Miss Marianne's Disgrace (8 page)

‘They aren't and in some ways they've increased.' He pressed his fists against his hips and stared at the large scuff on the toe of his boot, working to rein in his irritation. It wasn't her fault she didn't know the challenges he'd faced in achieving his goals. He'd rarely discussed them with anyone, so why the hell had he told her? He looked up at her. She stood as serene as a painting, except for her eyes. Uncertainty sharpened their blue and increased the guilt building inside him. He'd told her because, deep down, he sensed she'd understand and he wanted it as much as he did her inspiration. Her not walking away told him she did. ‘The problem with penning great novels is more are expected. My most ardent admirers, even my publisher, will abandon me if I don't give them what they want.'

‘Then you should return to your study.' A cloud passed over the sun, covering the garden in shadows followed by a chill breeze. She clasped her arms across her chest, bracing herself against a shiver. ‘Besides. I don't play well when my fingers are numb.'

She hurried back to the house, stiffness marring the elegance of her gait as she retreated inside. He wanted to call her back, to resume their walk and the quiet conversation they'd enjoyed before his outburst, but he didn't.

He strode across the cloister and swept a pile of leaves off the corner of an arch before turning and marching back to the other side. He should be glad she was pushing him away. She wasn't here for him to pour out his old sorrows to like some heroine in one of his novels, but to help him work. Except he wasn't at his desk, but pacing like a nervous animal.

He let off a sharp whistle to call Lancelot. The dog bounded up to him and the two of them made for inside. He didn't need this distraction, or to have emotion drag him into yet another risk as Leticia's memory had entangled him with Rupert. Steady industry, determination and perseverance were what he needed and nothing else, no matter how much Miss Domville irritated or captivated him.

* * *

Marianne closed the cover over the keys. Turner, the butler, had come in a few moments before to announce the arrival of Lady Ellington's carriage. She hadn't noticed how late it was until she'd looked up and seen the deepening shadows beneath the trees outside. She'd been hesitant to come here this morning. Now, she was reluctant to leave. She ran her fingers over the smooth case of the Érard. It was the piano she didn't want to leave, or so she told herself.

After the walk in the garden, she'd rushed back here to her music, eager to lose herself in the peace of the instrument. Everything Sir Warren had said had struck a chord deep inside her, one she feared. In a much more forceful way than Lady Ellington, he'd urged her to not worry about the opinions of others and live her life as she wished. It was a wonderful idea and impractical. She'd defied everyone at Lady Cartwright's to help Lady Ellington. Despite her noble motives, all it had done was garner more derision. She could well imagine how everyone would react if she suddenly decided to throw off all concerns for propriety and do as she pleased. They'd say she had at last proven she was no better than her mother.

From the adjoining room, she could hear the faint scratch of a pen nib across paper, the crackle of the fire and the even snoring of Lancelot. As she peered through the open door at the books lining the far wall, she wondered why everyone was suddenly so concerned with her being out in the world when all she wanted was to be left alone, except she was tired of being alone.

She slid off the bench and gathered up her reticule and made for the study. Even though she'd all but sneered at his past difficulties in the garden, the least she could do was bid him goodnight and thank him for a mostly pleasant day. She wasn't likely to be welcomed back tomorrow. She should be glad—it would end the risk of them becoming the subject of country gossip—but she wasn't. She wanted the chance to make amends for her misstep in the garden, even if she didn't know how.

Lancelot rose from the hearthrug and trotted over to her when she entered the study. She stroked the dog lightly on the head as she cautiously approached the desk. ‘Goodnight, Sir Warren.'

He didn't look up from where he sat hunched over his paper, but waved his left hand over his head. He continued writing with his right, his pen flowing over the paper except when he dipped it with flicking jabs in the inkwell. ‘Goodnight.'

Her chest tightened and she tried to tell herself his dismissal didn't matter. People did it quite regularly and she didn't care. She cared tonight because she deserved it. For all the times she'd wished for someone to see her as more than rumours, he had and she'd insulted him, then fled like a scared rabbit. No wonder he wasn't eager to engage in more confidences or conversation.

‘Come, Miss Domville, I'll see you out.' Mrs Stevens startled Marianne with the stealth of her approach.

The defences she'd lowered to approach him were jerked up again. ‘Apparently, I'm no longer needed here.'

She followed Mrs Stevens out of the room and through the dimly lit front hall to the arched front door, trying not to regret leaving, or today.

‘Don't be too hard on him. Warren gets in a mood when he's in the midst of one of his stories. As rude as he might be, I'm glad he's hard at work. It's been too long since I last saw him so engrossed, not since before his sister—' Her voice faded away, sadness draping her like it used to Mrs Nichols whenever a student succumbed to fever. Then it was gone, replaced by her always charming smile. ‘Well, it doesn't matter. He doesn't mean any insult by it.'

‘I'm not insulted at all.' She wanted to believe it was him and not her, but it was hard. He'd treated her with kindness and respect and she hadn't extended him the same courtesy. Maybe she was as unworthy of it as so many believed. ‘I too dislike being interrupted when I'm composing.'

They left the warmth of the entrance hall and stepped out on to the chilly drive. The sun was low in the west and the shadow of the house fell hard over Lady Ellington's maroon-lacquered coach waiting to take Marianne home.

‘I'm glad you understand. Thank you again for coming. Your help means a great deal to Warren and me.'

Mrs Stevens gave Marianne's arm a motherly squeeze and Marianne forced herself not to pull back. Relief filled her when Mrs Stevens let go.

Marianne climbed inside the carriage and settled into the seat as it pulled away. So many times, being alone in the vehicle after a trying encounter had been a relief, but not today. Her reaction to the kind woman's touch shamed her as much as her behaviour with Sir Warren. In the garden, when Sir Warren had spoken to her of his past and his pain, it was as if he'd seen inside her to the doubts she tried to hide. It unsettled her how quickly he could sympathise with her. This, as much as him standing over her in the cloister, his green eyes as dark as fine velvet, his chest so close to hers she could have laid her cheek on it, had sent her running back to the pianoforte.

No, he doesn't want my affection, but to be my friend
.

He'd said as much and proven it with his willingness to confide in her once again. Instead of accepting it, she'd scoffed at it and pushed him away. It was difficult not to. She'd been betrayed too many times by people who should have cared for her to give her faith so easily.

It had been a mistake to let people's past failings influence her now. Lady Ellington was right, she needed more acquaintances her age. It would only happen if she worked to overcome her reservations to cultivate friends, instead of hiding away from them, as she'd begun to do with Theresa. Sir Warren might not be the answer to all her troubles, but he might be the beginning of the change she'd desperately sought for years. He could lead her to other people who didn't judge her and a life different from the lonely one encompassing her. Like his mother, he'd reached out to her. It was time for her to accept it and his friendship. If she dared to venture back here tomorrow, if he still wanted her to, she would.

* * *

The gentlemen and ladies gathered in Lord Preston's sitting room applauded as Warren finished reading the first chapter from his last book aloud. He bowed under their admiration, thinking he looked more like the trained elephant he'd seen in India than an accomplished writer. He craved the quiet of Priorton, but soirées like this were part of his fame and crucial to garnering more readers who could influence society in his favour. These people purchased his stories, promoted his work and some day, when he at last had enough money to think of a family, their children would be his children's companions.

‘Well done, Sir Warren,' Lord Preston commended as he shook Warren's hand with his palsied one. ‘I've often thought of writing. Perhaps I could give you my story and you could write it for me.'

‘I couldn't do it justice, Lord Preston,' Warren answered through a stiff smile, holding back a groan. For all his fame, lands and new title, the difference between Warren and his aristocratic patrons was notable. They admired his novels, but couldn't fathom the hard work it took to write them and achieve everything they possessed by luck of birth.

‘You were magnificent, Sir Warren.' The young Lady Preston, with her dark hair and conniving eyes, stood at her elderly husband's elbow, practically licking her wide lips in anticipation of devouring Warren. He knew what she was after and it wasn't his literary flourish. ‘Sir Warren, you must be thirsty after so much reading.'

She snatched Warren away from her husband and escorted him to the refreshment table at the back of the room, throwing her watching friends a haughty smile of triumph. Warren struggled to maintain his cheerful and deferential mood. This wasn't the first time a bored wife had tried to snare him and notoriety among her friends. Warren wasn't interested in becoming her prized catch.

‘Try one of these, they're heavenly.' With slender fingers she plucked a pink pastry from a silver tray and held it up to Warren. ‘Should you wish to savour one of my delicacies, it's easy to arrange. I could do a great deal for your career, especially among the ladies of London.'

Warren avoided her attempts to slide the treat into his mouth by taking it from her. ‘I'm flattered, Lady Preston, but I don't sail my host's schooner, if you take my meaning.'

Lady Preston stared at him as if she couldn't decide whether to be angry or embarrassed. It didn't matter. Warren nodded to her, then strode away, leaving the woman to return to her friends without her conquest. He'd never seduced a woman as a means to increase his fame or profits and he wouldn't do so now, no matter how much he needed money. Lord Byron he was not, as Miss Domville was not Lady Preston.

He flicked a glance at Lady Preston who stood clucking with her friends, her eyes as sharp as broken glass as she viewed him with the hate of disappointed plans. Miss Domville had been torn apart too many times by women like Lady Preston to be like them. Instead she was original and innocent despite all her worldly experience. She didn't blatantly flaunt her more sensual charms as Lady Preston did, but kept them reserved. It was her opinions she needed to keep to herself.

Warren returned to the men and their discussion of hunting. He struggled to focus on where the best shooting was to be found because all he could think about was his conversation in the garden with Miss Domville. While other ladies drooled over him, she was at times contemptuous. He was Sir Warren to her and nothing more, as she'd proved today when she'd walked away from him. After the return to the house, he'd considered ending the arrangement, more vexed than inspired by their encounter, until she'd started to play. For the first time in too long, the words hadn't just come to him while he'd listened, but the depth of feeling for his characters, the passion which used to grip him in the centre of each story, had returned. He'd run mad with it, as he and the other sailors used to do in port cities when they went ashore. Even while the ground had still rocked beneath their feet they'd praised and revelled in the solid land. He'd done the same with his novel. As much as Miss Domville had irritated him, she'd also inspired him once again.

‘Gathering wool, Sir Warren?' Lord Preston chuckled. ‘Which would be well advised considering Priorton isn't earning as it should, or so I understand.'

‘The previous owner didn't manage it well which is why he was forced to sell it. I assure you, it will be one of the finest estates in the county under my management,' Warren boasted, throwing out his chest to match the surety of any titled man, refusing to allow them to belittle him or the property he'd worked so hard to acquire.

‘Not too fine for a purchased estate, I hope,' the rotund Lord Astley drawled in his none-too-subtle reference to Warren's humble background.

Warren riveted his superior with a look as sharp as a scalpel. ‘The finest.'

He was sure of it. With Miss Domville playing for him, he'd continue to write like he had today and soon there'd be another great sensation from Sir Warren Stevens, and all Lord Preston's and Lord Astley's doubts about him would be conquered, as well as his own.

Assuming Miss Domville returned to Priorton tomorrow.

Warren plucked a glass of port off the tray of a passing footman and took a deep drink. He'd been heavy handed in his insistence she stand up to the bullies in society and he couldn't blame her for snapping back at him. She probably resented his prodding as he did all the story ideas he received from well-meaning readers. He hoped it hadn't cost him their arrangement. He needed her as much as he'd needed Leticia in the days before his first book had been published. He'd been as certain it would be a flop as Miss Domville was convinced she'd always be a social outcast. Leticia, through her letters, had helped Warren to see he was wrong. He wanted to do the same for Miss Domville and he would if she gave him another chance.