a maiden sing in the valley below.
Oh never leave me
Do not deceive me
How could you use
A poor maiden so?
Remember the vows that you made to your Mary?
Remember the bower where you vowed to be true?
Oh never leave me…
And this time Honoria and Verity joined in the chorus, falling silent again as Nell picked up the maiden’s lament. When the last chorus was sung and the last note died away, Lady Narborough applauded, exclaiming in delight.
But as Nell looked round the room, she saw the earl was staring at her, as though he was not seeing her at all, but something else very far away. Marcus glanced sharply from his father to her.
‘Father?’
‘Charming, Miss Latham, charming,’ the earl said at last, seeming to emerge from a trance. ‘You remind me of…times long ago.’ He got to his feet and turned to his wife. ‘You’ll excuse me, my dear. I think I will retire.’
Nell endured Marcus’s speculative stare for another ten minutes before confessing, ‘I am quite exhausted from my ride. I hope you will excuse me?’
Times long ago, Nell thought, climbing the stairs. It had been one of her mother’s favourite tunes. Was her voice like enough to Mama’s for it to stir a memory in Lord Narborough’s mind, or was she simply refining too much upon the actions of a tired man who was not in good health?
But Marcus was not tired or ill. Why could he not believe her innocent of harm or bad intentions? Somehow his suspicions were becoming more than worrying; they were hurtful. She wanted him to like her, to trust her, she realized. And some foolish, unrealistic part of her that still clung to fantasy and to optimism wanted more from him, wanted…love.
The candle in her hand shook so hard that the flame guttered and went out. Nell stood on the darkened landing and forced herself to confront that word. It seemed she was in danger of losing her heart to Marcus Carlow, and one did not get more foolish than that.
I am the penniless daughter of an executed, disgraced man. I might as well long for the man in the moon. Only the man in the moon was infinitely far away, not so close that she could touch him, not so near that he could kiss her with casual arrogance and dissolve every iota of sense and self-restraint she possessed. The man in the moon had not shared her bed so that she knew what he looked like fresh from sleep, the shadow of his morning beard on his lean cheeks.
She could not tell them who she was, she realized. Not because she feared their anger or their retribution, but because she could not bear to see Marcus’s face when he found out that she was deceiving him, could not face that final rejection.
Chapter Twelve
January 17
Twelve days since her world had turned on its head, less than a fortnight since she had first seen Marcus Carlow and lost her heart. Nell smiled at Trevor, who was adjusting the perpetual calendar on the hall table as she came out of the breakfast parlour, wondering at her own composure.
Why was her inner turmoil not showing on her face? Somehow it was possible to function without everyone pointing a finger at her, exclaiming that she was a presumptuous, foolish, infatuated woman who had no business even dreaming of such a man as the Viscount Stanegate returning her feelings.
‘Good morning, Miss Latham. The frost’s heavier this morning,’ the footman observed, straightening the calendar and the silver salver. ‘Very cold if you were thinking of a walk this—’ The sound of horses outside sent him hurrying to the door. ‘Excuse me, Miss Latham.’
‘Who is it?’ Honoria, her inevitable fashion journal in hand, emerged from the parlour behind Nell, effectively cutting off the retreat she was contemplating. The Carlows might disregard the fact that they were entertaining a milliner, but they would hardly wish to introduce her to their acquaintances.
‘I don’t know,’ she began as Trevor opened the door for a bundled figure that, as it shed its voluminous carriage coat, was revealed as a slim, elegant man in his late forties.
‘Lord Keddinton,’ Honoria said with a smile, but no noticeable enthusiasm. ‘What a very cold day to be visiting. Papa is in his study, I believe.’
‘Godpapa!’ There was no restraint in Verity’s greeting. ‘Where have you come from, not from Wargrave, surely?’
‘My dears.’ The man kissed Verity’s cheek and smiled at Honoria, his gaze lingering as it fell on Nell. ‘I came up from town yesterday afternoon, stayed with my friend Brownlow in Berkhamsted overnight. I have a trifle of business with your father before I turn south for Warrenford Park.’
‘If the snow holds off, otherwise you will have to stay, which will be delightful,’ Verity said. ‘Oh, I am sorry, I am quite forgetting myself! Nell, this is my godfather, Robert Veryan, Viscount Keddinton. Godpapa, Miss Latham is staying with us.’
Nell managed a presentable curtsy. ‘Good morning, my lord.’
‘Good morning, Miss Latham. You have chosen a cold month for your country stay.’ He smiled, nodded and followed the footman through the hall towards the study.
‘What a lovely surprise,’ Verity said. ‘But I don’t expect he will be able to stay long, the roads must be so difficult with all this frost.’ She settled herself by the fire with her embroidery frame and began to sort silks. ‘You do curtsy nicely, Nell. I didn’t think milliners would learn how to do that.’ She went pink, suddenly realising that she had been less than tactful.
‘There is no call for it,’ Nell admitted, not wanting her to be embarrassed. ‘But I learned how to curtsy properly when…We were not always very hard up, you see,’ she finished lamely.
Honoria put down La Belle Assemblée. As usual, she was seeking out the most outrageous styles, guaranteeing another heated confrontation with her mother when they next visited the modiste. ‘We wondered, because of your manners and the way you speak, only Mama said not to ask because it was tactless.’
‘So it is,’ Verity said, still pink.
‘I grew up in moderate comfort,’ Nell said. ‘But then Mama was ill and then—well, the money ran out, so I had to work for a living.’
‘What a pity you don’t have a title,’ Honoria observed, oblivious to Verity’s frowns. ‘Because then you could have opened your own millinery shop. Lots of aristocratic French ladies have; it gives a real cachet.’
But I do have a title, Nell thought, startling herself. Or I did before they took it away. Lady Helena Wardale. She could not recall it ever being used. That was another person, a long time ago.
‘Well, even if I had, I do not have any money,’ she said making her voice bright. ‘It takes quite an investment to set up a business. I would have to rent a shop, buy materials and equipment, hire girls, advertise.’
‘I
