Page 15 of The Youngest Dowager

Cautiously she opened her eyes and found herself looking at a pair of travel-stained leather boots. Her gaze moved upwards to take in buckskin breeches covering long, strong legs. Marissa snapped her eyes shut, then, hardly daring to do so, she opened them again and looked up into the man’s face.

Chapter Seven

It was Marcus. His eyes were vivid against a deep tan, his teeth showed in a wide, white grin of amusement. With perfect formality, as though he were meeting her in the drawing room, he bowed. ‘Good morning, Lady Longminster. I trust I find you in good health.’

The lilting accent of the West Indies was back in his voice. Marissa found she could not move, or speak, could hardly breathe in fact, she was so overwhelmed by his unexpected appearance. Somehow, in thirteen months, she had forgotten the sheer physical impact of his presence, the force of his personality.

Marcus’s amused gaze was travelling down the length of her dark brown walking dress. Marissa could feel it was twisted tightly around her body and, with the brush of the breeze, she realised with horror that her legs were exposed to the knee. She dared not look, but she had a horrible fear that her garters were showing.

She struggled to sit upright, knowing that the very action was causing her bosom to heave and the dress to cling more tightly.

‘Allow me.’ Warm hands grasped both of hers and pulled her to her feet in one easy motion.

‘My lord…’ She found her voice with an effort. ‘Thank yo

u. I lost my footing at the top of the dune. I could not stop.’

He smiled without speaking and Marissa’s voice trailed away as she stood looking up at him. His hair was overlong again, shot through by the sun with gilt. Around his eyes the tiny laughter lines were paler against the tanned skin and she noticed for the first time how his dark lashes were tipped with gold.

He must have set out that morning early and in a hurry, because he had not shaved. She had to fight down the urge to trace the stubble above his upper lip with her forefinger to discover whether it was rough or soft to the touch.

It was like being enmeshed in a feverish dream, although not a nightmare. Even her feet felt trapped by the soft sand. With an effort she took a step away from him and stumbled.

‘Are you hurt? Have you twisted your ankle?’ Marcus was at her side again, she could feel his hand, even through the twilled cotton of her sleeve.

‘No, not at all. It is this soft sand, makes it hard to balance. My goodness.’ She laughed, despising herself for the shake she could hear in it. ‘I must look a regular fright. Whatever will you think of me?’

‘I think you look utterly – ’ He broke off, the laughter gone from his eyes, his expression strangely intent.

The silence was unbearable. ‘What are you looking at?’

‘You.’ Then he laughed. ‘And the twigs in your hair.’

‘Oh, no.’ Marissa ran her fingers through her dishevelled curls, realising that virtually all the pins had gone. Twigs showered out and fine sand ran down her neck. With an impatient slap she brushed at her skirts, shaking what seemed to be a pound of sand out of her petticoats.

Tactfully Marcus turned his back, striding up the slope to rescue her bonnet and pelisse from the bush where she had left them. Flushed, but feeling more in command of herself, Marissa buttoned the pelisse and pulled on her bonnet, doing the best she could to bundle up her loose hair inside it.

Her fingers were on the bonnet strings when Marcus said, ‘Stop.’ He was close again, his eyes fixed on her face. ‘You have sand on your cheekbone,’ he murmured. ‘Here, let me.’

Before she could raise her hand his fingertips were stroking the fine grains from her skin, brushing them away from her lashes. She closed her eyes at the gentle touch and for a long moment she stood there, his fingers tracing the curves of her face.

Marissa turned her face into his hand, and in response his palm cupped her cheek. His breath whispered warmly on her mouth…

There was the thud of hooves on the turf and a rattle of wheels. Marissa opened her eyes to find Marcus standing a good three strides away from her and a groom hastening around the edge of the dune where the track petered out onto the beach.

‘My lady, Miss Venables sent me to tell you that – Oh, your lordship, I did not know you were here. Begging your pardon, my lord. Miss Venables was wishful of letting her ladyship know you had arrived.’

‘Yes, I saw her ladyship on the dunes and rode down to greet her.’ Marcus turned to hand Marissa up into the gig and swung up onto his patiently waiting horse. ‘I will ride with you,’ he said as the gig moved off along the sandy track.

Marissa pulled herself together with an effort. ‘I am sorry we were so ill-prepared for you, my lord. Nicole received your letter this morning and we had not looked to see you for at least the next three days. Miss Venables is even now at the Hall putting in hand preparations for your arrival. Your sister, I am afraid, is at the Vicarage, at her dancing class.’ She felt she was prattling mindlessly, acutely conscious of the presence of the groom beside her.

The man cleared his throat. ‘Pardon me, my lady, but James has gone in the carriage to collect Lady Nicole. Miss Venables sent him off as soon as his lordship’s baggage coach and carriage arrived.’

Jane was once again rising to the occasion, Marissa thought with relief. She could be relied on to know exactly what to do under any set of circumstances, which, considering that she herself could hardly string two words together sensibly just at the moment, was a very good thing.

‘Your journey was smooth I trust, my lord,’ she asked, watching his hands, strong and brown on the reins. Unaccountably she could not meet his eyes. It was the embarrassment of being caught out in such hoydenish behaviour, of course. She had intended meeting him graciously, assured in her new role as the Dowager, and instead had been discovered romping in a way which would have been inexcusable even for Nicci.

‘I was fortunate with the winds and landed in Bristol a week ago. I can only assume that the ship bearing my letter was delayed.’

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