The Bride's Seduction

‘Goodnight, Mama. Goodnight, Charlie.’

Marina had reached her bedroom before anything about that exchange struck her as odd, but, as she sat in front of her dressing table while her maid removed the pins and bushed out her hair, she frowned at her reflection.

Why was Mama so unconcerned that she was going driving with a gentleman who was virtually unknown to her? Surely she should be in as much of a tizzy as Pris was? Had she known already that Lord Mortenhoe was going to ask her?

Then common sense took over her jumbled thoughts. It was Pris who was acting oddly by being so excited about it. Mama and Charlie put exactly the same construction upon the matter as she herself had—it was a polite invitation to the sister of a man with whom he was doing business and nothing more need be read into it.

This was so obviously the case, Marina decided as she tied her nightcap ribbons, that it was ridiculous that she had considered anything else even for a moment. After all, she was twenty-six years of age, the virtually dowerless daughter of a baron, of no beauty and with no talent other than for housekeeping. Justin Ransome, Earl of Mortenhoe, must be one of the most eligible bachelors in London.

If he was a bachelor. That had not occurred to Marina, but a moment’s thought assured her it must be so. Mama would not countenance her driving about town with a married man.

Satisfied that she had the matter aright now, she climbed into bed and blew out her candle. A good night’s sleep, then she must fit in time to make a list of the most suitable domestic agencies to recommend to him before Pris descended upon her.

Half an hour later, a wide-awake Miss Winslow slipped out of bed, pulled on her robe and padded downstairs to the library to consult the Peerage.

In the master bedchamber of a distinguished town house a few minutes drive away, the peer in question lay back against his pillows and examined his conscience.

His first reaction when Charles Winslow had stipulated his outrageous condition had been to reject it out of hand. He had then, Justin acknowledged to himself, capitulated with very little struggle—and therein lay the rub. Why had he given in to what his instinct told him was wrong?

He wanted Knightshaye. Regaining it had been his single purpose for twenty years, during eleven of which he had been in the position to work single-mindedly to amass sufficient funds to do so. Most of the family income had been tied up in the great house and estate, and what he had inherited from his father had been but a fraction of his former fortune. Which in itself was a puzzle—surely even as dedicated a gambler as Charlie Winslow could not have worked his way through the rents or the income of the Home Farm? On the other hand, there was nothing to have stopped him selling off parcels of farmland locally.

Justin pushed this new worry to the back of his mind and resumed the even less pleasant exercise of examining his motives. Was he really so obsessed that he would have married anyone to obtain Knightshaye? No. His long, lean frame jerked as he hauled himself upright in rejection of the thought. He had his name to consider. But it was more than that. To marry a woman for whom he could not feel liking and respect was to create a hollow sham, as cruel to her as it was repugnant to him.

But he was uncomfortably aware that he had agreed to court Marina Winslow, knowing nothing about her other than that she had beautiful eyes, a sense of humour, considerable grace and made him feel calm. That was not enough. He should have become better acquainted with her before agreeing to Winslow’s condition.

Restless now, Justin swung his legs off the bed and began to pace, still in his shirtsleeves and evening knee breeches. At least now he knew his first impressions of Marina were borne out by closer contact; on longer acquaintance he believed he could come to like her very well. Was that enough to be fair to her?

Moodily, Justin regarded himself in the cheval glass in the corner. Brought up almost exclusively by a trio of old friends of his grandfather, he had never been encouraged to think too highly of his natural attributes, only to value what hard work and the application of his intelligence won him.

He supposed he cut a well-enough figure. His tailor and valet both appeared satisfied and ladies less strictly brought up than Miss Winslow were not reticent in admiring his height, length of leg, breadth of shoulder and ability to avoid standing on their toes on the dance floor. The fortune his hard work had brought him was more silently valued.

Moving closer, he narrowed his eyes at his reflection. Black hair that would never conform to a fashionable crop, even if he could be persuaded to try one. A nose that contrasted disappointingly with the aloof features of the classical bust standing on a column next to the mirror—but then the model for that had presumably never got himself into a fist fight with the blacksmith’s son at the age of eleven. A mouth that he considered too wide and had had to learn to keep absolutely in repose when playing cards because, as his last mistress was fond of saying, ‘It is so expressive, darling,’ and those dark-fringed hazel eyes that would change colour so betrayingly with his emotions.

Your dangerous expression. Justin grinned at himself. Marina Winslow could speak her mind when she wanted to. In fact, he had a suspicion that behind that well-bred reticence she harboured all sorts of thoughts and opinions and that it would be interesting to explore them.

So... He prowled back to the bed and resumed his supine position on it. So, he liked Miss Winslow and she appeared to have the intelligence and strength of mind to suit him. So, he reasoned further, he was not being hypocritical in courting her. But, and here was the rub, what did she want and what did she make of him, given that she had no inkling of his intentions?

‘She can always refuse me.’ Justin considered his own words. Was that likely? He had a shrewd idea of the pressures that would be put on a young lady by her family if an offer to marry an earl came along, years after they had given her up as an old maid. ‘So...I had better make sure she does not want to refuse me.’ And do it without lying and pretending a love he did not feel.

What was it she had said any woman wanted?

‘I think that all women would want to feel wanted, needed, to have a loving family and to know that they are useful in whatever way they can be.’ And what else? ‘To have enough money to indulge in little luxuries is very pleasant, of course.’

And he had asked about rank and status and her response had been that they would bring great responsibility and yet have a certain allure.

She was not then averse to the wealth, the title and the position he could give her. He could certainly make her feel needed, hopefully give her the family she desired. Could he make her feel wanted? Justin was certain she had no intention of referring to physical wants—her clear grey gaze had been innocent and perfectly serious.

It was an important consideration. Justin had no intention of maintaining a mistress once married, whether he was in love with his wife or no, and it would be hard to be leg shackled to a woman for whom one felt little desire. And just at the moment the only way of describing what he felt for Marina Winslow was friendship. That in itself was a novelty. Brought up in a series of masculine households, carefully introduced both to the haut ton and the world of expensive pleasures for sale, women had simply never entered his orbit as friends.

At least he felt that he could now look his conscience in the eye, if only after a somewhat shaky start, but he felt no further forward in how, honourably, to advance his courtship of Marina after tomorrow’s promised drive in the park.

Restless again, he got up, threw on a robe and ran downstairs to the study. Pulling out a portfolio of suggestions from his agent for property acquisitions in the newly expanding area of St Mary-le-bone, he began to study them with close attention. Having enough money to buy back Knightshaye was one thing, to restore it and support a wife meant he could not rest on his laurels.

Back in Cavendish Square his proposed bride was also sitting poring over documents, although in Marina’s case it was a pile of her household account books and notes which she was scanning in an effort to recall which domestic agencies had been most effective in providing the Winslow household with staff.

Having satisfied herself by careful study of the Peerage that Lord Mortenhoe was indeed a single man, she had then taken herself to task for even thinking it important to check. Ten minutes later she had been alarmed to find herself still sitting at Charlie’s desk, her chin cupped in one hand, brooding on the puzzle of why he seemed so interested in her company.

By then she was too awake to make bed seem at all attractive, so, despite the clock chiming one o’clock, she took herself off to the morning room, which served the ladies of the house as their private sitting room, and found her notebooks.

Half-an-hour’s work produced a respectable selection of agencies. Marina took another sheet of paper and began to draft a list of what servants might be thought necessary for a house the size of Knightshaye. That Lord Mortenhoe might think it presumptuous of her to do such a thing did occur to her, but her perusal of the Peerage had shown neither mother, sisters nor sisters-in-law to perform such a service, so she decided to keep it aside and produce it if further conversation showed a need for it.

The night watchman crying the hour outside jerked her out of her thoughts. Two o’clock. Yawning, Marina folded the papers, picked up her chamber stick and made her way upstairs, reflecting sleepily that it was satisfying to do something that, hopefully, would be a service to a friend. That she was thinking of Justin Ransome in those terms did not even occur to her as strange.

* * *

Priscilla swept into the Cavendish Street house at ten on the dot, her maid at her heels clutching two hat boxes and a portmanteau. She took one look at Marina, who had been conning her accounts in the morning room, and let out a faint shriek of horror.

‘What have you been doing? You have bags under your eyes and you are positively sallow.’

‘Good morning, Priscilla. You are looking delightful as always.’ Marina refused to rise to the bait.

‘Do you think so?’ Priscilla eyed herself in the mirror as she untied her bonnet strings. ‘Well, this is a prodigiously pretty hat. Susan, run upstairs and find Miss Marina’s woman and show her what we have brought.’ She sat down in a ruffle of skirts and peered at Marina more closely. ‘A brisk walk around the Square will bring your colour back, but you look as if you hardly slept last night. Do you have any cucumber in the house? Because, if not, you must send out for one—it is the only thing for your eyes.’

‘I expect we have.’ Marina pushed her books to one side. ‘But there is really no need to fuss, Pris, I am only going for a carriage ride.’

‘With one of the most eligible men in London! I despair. And what is worse, I could not persuade Monsieur Lemerre to cancel his appointment with the Duchess of Porton, so we will have to manage your hair as best we can.’

‘I have done my hair for the day,’ Marina said firmly. ‘I mean it, Pris—I am not going to get into a tizzy about a simple invitation from a friend of Charlie’s.’

‘Don’t you want to marry and not remain a spinster all your days?’ her friend demanded in exasperated tones.

‘Yes. But I also wish I had the talent to play the piano, blue eyes and the opportunity to visit the East and none of those things are going to come to pass either, so I am certainly neither going to repine, nor weave ridiculous fantasies about earls.’

Priscilla leapt to her feet and marched towards the door. ‘I have given up my morning, I have brought you my newest hat to wear and you are not the slightest bit grateful. Well, you can wither into an old maid, Marina Winslow, just don’t blame your friends!’

‘Pris, don’t be cross, I know you want to help, but do face it, I am not going to attract an eligible earl whatever I do.’

Mrs Hinton swirled round and looked at her. Marina winced inwardly. However affectionate the look was, it was shot through with a pity that Priscilla was always careful not to express. But Marina recognised it and it hurt, just as sharply as her mother’s less-well disguised disappointment that she had failed to ‘take’ or Lizzie’s occasional tactless remark.

‘But do you not want to enjoy his company, flirt a trifle, enjoy a little envy from others by being seen to be driving with him?’

‘No, of course not. I enjoy his company and I would like him for a friend, I think. And going driving would be a treat. Naturally I would not dream of embarrassing him by appearing poorly turned out, but I would hate to have him think I was angling for him.’ Marina could feel herself going quite hot at the thought.

‘A friend?’ Her huff completely forgotten, Priscilla sat down again and looked at Marina with astonishment. ‘You mean like Dr Johnson and Mrs Thrale? I do not know of anyone else who is friends with a man.’

‘But are you not friends with Mr Hinton?’

‘Husbands are completely different,’ Priscilla pronounced airily. ‘So, if you do not wish to be obvious, we must simply be subtle.’ This was rather an alien approach for her, but she was obviously prepared to throw herself into the attempt. ‘But the first thing is a walk, then the cucumber and a lie down, or he will think you have been awake all night thinking about him.’

It would never have occurred to Marina that one could spend an entire morning getting ready for a simple carriage ride. Priscilla even monitored what she had for luncheon with care. ‘You must eat something or your tummy will rumble and that would be fatal, but not too much because of tight lacing.’

‘I do not want my stays laced tight,’ Marina protested, helpless as, between them, two maidservants, carried away with enthusiasm, and Priscilla, happily directing, removed her morning dress and pulled on her stay laces. Her bosom swelled to an alarming extent over the top of her chemise. ‘My walking dress will not fit.’

‘That old thing!’ Priscilla threw the lid off a bandbox. ‘I have brought my new walking dress with a braided Russian bodice.’

‘Now that certainly will never fit,’ Marina stated confidently, but with an envious glance at the rich green cloth and intricate braid work.

In reply Priscilla gave a last heave on the stay laces. ‘Yes, it will.’ And it did, provided one was prepared not to breathe. Marina blinked in astonishment at the effect. She had what she considered a reasonable figure, but now she appeared to have a tiny waist and a quite stunning bosom, fortunately modestly covered.

‘It is all in the cut and the corsetry,’ Priscilla remarked complacently.

‘But I cannot breathe!’

‘Why do you need to? You aren’t walking anywhere. Sit back, smile prettily, flutter your eyelashes—which reminds me, lamp black—and greet every one of his observations as if it was brilliant. One hardly needs to breathe to do that.’

At last the excited maids were dismissed and Marina was permitted to descend to the drawing room and await his lordship’s arrival. ‘He is bound to bring a high-perch phaeton,’ Priscilla remarked. ‘Or possibly a curricle, but I think the phaeton would be more likely for the park. And naturally he will be driving his famous Welsh bays, or perhaps the matched blacks. I asked Henry last night and he says Lord Mortenhoe is famous for his horses and for having made most of his fortune himself by being a clever investor, because there was a scandal when his father died and he was left very poorly off.’

Unable to sit comfortably, Marina fidgeted about the room, trying to suppress a secret smile whenever she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the glass over the mantelshelf. It was lowering to consider how frippery fashions could turn one’s head, but it was a delightful novelty to have an expensive outfit on and to know one’s beautifully curled locks were topped off by a bonnet in the very first stare of fashion. It was also exciting to imagine being driven behind a team of high-stepping horses in a dashing equipage.

When the door-knocker thudded she started towards the door, only to be pulled back by her friend. ‘Not so eager, dearest.’

Priscilla waited, one ear almost on the door panels, then threw the door open and sauntered out, saying over her shoulder, ‘Well, I must be going as you cannot accompany me to the library. My lord!’ The start of surprise was a masterpiece. ‘How charming to see you again. Marina has just reminded me that you are going driving, so I will go and say good afternoon to Lady Winslow.’ She fluttered off up the stairs, leaving Marina torn between admiration and exasperation.

‘My lord.’ She stepped forward and shook hands, surprised at how glad she was to see him again.

‘Miss Winslow, how very punctual you are.’ His smile touched something inside her, something that warmed and expanded into a flutter of happiness. ‘Shall we go?’

At her nod, he took her arm and guided her to the door, which Bunting threw open with some élan. Marina stepped forward, eager for her first glimpse of the fabulous carriage and team.

At the kerb a groom was holding the head of a neatish grey cob, which, although of a pleasing conformation, was clearly of mature years and showing not the slightest sign of exciting high spirits. It stood between the shafts of a plain gig with blue wheels, its top folded down.

Nothing could have been further from her imaginings of making a stylish appearance in Hyde Park.

Chapter Five

Justin watched Marina’s face covertly as she stood on the step beside him. Yes, she was disappointed, although one had to be studying her closely to register that flicker of expression before her innate good manners took over.

‘What a pretty gig.’ She said it with a smile that seemed entirely genuine.

‘Thank you,’ he replied gravely, taking her arm and guiding her towards the cob who was being held by a liveried groom. ‘And this is Smoke, who is an old fellow and somewhat on his dignity, although he can be persuaded to trot out like a young one if he is in the mood.’

Instead of asking him why he was intending to take her driving in an ordinary gig behind an elderly horse, Marina stroked Smoke’s nose with confidence. ‘Hello, you are a handsome fellow, are you not?’ She was rewarded with a slobbery kiss on her leather gloves, but she wiped them on his mane with a lack of fuss that Justin approved.

‘You think you will feel confident behind him, then?’ He handed her up into the gig and gathered the reins. ‘Thank you, Thomas, you may return home.’ The man touched his hat and strode off as Justin clicked his tongue at the cob and they rolled sedately down the road.

‘Why, yes. Did you think I would be a nervous passenger?’ Marina swivelled on the seat to look at him. ‘I assure you I am not, although I have not driven in an open carriage very often. Mama uses a closed carriage and Charlie prefers to ride.’ He had also, Justin knew, recently sold his driving horses, presumably to meet some of his debts.

‘Not at all, it was just that I thought you might care to learn to drive, and a single horse is much easier to begin with.’ He waited with some apprehension for her response. It had seemed, at two in the morning, an excellent idea and one that would allow him an excuse for repeated, informal, excursions in her company. Now he was not so sure; if Marina had wanted to drive with him in order to be seen in fashionable places behind a showy team, she was not going to look kindly on his suggestion.

He risked a glance at her face and realised that her silence was due to delighted surprise and not disapproval. ‘Truly? I would so enjoy it!’ Then the animation vanished and she added politely, ‘But I cannot accept, it would be such an imposition on your time.’

Justin, far from being a selfish man, was still not often in the position of offering treats and that eager flash in her eyes touched him more than he could have expected. It also threw the rest of her daily routine into sharp relief for him. Good grief, I’d go mad in her shoes—confined to household duties, fetching and carrying, expected to behave like an old maid. Not that she was looking like any old maid he had ever seen, not in that hat. And how could he have overlooked that voluptuous figure?

‘It would give me much pleasure,’ he responded, biting down a peremptory demand that she kick over the traces and just enjoy herself for once. ‘It would interest me to teach you and you would be doing me a favour.’

‘I would?’

He glanced at her again, trusting Smoke to plod stolidly through the traffic of Swallow Street. There was a decidedly sceptical glint in her eye.

‘I am much involved with business lately. Somehow many of my former recreations pall. To drive quietly with you, to teach you to enjoy the sport, would be a delightful distraction.’

Silence. Had he mishandled it?

‘What made you think I would care to learn?’ She sounded genuinely interested.

‘You have the air of confidence that is necessary, but you also have patience and sensitivity. And I thought perhaps you would enjoy a small adventure.’ Now she was blushing rosily. Deliciously.

‘In the face of such compliments I shall have to try hard to acquit myself.’ It was acceptance of his suggestion and, relieved, he turned his attention back to his driving. They were almost upon Piccadilly. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I thought Green Park, if you would not dislike it. Far less fashionable than Hyde Park, of course...’

‘Good.’ It was said with heartfelt relief. ‘If I am to make an exhibition of myself, I would far rather it was before an audience of nursemaids, dairy maids and elderly scholars than the fashionable crowd.’

‘You will not make an exhibition of yourself,’ he remarked somewhat absently, concentrating on turning right on the busy street past Burlington House.

‘You are very confident, my lord!’

‘I am teaching you,’ he responded, unaware of how arrogant that sounded until a gurgle of laughter escaped her. ‘Hmm, that was a somewhat dogmatic remark, was it not? I can see I must rely on you to take me down a peg or two when necessary, Marina.’

The use of her first name was a calculated risk and he was prepared for the sharp intake of breath beside him, pretending not to notice as he negotiated the park entrance.

‘My lord...’

‘Justin. It will be much easier to teach you if I do not have to include “Miss Winslow” in every sentence. And if you wish to berate me for bullying you, or being too demanding, then “Justin” will be so much easier.’

‘Will you bully me?’ she enquired demurely with that underlying thread of laughter that so attracted him.

‘Most certainly. We have just established that I am dogmatic and overconfident, have we not?’ He surveyed the greensward in front of them and guided Smoke towards a long track, away from the park’s resident herd of milk cows. ‘Does anyone shorten your name? Marina suits you when you are on your dignity and being gracious, but it is a somewhat stately name.’

‘The family always call me Marina. Priscilla—Mrs Hinton—calls me Mar, but that is just a childhood name.’

‘Mari. I will call you Mari.’ The thought of a pet name for her, something no one else used, was a pleasing idea. She was blushing again.

‘Very well, Justin. I do not know what Mama would say.’

‘I promise to address you with the strictest propriety within earshot of Lady Winslow.’ He registered the touch of pleasure her hesitant use of his name gave him and made himself concentrate on the lesson. It was like gentling an unbroken horse—he had no intention of alarming her by taking anything too fast. Yet.