne in to the Érard this morning, she'd rushed out, pleading all sorts of responsibilities while assuring Marianne she'd be down the hall listening.

Shirking her chaperon duties is more like it.

Marianne brought her fingers down hard on the low notes. She hardly needed anyone hovering over her since Sir Warren had yet to make his appearance. If it wasn't for the jingle of Lancelot's collar whenever the dog scratched himself she wouldn't even know Sir Warren was in the next room, much less the house.

She slid her fingers along the keys and into the treble clef.

Good. I'm here for us to work, not to converse.

Except he was the only one working. She was playing pieces she could perform in her sleep while her own compositions remained neglected at home. For all the effort Sir Warren was making to find inspiration, she hoped he was getting it. She still wasn't certain what she was gaining from the bargain other than a reason to leave Welton Place every day.

Playing two higher notes, she leaned back on the bench again, trying once more to see around the corner into the other room. All she caught was the wall of bookcases and the spiral staircase leading up to the balcony.

‘Are you looking for me?'

Years of practice kept her from missing the next succession of notes. She turned the other way to catch Sir Warren striding in through the main door, the dog trotting beside him, smacking his jaws as if just roused from sleep.

She trilled the keys faster before forcing herself to slow down, but she couldn't stop watching his approach. He moved with the erect discipline of an officer, his gait steady and smooth. He was without his coat again and a glimpse of his smooth chest was just visible beneath the open V of his shirt under his loose cravat. She peered at it, trying to see if his chest held the same hint of a seaman's tan which graced his face and the backs of his hands. She wondered what his darker skin would look like against the lighter skin of her thighs or her stomach.

‘Why did you sneak up on me?' she retorted, playing the bass notes hard, as rattled by her lurid turn of thoughts as his unannounced arrival.

‘I didn't sneak up. I walked in.' He stood beside the piano and rested his elbow on the corner near the stand. She wrinkled her nose at how the weight of his body changed the tone of the piece. It made it deeper when it was supposed to be much lighter. He straightened off the instrument. ‘You don't want me to listen?'

She shrugged, never losing the pace of the concerto. ‘You may if you like.'

‘Good.' He leaned on the case again and she frowned. She'd have to stand over him the next time he wrote and see how he liked it. She would if it didn't mean inhaling the thick, woody scent clinging to him and the linen sleeves of his shirt.

She glanced at his ink-smudged hands lying on the Erard, thinking she should be scandalised by his lack of proper dress, but she wasn't. She wondered if this was some inward failing, or simply having spent too much time at Madame de Badeau's where the gentlemen hadn't held back from making themselves comfortable and asking her to do the same.

The dog left his master's side and trotted forward to sit beside her and rest his head on her leg, weighing it down as she worked the pedals. She jiggled her knee, trying to dislodge him but he wouldn't move.

‘I'm glad you didn't change your mind.' Sir Warren's full lips curled up a touch with amusement as he watched her struggle with the dog. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor. The dog's eyebrows shifted as it looked from him to her and ignored his owner. ‘I was afraid you would.'

‘I tried to, but Lady Ellington hustled me into the carriage with so much chatter I could barely get a word in edgewise.' She finished her piece and pushed against the dog, trying to make it shoo, but it leaned harder against her. The animal's stubbornness frustrated her as much as Sir Warren standing so close and the way her heart raced because of it. If her being here bothered Sir Warren, it didn't show. He was calm and relaxed in his stance and it helped soothe the unease she usually experienced around anyone outside the Falconbridge family. She gave up struggling with the dog and stroked its head, making it close its eyes. She was here to make friends with Sir Warren. It did her no good to be cross with his pet, or him. ‘Have you made progress with your novel today?'

‘Not as much as I would have liked. You will come back tomorrow, won't you?'

She was as shocked by Sir Warren's desire to be near her as Lancelot's. He was a famous writer, an accomplished man who'd built himself up from a common surgeon to baronet through his own hard work. There was no reason for him to be so concerned about her, yet he was. It flattered and terrified her all at once. It was time to place some distance between them. ‘I will return. Not for you, but for the Érard.'

* * *

Warren pressed his fingertips into the hard piano case as Miss Domville stretched out one slender arm and stroked the top of the lustrous instrument. The gesture was reverent and suggestive and almost knocked him over. She wore a pale yellow gown with a contrasting blue cord tucked beneath her magnificent breasts. What he wouldn't give to see her creamy skin against the dark wood and to elicit from her as much passion as she drew from the now-silent strings.

‘Care to join me for a walk?' he asked, distracting himself from his wandering imagination yet again. This morning, after he'd heard her arrive, he hadn't been able to focus on the new story until she'd finished a very long polonaise and one nocturne. Even then, it had taken all his effort not to wander to the door to watch her or to interrupt her playing with conversation until he'd completed at least one chapter.

‘I'm not sure your dog will let me go outside.' She pulled one foot out from beneath the lounging canine and rolled her ankle. The hint of the slim calf clad in a semi-sheer stocking just above the top of her half boot made Warren's need to move more pressing.

‘Lancelot likes you.'

‘It seems he isn't the only one.' Her flush of mirthful confidence was as teasing as it was meant to be off putting, especially when she rose and stepped over the dog, the hint of
derrière
beneath her dress drawing him along after her.

Warren hurried past her to pull open the arched door leading outside. The scent of warm earth combined with her peony perfume enveloped him as she slid past him into the daylight. The sun brightened the satin ribbons trimming her dress and made her hair glow like a halo around her face.

In two steps he was beside her while Lancelot trotted off to follow a scent. He shouldn't be up from his desk, but taking advantage of their short time together to make progress. He'd found the inspiration for a new tale in one of his medieval manuscripts last night and, although it didn't enthral him like Lady Matilda's had, it offered the hope of his finishing something within a few weeks. He still had at least two more chapters to complete before his dinner at Lord Preston's tonight. However, every flick of Miss Domville's skirts above the toes of her boots, each subtle breath which met their exercise eroded his desire to go back inside.

‘Where's your mother?' she asked as she raised her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun. As she admired the stone house with its numerous jutting corners and stepped peeks, her fingers rested in a graceful arch above her brow, as enticing as when they'd stroked the Érard.

‘Sewing in her room.' He pointed to a bay of windows on the second floor. ‘She can see us from there. I assure you it's all very respectable.'

She tilted her head at him and pulled her lips into a disbelieving smile. ‘Nothing about this arrangement is respectable.'

‘But it is interesting,' he prodded, the hint of red the chill brought to her full cheeks entrancing him.

‘That remains to be seen.' She strolled off down the walk, as natural among the wildflowers as at the piano. The sun caressed her pale skin while her curls danced with each of her elegant steps. This was how he'd imagined her when he'd written his novel. Except then he'd met her stride, turned her to face him and tasted her full lips.

Stop it
,
he commanded himself. She was here to assist him, not to tempt him, but a man would have to be dead to avoid the allure of her stunning body.

Warren hurried to join her and, as they wandered around to the back of the house, he pointed out the repairs he'd made to the windows and plasterwork, trying not to think about the cost and how much was still to be done.

‘I'm glad you've left it as it is instead of knocking it down,' she remarked as they reached the centre of the garden. She rolled her shoulders and the motion raised and lowered her chest, almost to the detriment of his rational mind.

‘I didn't think you liked history,' he answered with a grin to mask the more heady response coming from further down his torso.

Her blue eyes widened. ‘Who told you that?'

‘My mother. She said you told her you don't care for historical novels.'

‘I don't, especially after the last one I read.' She shot him a teasing smile, then circled the stone sundial in the centre of the path.

‘Hopefully, my next one will change your mind.' He plucked a stick off of the ground and flung it away for Lancelot to chase.

She ran one graceful finger up the edge of the sundial's gnomon. ‘We'll see.'

She turned and walked off down the path.

Warren rocked back on his heels before stepping forward to follow her. He thought he couldn't work without her here. He was beginning to wonder if he could work with her here. He wasn't writing now and another day was slipping away from him. Strangely enough, the lost time didn't panic him as it had yesterday, or the many long days before. She fascinated him, as much as one of his characters, and as with them, he wanted to learn more about her.

‘Lady Ellington said you wrote compositions.' He motioned her towards the cloister walk separating the somewhat orderly garden from the wild field beyond. Lancelot bolted off into the high grass, scaring up birds. ‘You should work on them while you're here. This time is as much for you as it is for me.'

‘I'd rather not.' She stopped and picked at a loose stone in one of the pillars. The sunlight cutting through the arches slid across the nape of her neck while the shadows caressed her straight nose and the downturned curve of her mouth. The wounded young lady beneath the confident woman revealed herself. She wasn't as worldly as all her smiles and artifices tried to make him believe and he was glad. He'd seen enough worldliness during his time in the Navy. ‘Besides, they're only silly little pieces, hardly worth anyone listening to.'

‘Don't demean or dismiss your talent, but hold your head up high and speak with confidence,' Warren encouraged, the way Leticia used to do with him. It disturbed him to see her think so little of herself as much as it had disturbed him to interrupt her playing.

‘You don't understand.'

He leaned against one arched opening. ‘You think I don't know how difficult it is to show your work to the world, to risk them laughing at it or telling you it isn't good enough?'

‘You're wrong, Sir Warren. I've spent a large portion of my life listening to people tell me I'm not good enough. Criticism of my compositions would pale in comparison.'

He pushed up from the wall to stand over her. The wind caught the curls dangling by her cheeks and made them tease the unblemished skin. He kept his arms by his side despite wanting to wrap her in them and ease the tension in her lips with his. With her brows knitted together, she barely resembled the woman who'd played the pianoforte with passion. ‘Don't let them trouble you, Miss Domville.'

Her eyes met his and hope rippled through them like the cool breeze between the arches. Then it vanished and she took a large step away from him. ‘Why does it matter to you what bothers me and what doesn't?'

‘Because you're my friend and I hope to be yours.'

‘Friend? Is that what they call it?' The teasing vixen he'd glimpsed from across the sundial appeared again. There was something false about it, as when his sister used to try on his mother's dresses as a budding young lady and the gowns hadn't fitted. This wasn't the real Miss Domville, but the one meant to keep him at a distance.

‘You think you're the only one who suffers alone, the only one afraid of being ridiculed?'

She raised her chin in defiance. ‘What do you know of ridicule? All of England adores you.'

‘And not one of them was there when I was simply Lieutenant Stevens and not Sir Warren,' he said sharply, irked by her dismissal of his struggles. ‘Nor were they there after my first battle as a surgeon's assistant when I staggered up to the empty forecastle to retch overboard, afraid the grizzled old surgeon would catch me and have me drummed out for being so weak. I needed my naval surgical training to establish a practice once I was demobbed and I counted on my pay to keep my mother and sister from starving. My father hadn't had the sense to pay off his debts or save enough to keep us, leaving it to me to do. There were no fans adoring me when I used to write every night, determined to make a living without cutting into men, even while the officers laughed at me and told me I'd never succeed. The only people who were there for me were my mother and sister and my own belief in my ability to pull myself out of hell.'

‘I—I'm sorry, I didn't realise,' she stammered, as stunned by his forceful words as he was. ‘I thought with your fame your troubles were behind you.'