LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Four

      ‘Yes,’ Marina said firmly. ‘He is merely being courteous because he and Charlie are negotiating some business and he will doubtless be in and out of the house for a while. That is all.’

      ‘Mar, there are times I utterly despair of you!’ Priscilla looked set to continue, but the clock struck the hour and she jumped to her feet with an exclamation of annoyance. ‘Look at the time—and I promised darling Henry I would be home before he got back tonight, poor hard-working lamb that he is.’ She looked down at Marina, biting her lip. ‘There is nothing for it, you need taking in hand, this is an emergency. I will cancel all my appointments and will be with you by ten tomorrow morning. Now, whatever you do, get a good night’s sleep, dearest.’

      She bent, kissed Marina’s cheek and began to walk away, turning after a few steps to stare at her friend’s hair. ‘I wonder if I can get Monsieur Lamerre at such short notice?’ It appeared to be a rhetorical question, for she hastened off to her hostess and in a few moments was gone, along with the Philpotts.

      Marina stared rather blankly after her, long after the door had closed, unconscious of the bustle surrounding the Thredgolds making their way off to their lodgings.

      ‘Miss Marina?’ It was Bunting, checking for any last orders or comments on the evening.

      ‘Thank you, Bunting, everything was delightful. Please thank the staff and especially Mrs Leeming. That was an excellent dinner, and at such short notice.’

      Marina made her way over to where her mother and Charlie were chatting by the fireside, Charlie nursing a bumper of brandy between his palms.

      ‘I think I will go to bed now, Mama.’ Her parent smiled at her and nodded. Marina bit her lip, then added, ‘Lord Mortenhoe has invited me to drive with him tomorrow afternoon.’

      ‘That is nice, dear,’ Lady Winslow remarked comfortably. ‘Goodnight, my love.’

      ‘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.

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