Miss Marianne's Disgrace

‘Sir Warren, I brought the items you requested.’ Lady Cartwright’s voice ended the sweet comfort of the ladies’ exchange.

At the door, Lady Cartwright covered her mouth in shock. Warren wasn’t certain if it was for Lady Ellington or the now-stained carpet. He suspected the latter as he took the sewing box and bottle of vinegar from the stalwart housekeeper and set them next to him.

‘Come away from there at once, Miss Domville.’ Lady Cartwright flapped her hand at her guest. ‘Next to a surgeon is no place for a young lady. You’ll only get in Sir Warren’s way.’

‘No, I need her help and her friend needs her comfort,’ Warren countered as he took up the needle and began to thread it with sturdy white silk. His hands were solid on the slender metal, but he felt the tremor rising up through his body. He was determined to finish the task before it swept over him and made him appear weak and incompetent. He took a deep breath, inhaling Miss Domville’s sweet scent. It calmed him more than any drought of laudanum or dram of rum ever had.

When the needle was ready, he handed it to Miss Domville. ‘Hold this, please.’

Their fingers met and she pulled away as if he’d pricked her, the tension he’d sensed when he’d touched in her in the hallway returning. He wished he could soothe whatever worries made her flinch, but it was the patient who needed him now.

He took up the bottle of vinegar, splashed some on to the clean cloth and pressed it to the wound. Lady Ellington winced.

‘You might have warned me.’ She scowled, a touch of humour behind the reprimand.

‘It would have hurt more if I had,’ Warren countered with a half-smile. He set the cloth and vinegar aside and took the needle from Miss Domville. He pinched the top of it, careful not to touch her this time. ‘Put your hands on either side of the skin and push it closed.’

Without question or hesitation, Miss Domville did as she was told. A trickle of blood seeped over her long fingers, but she didn’t flinch or blanch. He admired the girl’s pluck. Most genteel young ladies would be swooning on the sofa by now.

Not to be outdone by a young woman, Warren drew in a bracing breath and set to work.

Lady Ellington whimpered with each pierce of the needle and draw of the thread, but she didn’t scream or jerk away. Warren worked fast, eager to cause her as little pain as necessary.

Over his shoulders, an occasional whisper broke through his concentration. To Lady Cartwright’s credit, she kept the other ladies from crowding into the room and interfering. To her detriment, she didn’t staunch the steady stream of derision aimed at Miss Domville.

‘She’ll ruin her dress,’ Lady Preston sneered.

‘She’s acting like a common camp follower,’ Miss Cartwright hissed.

Warren made the final suture, tied it off with a neat knot and used the scissors in the sewing kit to snip the needle free of the thread. ‘You’d make quite a surgeon’s assistant, Miss Domville. You have the steady nerves for it.’

She frowned and glanced past him to the door. ‘Not everyone agrees with you.’

‘Ignore them.’ He handed her a clean towel, eager to see her lovely white fingers free of the red taint.

‘I spend my days ignoring them.’ She roughly scrubbed her skin.

He wondered what had happened to turn the others against her. Perhaps it was jealousy. She was sensuous like a Greek sculpture with shapely arms ending in elegant hands. When her fingers were clean and white again, she handed him the stained towel, avoiding his touch. Then she adjusted the lace chemisette covering her very generous décolletage. The brush of her fingertips across her breasts proved as teasing as it was modest. It made him forget the dirty linen in his palm as he watched her straighten a pin in her golden hair with its faint hints of amber circling her face. It was arranged in small twists which were drawn together at the back of her head, emphasising her curving neck and the small curls gracing it. While he watched her, he was no longer irritated at being drawn back to the sickroom he despised. If he’d known this beautiful woman was waiting in the sitting room for the men to finish their port, he’d have insisted they leave the dining room at once.

‘Warren, perhaps you should see to the bandage,’ his mother encouraged, interrupting his admiration of Miss Domville.

‘Of course.’ Warren took up the roll of linen and wound it over the wound, attempting to ignore the blood covering his fingers and to focus on Miss Domville’s steady presence beside him. As he tied the bandage, a small spot of red darkened the centre, but it spread out only to the size of a thruppence before stopping. ‘There now, Lady Ellington, all is well again.’

Lady Ellington looked at her arm and the dried streaks running down it. ‘To imagine, all this trouble because I tripped.’

‘It was no trouble at all. I’m glad you summoned me.’ He patted her good shoulder, hoping his smile hid the lie. It didn’t and his mother caught it, offering him a silent apology, but he ignored it. The old fear humbled him enough without anyone noticing it. ‘Let’s help her up to the sofa so she can rest.’

The moment Lady Ellington was settled against the cushions, the invisible dam holding the ladies back burst. They flooded into room, surrounding the Dowager Countess in a flurry of chirping and silk. Warren moved back, surprised to find Miss Domville next to him.

‘She really will be all right, won’t she?’ she asked, her fear palpable. She wasn’t the first person to seek his reassurance about a patient.

‘There was no cloth pushed into the wound to fester and, given her robust health, I think she’ll recover well.’ It was the best he could offer.

Pink replaced the pale worry on the apples of her cheeks. He’d experienced the same reprieve the day he’d returned to Portsmouth and resigned his commission. He’d vowed that day never to climb aboard another Navy frigate again, and heaven help him, he wouldn’t.

‘I’ll write out instructions for properly seeing to the wound while it heals and a recipe for a laudanum tonic to help ease any pain.’ He walked to the escritoire, the activity relieving some of the tension of having attended to a patient for the first time since his sister’s death over a year ago. He pulled out the chair, making it scrape against the wood floor, irked that a simple cut could affect him or dredge up so many awful memories. His reaction was as shocking as when he’d turned to find Miss Domville in the dining room asking him to help the same way his mother had asked him to intervene during Leticia’s travails.

Seating himself, he selected a piece of paper from the stack on the blotter. He paused as he laid the clean sheet over the leather. Blood darkened the tips of his finger and the side of his hand. He rubbed at the stains with the linen towel, but the red clung to his skin as it used to during a battle. He tightened his hand into a fist, desperate for water and soap to rid himself of the filth.

He looked up, ready to bolt from the room in search of cleansing when his eyes caught Miss Domville’s. She glanced at his clenched hands, then back to his face. It wasn’t his mother’s pity in the stunning blue depths of her eyes, but the same bracing strength she’d offered Lady Ellington before he’d begun his work.

He snatched up the pen, his fingertips pressing hard on the wood as he scratched out in shaky letters the directions for mixing the laudanum and alcohol. He pushed back the haunting memories of his cramped cabin below the waterline and focused on the proportions, determined not to get the dosage wrong and leave poor Miss Domville at fault for easing her friend’s pain for good.

‘My, it’s cold in here,’ Lady Astley’s voice rang out above the noise.

A poker clanged in the grate and Warren flinched, running a streak of ink across the paper. The scrape of rods shoved down cannon barrels echoed in the sound, the balls buried deep inside and ready to wreak a destruction his surgical skills could never hope to undo.

‘Ladies, I think Lady Ellington should be left alone to rest until the carriage is called.’ Miss Domville’s firm suggestion sounded above the clatter, silencing it.

Warren, pulled from the past by the steady voice, was surprised by the young lady’s ability to remain composed in the face of so many hostile stares. She reminded him of a seasoned seaman calmly watching the coming battle while the new recruits wet themselves.

Lady Cartwright huffed up to Miss Domville, not content with a silent rebuke. ‘I don’t think you should instruct us on how to behave. You didn’t even have the decency to tell us what was wrong, bursting in on the men and leaving us to think who knows what.’

‘It was an emergency. There wasn’t time for pleasantries.’ The twitch of small muscles around the young woman’s lips undermined her stoicism.

Lady Cartwright opened her mouth to unleash another blow.

‘She was right to summon me as she did.’ Warren rose to defend Miss Domville, tired of the imperious woman. Miss Domville had endured enough tonight worrying over her friend. She didn’t need some puffed-up matron rattling the sabre of propriety over her blonde head. ‘And she’s correct. Lady Ellington needs space and rest. Lady Cartwright, would you call for her carriage? Mother, would you escort her and Miss Domville home? I’ll send my carriage for you.’

‘Of course.’ His mother arched one interested eyebrow at Lady Ellington, who offered a similar look in return before her face scrunched up with a fresh wave of pain.

Lady Cartwright’s nostrils flared with indignation, not nearly as amused as the two ladies on the sofa. ‘I’ll summon Lady Ellington’s carriage. After all, we wouldn’t want to detain Lady Ellington or Miss Domville any longer.’

She struck Miss Domville with a nasty look before striding off in a huff.

The long breath Miss Domville exhaled after Lady Cartwright left whispered of tired resignation. It was as if she’d waged too many similar battles, but had to keep fighting. He understood her weariness. Aboard ship, he’d faced approaching enemy vessels with the same reluctant acceptance.

Her gaze caught his and he dropped his to the paper as if he’d stumbled upon her at her bath, not in the middle of these chattering biddies. Unable to stand the noise any longer, Warren snatched up the instructions and quit the room. In the quiet of the hallway, he spat into his palm and rubbed the handkerchief hard against his skin. It smeared the red across his hand, dirtying the linen as it had stained the rags aboard ship. There’d never been enough buckets of seawater to clean the grime from beneath his fingernails.

He screwed his eyes shut.

This is nothing like then. Nothing like it. Those days are gone.

The war against Napoleon was over, his commission resigned. He was no longer Lieutenant Stevens, surgeon aboard HMS Bastion. He was Sir Warren Stevens, master of Priorton Abbey and a fêted novelist.

A fêted novelist who’d be destitute and a disappointment to his family like his father had been if he didn’t finish writing his next book.

He opened his eyes and scrubbed harder until at last the red began to fade, cursing the troubles piling on him tonight.

‘Sir Warren, are you all right?’

Miss Domville approached him, the flowing silk of her dress brushing against each slender leg. Beneath her high breasts, it draped her flat stomach and followed the curve of her hips. She stopped in front of him, her eyes as clear and patient as when they’d faced each other before.

Humiliation flooded through him. He wouldn’t be brought low by memories. He clutched his lapels and jerked back his shoulders, fixing her with the same glib smile he flashed adoring readers whenever he signed their books. ‘Yes, why shouldn’t I be?’

‘I don’t know. You seem troubled.’ She studied him the way his sister, Leticia, used to, head tilted to one side, her chestnut curls brushing her smooth cheeks. It had looked so dark, matted against her forehead with sweat, her hazel eyes clouding as the life had faded from them. Hopelessness hit him like a jab to the gut.

‘I’m fine.’ He handed her the now-wrinkled and sweat-dampened paper, ashamed by this bout of weakness. It had been a long time since the memories of his time at sea had overwhelmed him like this. He’d thought he’d overcome them in the ten years since he’d left the Navy. Apparently, he hadn’t. ‘Follow the directions precisely, otherwise you may do more harm than good.’

‘I will, and thank you again for your help.’ Miss Domville folded the paper, pausing to straighten out a crease in one corner as she glanced past him to the fluttering women. ‘All of it.’

‘It was the least I could do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ He turned and left, ignoring the confused crease of her smooth forehead as he all but sprinted away from her and the study. He regretted the abrupt departure, but he’d embarrassed himself enough in front of her already. Despite the draw of Miss Domville’s presence, the faint desire to linger in her sweet smile and vivid blue eyes, he needed the solitude of home and his writing to calm the demons stirred up by tonight.

Chapter Two

‘You entered the dining room where the gentlemen were?’ Lady Ellington’s cousin, Rosemary, Dowager Baroness of St Onge, gasped, clutching the long strand of pearls draped around her thin neck. ‘By yourself?’

Marianne gritted her teeth as she poured Lady Ellington’s tea. ‘It was a matter of some urgency.’

‘But, my dear, you’ll be the talk of the countryside for being so bold.’

Marianne tipped a teaspoon of sugar in the cup. ‘I’m already the talk of the countryside, whether I storm in on the men at their port or spend all my days practising the pianoforte.’

‘But to interrupt gentlemen in the dining room.’ Lady St Onge pushed herself to her feet. ‘It just isn’t how young ladies behave.’

‘Now, now, Cousin Rosemary.’ With a look of sympathy and a small measure of amusement, Lady Ellington took the tea from Marianne. The rings on every finger sparkled in the afternoon sunlight as she leaned back against her chaise. ‘I’m sure everyone understands Marianne was acting on my behalf and not because she wanted to create a scandal.’

‘You give them too much credit, Ella. I can almost hear the country ladies’ tongues wagging from here.’ Lady St Onge shuffled out of Lady Ellington’s dressing room, a long string of muttered concerns trailing behind her.

Marianne frowned. ‘Why can’t she stay at your London town house while the roof of her dower house is being repaired? Why must she be here?’

‘Patience, Marianne,’ Lady Ellington urged, propping her injured arm up on the pillows beside her. After a restless night, Lady Ellington had regained her spirits, but not her usual vigour. ‘You more than anyone know what it is to need a safe haven from the small troubles of life.’

‘If only they were small.’ She splashed tea into her cup and a hail of drops splattered over the edge and on to the saucer. Her undeserved reputation kept good men away while attracting scoundrels and gossip. Sir Warren had been proof of it last night. Despite his defending her against Lady Cartwright, he’d bolted from her the moment his services were no longer needed. Typical gentleman.

‘Your problems aren’t so very large they can’t be overcome,’ Lady Ellington insisted, ever the optimist.

Marianne peered out the window at the tall trees swaying over the front lawn. Welton Place, Lady Ellington’s dowager house on the grounds of Falconbridge Manor, had proven a refuge for Marianne. However, the sturdy brick walls and Lady Ellington’s solid reputation couldn’t keep all the scandals and troubles from touching her. ‘Lady St Onge is right, the gossips will talk. Even with your influence, they refuse to believe that I am nothing like Madame de Badeau.’

‘They are stubborn in their views of you, which is surprising since Lady Preston has all but fallen on top of half the eligible gentlemen in the countryside and no one is cutting her. I think her old husband must not mind since it saves him the bother.’

Marianne laughed, nearly choking on her tea.

‘Now there’s a smile.’ Lady Ellington offered her a napkin.

Marianne dabbed at the moisture on her chin.

‘You’re so pretty when you smile. You should do it more often.’

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 rejection of her by seeing Lady Falconbridge assaulted by Lord Strathmore. Marianne had given him the letter from Madame de Badeau outlining her plans and with it the chance he needed to save Lady Falconbridge. The revealing of Madame de Badeau’s plot had led to her ultimate disgrace and gained for Marianne the Falconbridge family’s appreciation and undying dedication.