Marianne tossed the linen down beside the china. ‘If I had more to smile about, I would.’
‘Nonsense. You’re too young to hold such a dim view of life.’ She raised one ring-clad hand to stop Marianne from protesting. ‘Yes, I know you’ve seen a greater share of trouble than most young ladies. But it does you no good to be morose. You’ll only end up like poor Rosemary.’
‘Now, that’s unfair.’
‘True, but we can’t have you languishing here and becoming a spinster, not with your enviable figure and your money. We’ll go to London next Season and find you someone.’
‘No. I won’t go back there.’ She could manage the scrutiny of a few country families, but not the derision of all society. Besides, whatever hopes Lady Ellington harboured about Marianne’s wealth and looks landing her a good husband, she didn’t share them. Marianne brushed at the lace over her breasts, wishing she didn’t possess so much figure, but it was what it was. As for the money, leaving her well settled had been the one and only thing the vile Madame de Badeau had ever done for her. Marianne shuddered to think how the woman must have earned it. ‘The only gentleman attracted to me is the broke Lord Bolton. Hardly a suitable pool of suitors.’
‘Then we’ll increase it. After all you can’t spend your entire life composing pianoforte pieces.’
What else is there for me to do?
The other young ladies in the country were planning amusements for the autumn while the experiences of their last Season in London were still fresh. Those not dreaming of winter balls and house parties were at home with the husbands they’d landed in the spring, or tending to their new babies. There was little for Marianne to look forward to, or to keep the days from passing, one dreary, empty one after another.
She dipped her teaspoon into her tea and listlessly swirled the dark brown water. She should be thankful for the tedium. She didn’t want to flirt with temptation and discover she really was no better than the gossips believed.
‘Speaking of things to do.’ Lady Ellington took up a letter from the table beside her, eyeing Marianne with a whiff of mischief. ‘Mrs Stevens sent a note asking after me. Tomorrow, we’ll pay her a call and thank her and her son for their help.’
Marianne paused over her teacup, the steam rising to sweep her nose. ‘So soon?’
‘I’m not sick enough to lie about all week and I want to see how the repairs to Priorton Abbey are coming. Be a dear and bring me my writing box. I’ll send a note to Mrs Stevens right away.’
With some reluctance, Marianne set down her cup and made for the writing desk. There was no good excuse she could contrive for why they shouldn’t go. After all, they did owe them thanks for their help. She liked Mrs Stevens. She couldn’t say the same about Sir Warren. Despite his assistance, in the end, his response to her had been no different from anyone else’s outside the Falconbridge family. His all but running from her still grated. Who was he to cast judgement? He was no hereditary baronet, only a writer with the Prince Regent for an admirer.
Then again, who was she? The only relation of London’s most notorious lady scoundrel.
She paused over the lacquer writing box, the Falconbridge family crest gold and red against a three-pointed shield. The loneliness which had haunted Marianne since childhood filled her again. It was the same aching pain she used to experience each Christmas at the Protestant School in France when all the other girls had received packages from their families while she’d received nothing. Madame de Badeau had never sent Marianne so much as a letter during all the time she’d spent at the school. The only thing she’d done was arrive on Marianne’s tenth birthday and take her from the only family she’d ever known and carry her off to England before the Peace of Amiens had failed. On her way to London, Madame de Badeau had dumped her with the Smith family, all but forgetting about her for another six years until she’d thought it time for Marianne to marry. Then she’d dragged her to London to try and pawn her off on any dissolute lord who took an interest in her, no matter how old. Only Marianne’s stubbornness had kept her from the altar.
A proud, wicked smile curled Marianne’s lips. Madame de Badeau’s face had practically turned purple when Marianne had tossed Lord Bolton’s roses back at him when he’d knelt to propose. It had been worth the beating to defy the nasty woman.
Marianne’s smile faded and with it her determined spirit. In the end, Madame de Badeau had got her revenge and ruined Marianne’s life.
She grasped the cold metal handles on either side of the box. It didn’t matter. There was nothing she could do except bear it as she had all the other disappointments and insults the woman had heaped on her. She started to heave the box from the table when the door swung open, stopping her.
‘Lady Ellington, how are you?’ Cecelia, Marchioness of Falconbridge, moved as fast as a lady so heavy with her second child could to hug Lady Ellington. Her husband, the Marquess of Falconbridge, followed behind. Lord Falconbridge was tall with a square jaw and straight nose, his blue eyes made more stunning by his dark hair. ‘I was so worried when I heard about your accident.’
‘You needn’t fuss over a little scratch, not in your condition,’ Lady Ellington chided. ‘Randall, how could you let her scurry about the country when she should be at home resting?’
‘I couldn’t stop her.’ Lord Falconbridge dropped a kiss on his aunt’s cheek. ‘Besides the two miles from Falconbridge Manor to Welton Place is hardly scurrying about the country.’
‘It’s the furthest I’ve been from the house in ages.’ The Marchioness rubbed her round belly then shifted in the chair to turn her tender smile on Marianne. Her brown hair was rich in its arrangement of curls and her hazel eyes flecked with green glowed with her good mood. ‘Thank you so much for looking after Lady Ellington. It means so much to us to have you here with her.’
With Lord Falconbridge’s help, Lady Falconbridge struggled to her feet, then embraced Marianne. Marianne accepted the hug, her arms stiff at her sides. She should return the gesture like Theresa, her friend and Lady Falconbridge’s cousin, always did, but she remained frozen. The Marchioness had always been kind to her, even before she’d risen from an unknown colonial widow to become Lady Falconbridge. It was the motherly tenderness in the touch Marianne found more unsettling than comforting. She wasn’t used to it.
At last Lady Falconbridge released her and Marianne’s tight arms loosened at her sides. Unruffled by Marianne’s stiff greeting, the Marchioness stroked Marianne’s cheek, offering a sympathetic smile before returning to the chair beside Lady Ellington.
Despite her discomfort, Marianne appreciated the gesture. The Smiths had been kind, but she’d never really been one of their family, as she’d discovered when the scandal of Madame de Badeau had broken. Afterwards, despite the years Marianne had spent with them, they’d been too afraid of her tainting their own daughters to welcome her back.
Marianne swallowed hard. Of all the past rejections, theirs had hurt the most.
‘Oh, Cecelia, how you carry on.’ Lady Ellington batted a glittery, dismissive hand at the Marchioness. ‘You’d think I was some sort of invalid.’
‘We know you’re not, but we’re grateful to Miss Domville all the same.’ Lord Falconbridge nodded to Marianne as he stood behind his wife, his hands on her shoulders. Four years ago, Marianne had discovered Madame de Badeau’s letter detailing her revenge for Lord Falconbridge’s
