The following day the bride and groom arrived, along with a contingent of their relatives. Spencer had brought Terence Ottley to stand as his attendant. He had not asked John or Edward.
The pall of gloom hanging over the house dissipated a little upon the arrival of the guests, but John did not come out to greet them.
“John will be here for dinner,” the marquess told any newcomers who asked.
“I look forward to seeing him again,” Mr. Blyth boomed. “Nice chap. Must ask him about his adventures on the Peninsula. Glad he made it home unscathed.”
“Not quite,” the marquess murmured sotto voce.
Mrs. Blyth, more sensitive than her husband, touched her husband’s arm. “No doubt he will tell you all about it later, my dear.”
She turned to Marguerite. “And who is this charming young lady?”
The marchioness smiled. “This is Miss Ninian, a good friend who is acting as my secretary.”
Marguerite blushed as all heads turned towards her. The lovely Miss Blyth gave her a very thorough going-over. Mr. Ottley spared her only a passing glance but Spencer Trewbridge’s gaze settled on her breasts. She wanted to fold her arms, but of course she could not. It would show him that his prurient gaze was having an effect on her. She would not give him the satisfaction.
Marguerite had heard a lot about Spencer, Lord Brechin, future Marquess of Trewbridge, and none of it was good. Even her mother, who had made it her life’s mission to seek out marriageable men, had warned her daughters to be wary of Lord Brechin. “I might be ambitious,” Mrs. Ninian had told her daughters with masterly understatement, “but I draw the line at allying my daughters with a man of his ilk.” Of course that had made them mighty curious about him. The ladies from the Grange had enlightened the Ninian girls about Spencer Trewbridge’s reputation.
Marguerite knew how to cope with people like Serena Blyth and Lord Brechin. All she had to do was limp exaggeratedly. Serena Blyth would laugh to herself that she had ever regarded someone like Marguerite Ninian as possible competition. And Lord Brechin—unless he was one of those odd noblemen who preferred unusual women for their sexual delectation—then he, too, would be disgusted by her.
What on earth was wrong with Serena Blyth, Marguerite wondered? Could she not see how honourable and trustworthy John Trewbridge was? Admittedly, he did not have the suave, polished manners of his older brother. Well, to be honest he was a little rough around the edges, but to Marguerite’s way of thinking, John was a far superior person than Spencer Trewbridge, and good heavens, Marguerite did not even see eye-to-eye with John!
She wondered how he would feel, watching the woman he loved become married to his brother. Her heart ached for him. He would put a brave face on it, of course. He was a gentleman. If one of her sisters married the man she loved, she would do the same thing. She could well imagine Helen taking especial delight in stealing a man from Chloe or herself. Serena Blyth reminded her a little of Helen. She, too, used subtle airs and graces, deployed to attract attention. But Serena displayed more vivacity than Helen did. She was a very sophisticated woman, Marguerite decided, watching Serena smile vaguely at her father’s inconsequential chatter whilst managing to wink at Spencer Trewbridge as she sipped her wine. A woman who had been born to seduce and suborn. And so exquisite. Her burnished dark hair was styled to suggest a casual impulsiveness, yet not one hair was out of place. Her satiny magnolia skin had never been subjected to the elements. Not one ray of sun, not a single raindrop or the gentlest wind had been allowed to touch that perfect beauty.
Several times lately when Marguerite had peeped into her cheval mirror she had decided that her own skin was much improved. And now that the marchioness’s dresser had tamed her hair, well, sometimes she almost looked pretty. But one look at Serena Blyth and Marguerite felt drab and homely again in the face of such studied elegance.
Suddenly Serena’s green gaze switched to Marguerite. Even though she was embarrassed to be caught staring, Marguerite held the stare. She refused to be intimidated. But she would have to be very careful around Serena Blyth soon-to-be Trewbridge. Marguerite was merely a secretary, and she dared not annoy the future Marchioness of Trewbridge.
Then the tableau broke up as everyone dispersed to dress for dinner and Marguerite expelled a sigh of relief. As the least important, untitled person in the group, she stepped to one side and waited for everyone else to quit the room first.
Consequently it was not until she entered the big drawing room after the first dinner bell had rung, that she felt the full force of prying eyes noting her uneven gait. There was a momentary lull in the conversation as the Blyths, Ottley and Spencer Trewbridge stared. Wouldn’t they have been shocked if they’d seen her four weeks ago? She tilted her chin and accepted a glass of ratafia from Twoomey. Then she sat down in the inglenook where she hoped she would be overlooked.
But she was not to be left alone. To her surprise, Lord John, after greeting everyone in a general manner, threaded through the assembled people and came straight to her side. It was the first time she had seen him in evening clothes. For the previous two nights the family had dressed informally, well aware that for the next few days they would be obliged to suffer a great deal of formality. The wedding of the future Marquess of Trewbridge and the well-born Miss Serena Blyth was an important event.
Marguerite admitted to herself that John Trewbridge looked stunning in formal attire. Not smooth—no, not smooth at all. Nor polished. But there was an endearing air of wishing to be done with propriety that lent John an egalitarian, independent air the other gentlemen lacked. He leaned towards her and whispered, “Tomorrow we shall have rational conversation again. Edward is coming down from Eton for the wedding, but unfortunately he won’t be able to stay more than a day or two.”
“Oh dear,” Marguerite said, frowning.
“What’s the matter?” John asked.
“I intended to practise a few shots before he challenged me at billiards again,” she explained. “Well, more than a few. I need lots of practice! Until he took me in hand I was a novice. Although I sometimes played with my father, I suspect Papa often allowed me to win. Edward is not so kind. He is a hard taskmaster.” She dimpled. “Would you let me win?”
“Absolutely not, Miss Ninian. Like Edward, I am well aware that if you detect the slightest weakness in my play, you will exert your best efforts to trounce me. So why would I give you an advantage?”
Marguerite was enjoying the banter. She rather thought she might be flirting with him. She wasn’t sure, since she’d never flirted before. But she decided it was safe to flirt with Lord John. They both knew nothing could come of it.
Then her pathetic little bubble burst as she glanced over his shoulder and saw Mr. Ottley trying to engage Miss Blyth’s attention. Serena Blyth’s eyes were fastened on John with a strange expression comprised partly of regret and partly of contempt. Marguerite shivered. She flicked her glance back to John, but he was staring into the depths of his wineglass.
“Where did you bury Diabolo?” she blurted out. Oh, how stupid! That was the last thing she should say. She held her breath, expecting a sharp set-down. Then she stumbled into an apology. “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
He stirred himself out of the brown study he was in and shook his head. “I’m glad you mentioned him, Miss Ninian. Everyone else behaves as if poor old Diabolo never existed. Tomorrow, if you wish, I will show you where he lies.”
“Yes please.” Thank goodness she had not upset him. For once she had done the right thing. He had loved that horse so much and he needed to grieve, to talk about Diabolo’s exploits and to respect the horse’s memory. If she’d owned such a wonderful animal, she would have wanted that too.
“I—” He was interrupted by the enthusiastic clamour of the dinner bell. His shoulders shook. “Twoomey is enjoying his moment of power, I see.”
Marguerite stifled a laugh as she turned to place her wineglass on a side table.
****
John had felt Serena’s gaze on him all evening but would not meet it. He had no intention of making fodder for the gossip mill. But after dinner, whilst everyone’s attention was diverted by the advent of the gentlemen to the drawing room, she brushed past him and murmured, “The conservatory. Now.”
He hesitated. Common sense told him not to go. And he objected to her tone of voice. Her words smacked of an order, rather than a request, which irritated him. She had forfeited her right to order him around, and he didn’t take well to orders anyway. Not in civilian life.
But what if she was in trouble? Old habits died hard, he thought. He cast a swift glance around and followed her. She had shut the conservatory door behind her. John shoved it open and was pulled through by urgent, questing hands.
“John.”
A shiver tracked down his spine. The hushed, clandestine voice hinted at dangerous secrets.
Her hands slid up his arms and curled around his neck and her lips met his with a desperation that made the hairs on his nape lift. What the hell? Serena had only ever allowed him a chaste kiss before, and she had made a huge fuss about that.
He unwound her arms and stepped back from her, but she was faster than he. “Ah no, John. Kiss me. Kiss me the way you really want to.” Her sinuous, lithe body pressed against him and he closed his eyes. For years he had lusted after this moment. He had dreamed about it, schemed for it, even prayed for it, but now he didn’t know how he felt or what to think.
“Serena, please. My brother...we must not—”
“Oh, pish! Your precious brother would not hesitate to do the same to you.”
John swallowed. “Maybe. But I’m different. I just...can’t.” Lord, as if he didn’t have enough in the debit column when it came to his brother.
She pulled away, and relief gushed through him. God help him if anyone had found them like that.
“Yes. You are different.” Now her low voice had lost its husky tone and become a harsh whisper. “You are boring, John, d’you hear me? Boring. You always were.”
“I see.”
She rushed on, not interested in what he had to say. “Spencer will be Marquess of Trewbridge one day. He can offer me things you cannot. And he is certainly not boring. Why, one never knows what he will do next! It is exciting, being with Spencer. He can be unkind, of course. But with me he will not go too far because I have known you all forever. I know his secrets.” Serena’s perfect face took on a dreamy, evasive look. Her beautiful almond shaped green eyes looked feline. She reminded him of a cat sitting dozing in front of the fire, seeing visions in the flames.
So much for imagining she had been coerced into the marriage and might need rescuing. It was more likely that Spencer needed rescuing. John almost laughed aloud. The predator had been beaten at his own game.
Deep down John had always known Serena was not a tame creature. Her hard moodiness had worried him, but like the dull person she had called him, he had assumed that marriage—her own home to manage, children—would bring out the gentleness he craved to see in her. And yet that was the very sort of life she despised. Spencer’s aura of danger and excitement had drawn her like a moth to a candle. John hadn’t really known her at all.
What secrets she knew about Spencer could be easily guessed. Like the secret about the house fire at Edward’s property without regard to life, or the poisoning of a much-loved horse under the noses of the grooms at Trewbridge. And of course there were the old whispers that had followed Spencer around Eton and London for many years.
This little interlude with John was to have been an amusing diversion for Serena—maybe something she and Spencer could laugh about later. He strode to the door. “Be careful, Serena,” he warned, “and tell Spencer to be careful, too.”
When he returned to the drawing room, Spencer and Ottley were setting up a card table for piquet. Amused, John knew they would find no takers to fleece in the present company.
In one corner Mrs. Blyth and the marchioness were consulting over last minute wedding invitations. Miss Ninian sat beside them and John watched as she compared the two ladies’ lists and scratched a line through any duplicated names. Stacking a heap of fresh invitation cards on a side table, she sharpened a quill and commenced a plan of attack that would have made Sir John Moore proud. She was a woman of many talents and a very quick learner. She’d make someone an admirable wife.
“Anyone care for a hand of piquet?” Spencer inquired. “How about you, John?”
“No. John is too busy ogling Miss Ninian.” Serena’s acid voice came from behind him. “I’ll play with you, Spence. What’s it to be? A pound a point?”
“Oh, something more interesting than that.” Spencer lowered his voice and winked at Serena. And everyone in the room knew they were already lovers.
John shrugged mentally. As soon as Serena had said that Spencer was ‘exciting’ he had known. Spencer would not leave a woman untouched if he thought he could have her. Obviously Serena had relished the experience. It seemed they were well matched and the marriage might be a success.
But John would not be dipping his toe in the waters of intimacy for some time to come. He acknowledged wryly that there was still enough regret sifting through his mind to have made him unsure of himself in that field. In spite of his despicable jealousy of Spencer over Trewbridge, one thing he did not in the least envy Spencer was the pressure of having to marry to produce progeny. In fact, John thought, leaning against the doorway into the drawing room, he had cause to be grateful to Spencer. Serena would produce a lusty son and the lineage would continue. And he, John, could continue in his misogynistic ways until he managed to quash the fears of inadequacy that Serena had so skilfully engendered. Lord, he was a paltry fellow. He could see his shortcomings, but he couldn’t quite master them.
“Excuse me, my lord.” Miss Ninian stood at his elbow.
“Miss Ninian. What can I do for you?” A faint aroma of vanilla wafted towards him. Now here was a lady who would not let a man down. She might fight with him over trifles, but her heart was in the right place. She was forthright enough that a man would know where he stood.
“Can you tell me where I must address these three invitations? Apparently they are local people, but I do not know them. My helpers have deserted me.”
John glimpsed his mother and Mrs. Blyth scuttling into the card room. He grinned and looked down at Miss Ninian. Tonight she was demure in jonquil yellow silk with a matching Norwich shawl draped over her shoulders. “If I did not know better, Miss Ninian, I wouldn’t think I was talking to the same young woman who swore at me two months past before she stomped off in high dudgeon.” He was annoyed to find that his voice had gone husky at her proximity. How ridiculous. This was Marguerite, not some sensual Spanish widow offering herself for a few pesos.
The toffee brown eyes sparked. “Sir, I did not swear. I was not in high dudgeon. I was merely umm...irate.”
His smile grew. “I’m sure you called me a dolt.”
“That could be,” she admitted. “It was my favourite word at the time. However your mother has taught me the error of my ways.” Her mouth pursed up in an imitation of propriety.
He laughed, throwing his head back. “I’m sure you still break out of the mould now and again.”
She dimpled. “Yes, well...I try not to. But it doesn’t matter. As I am not on the marriage mart, I don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing. I try not to hurt anyone’s feelings though,” she added, her eyes serious.
He eyed her for a moment. He understood that. If anyone knew about hurt feelings, it was Marguerite. “Tell me, why do you not consider yourself marriageable?”
She glared at him. Apparently their short-lived détente was over. Pointing to her leg she hissed, “Well, why do you think?”
Lord, he was sick of her using her leg as a reason for all sorts of things. It had taken him a while to see it, but she hid from the world and used her leg as an excuse. She was shy and didn’t handle social events very well. No wonder. She had probably suffered some terrible taunts about her leg from ignorant people. Hell, he knew of injured soldiers who had received the most God-awful reactions from the populace. He was a prime example.
But Marguerite had made her embarrassment over her shortened leg into a habit she had become comfortable with. She was usually such an honest person that he wished she’d admit her leg was not the main problem. He wondered if he could shock her into acknowledging that. Or even if was up to him to do such a thing.
He gave a mental shrug and said baldly, “Better a crippled leg than no leg at all.”
She gasped.
Too bad, if she thought him a crass, overbearing meddler. She deserved better, and if he had to bully her into it, he would. “Don’t hide behind that leg, Miss Ninian. You are pretty and capable and you deserve to have a home of your own—if that is what you want,” he added. Oh Lord. Now the fat was in the fire. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? She would never forgive him. His best option was simply to carry on as if he’d never voiced such a sweeping opinion. “So...who are these guests you don’t know?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she walked over to the small table where she had been working and spread out the invitations.
“Playing piquet with Miss Ninian, John?” Spencer asked from behind them.
John turned. “Yes. We thought we might toss the invitations in the air, and then whichever ones land furthest from the door, we shall not send. That should reduce the number of guests somewhat.”
“Bloody good idea. Don’t know why we want all these people here anyway.”
“Because you’re going to be marquess one day, and that counts for something.”
“Yes, and don’t you forget it,” was Spencer’s parting shot as he walked away. His voice held an unmistakable note of warning.
John glanced at Marguerite whose face was a polite mask. “Sorry. Brotherly love,” he explained.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Then she pointed to the invitations in front of them.
John began dictating directions and watched as Miss Ninian, the tip of her tongue worrying her top lip, carefully inscribed names and addresses on to the thick folded squares of paper. “Give them to Twoomey tonight and he will have them delivered early tomorrow morning,” he advised her.
She nodded her understanding, but looked up at him, troubled. “Is everything all right, my lord?” she asked.
He sighed. “Nearly. It will be better when this wedding business is over.”