She didn’t need some puffed-up matron rattling the sabre of propriety over her blonde head. ‘And she’s correct. Lady Ellington needs space and rest. Lady Cartwright, would you call for her carriage? Mother, would you escort her and Miss Domville home? I’ll send my carriage for you.’
‘Of course.’ His mother arched one interested eyebrow at Lady Ellington, who offered a similar look in return before her face scrunched up with a fresh wave of pain.
Lady Cartwright’s nostrils flared with indignation, not nearly as amused as the two ladies on the sofa. ‘I’ll summon Lady Ellington’s carriage. After all, we wouldn’t want to detain Lady Ellington or Miss Domville any longer.’
She struck Miss Domville with a nasty look before striding off in a huff.
The long breath Miss Domville exhaled after Lady Cartwright left whispered of tired resignation. It was as if she’d waged too many similar battles, but had to keep fighting. He understood her weariness. Aboard ship, he’d faced approaching enemy vessels with the same reluctant acceptance.
Her gaze caught his and he dropped his to the paper as if he’d stumbled upon her at her bath, not in the middle of these chattering biddies. Unable to stand the noise any longer, Warren snatched up the instructions and quit the room. In the quiet of the hallway, he spat into his palm and rubbed the handkerchief hard against his skin. It smeared the red across his hand, dirtying the linen as it had stained the rags aboard ship. There’d never been enough buckets of seawater to clean the grime from beneath his fingernails.
He screwed his eyes shut.
This is nothing like then. Nothing like it. Those days are gone.
The war against Napoleon was over, his commission resigned. He was no longer Lieutenant Stevens, surgeon aboard HMS Bastion. He was Sir Warren Stevens, master of Priorton Abbey and a fêted novelist.
A fêted novelist who’d be destitute and a disappointment to his family like his father had been if he didn’t finish writing his next book.
He opened his eyes and scrubbed harder until at last the red began to fade, cursing the troubles piling on him tonight.
‘Sir Warren, are you all right?’
Miss Domville approached him, the flowing silk of her dress brushing against each slender leg. Beneath her high breasts, it draped her flat stomach and followed the curve of her hips. She stopped in front of him, her eyes as clear and patient as when they’d faced each other before.
Humiliation flooded through him. He wouldn’t be brought low by memories. He clutched his lapels and jerked back his shoulders, fixing her with the same glib smile he flashed adoring readers whenever he signed their books. ‘Yes, why shouldn’t I be?’
‘I don’t know. You seem troubled.’ She studied him the way his sister, Leticia, used to, head tilted to one side, her chestnut curls brushing her smooth cheeks. It had looked so dark, matted against her forehead with sweat, her hazel eyes clouding as the life had faded from them. Hopelessness hit him like a jab to the gut.
‘I’m fine.’ He handed her the now-wrinkled and sweat-dampened paper, ashamed by this bout of weakness. It had been a long time since the memories of his time at sea had overwhelmed him like this. He’d thought he’d overcome them in the ten years since he’d left the Navy. Apparently, he hadn’t. ‘Follow the directions precisely, otherwise you may do more harm than good.’
‘I will, and thank you again for your help.’ Miss Domville folded the paper, pausing to straighten out a crease in one corner as she glanced past him to the fluttering women. ‘All of it.’
‘It was the least I could do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ He turned and left, ignoring the confused crease of her smooth forehead as he all but sprinted away from her and the study. He regretted the abrupt departure, but he’d embarrassed himself enough in front of her already. Despite the draw of Miss Domville’s presence, the faint desire to linger in her sweet smile and vivid blue eyes, he needed the solitude of home and his writing to calm the demons stirred up by tonight.
‘You entered the dining room where the gentlemen were?’ Lady Ellington’s cousin, Rosemary, Dowager Baroness of St Onge, gasped, clutching the long strand of pearls draped around her thin neck. ‘By yourself?’
Marianne gritted her teeth as she poured Lady Ellington’s tea. ‘It was a matter of some urgency.’
‘But, my dear, you’ll be the talk of the countryside for being so bold.’
Marianne tipped a teaspoon of sugar in the cup. ‘I’m already the talk of the countryside, whether I storm in on the men at their port or spend all my days practising the pianoforte.’
‘But to interrupt gentlemen in the dining room.’ Lady St Onge pushed herself to her feet. ‘It just isn’t how young ladies behave.’
‘Now, now, Cousin Rosemary.’ With a look of sympathy and a small measure of amusement, Lady Ellington took the tea from Marianne. The rings on every finger sparkled in the afternoon sunlight as she leaned back against her chaise. ‘I’m sure everyone understands Marianne was acting on my behalf and not because she wanted to create a scandal.’
‘You give them too much credit, Ella. I can almost hear the country ladies’ tongues wagging from here.’ Lady St Onge shuffled out of Lady Ellington’s dressing room, a long string of muttered concerns trailing behind her.
Marianne frowned. ‘Why can’t she stay at your London town house while the roof of her dower house is being repaired? Why must she be here?’
‘Patience, Marianne,’ Lady Ellington urged, propping her injured arm up on the pillows beside her. After a restless night, Lady Ellington had regained her spirits, but not her usual vigour. ‘You more than anyone know what it is to need a safe haven from the small troubles of life.’
‘If only they were small.’ She splashed tea into her cup and a hail of drops splattered over the edge and on to the saucer. Her undeserved reputation kept good men away while attracting scoundrels and gossip. Sir Warren had been proof of it last night. Despite his defending her against Lady Cartwright, he’d bolted from her the moment his services were no longer needed. Typical gentleman.
‘Your problems aren’t so very large they can’t be overcome,’ Lady Ellington insisted, ever the optimist.
Marianne peered out the window at the tall trees swaying over the front lawn. Welton Place, Lady Ellington’s dowager house on the grounds of Falconbridge Manor, had proven a refuge for Marianne. However, the sturdy brick walls and Lady Ellington’s solid reputation couldn’t keep all the scandals and troubles from touching her. ‘Lady St Onge is right, the gossips will talk. Even with your influence, they refuse to believe that I am nothing like Madame de Badeau.’
‘They are stubborn in their views of you, which is surprising since Lady Preston has all but fallen on top of half the eligible gentlemen in the countryside and no one is cutting her. I think her old husband must not mind since it saves him the bother.’
Marianne laughed, nearly choking on her tea.
‘Now there’s a smile.’ Lady Ellington offered her a napkin.
Marianne
