LITMIR.BIZ

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mind off the mystery by discussing coppicing and the troublesome flooding in the West Meadow.

      Nell sat in the window seat, arms tight around her knees, staring out into the bright sunlight. The frosted world was radiant, untouched except for the marks of Lord Keddinton’s carriage cutting through the whiteness on the drive and the birds’ tiny footprints on the lawns. This place was so peaceful, so lovely, so apparently secure. Once, she had had a home like this, and that security had been built on sand.

      ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ The deep voice behind her made her jump. Marcus.

      ‘Yes, in London, snow or frost soon turns into filthy sludge,’ she agreed without turning.

      ‘Would you like to drive out with me?’

      That brought her round, catching at her skirts to keep her ankles modestly covered. As she did so, Nell smiled at the impulse. She had been in bed in her nightgown with this man, for goodness’ sake! It was past time for worrying about her ankles.

      ‘You like the idea?’ He had caught the smile, although he must be wondering about the accompanying blush.

      ‘The ground is too hard for the horses, surely?’ What was this? Another olive branch or an opportunity for interrogation?

      ‘Not if we stay at a walk. There is a stand of timber my father and I disagree about. He wants it clear felled, I favour coppicing. A second look would be useful and the fresh air welcome.’ When she did not respond, uncertain what she wanted, he added, ‘And your company, of course.’

      ‘Thank you, it would be pleasant, if you do not mind waiting while I find my coat and boots.’

      ‘Borrow a muff,’ he called after her as she whisked up the stairs, her mood lifting from mild melancholy to sudden happiness. Even if this house was less of a safe fortress than it seemed and the people within it not everything they purported to be, it was still a waking dream to cling to while it lasted. And she would be alone with Marcus again, that heartstopping, frightening pleasure.

      ‘You are very quiet,’ he observed, glancing down at her as the curricle proceeded sedately along the drive. ‘Or are you unable to speak under all that?’

      Nell was wrapped up in her coat, a rug around her legs, a scarf about her neck, and Honoria’s vastly fashionable muff covering her knees like a large shaggy dog. The matching fur hat came down almost to her nose, so she had to tip up her head to look at him.

      ‘There is too much to look at,’ she explained. ‘This is like a fairy-tale scene at Astley’s Amphitheatre.’

      ‘You’ve been there?’

      Nell made herself relax and tried not to feel defensive. Even milliners might save up to go to Astley’s now and again. ‘Oh, yes. Not often, of course.’ When they had come back to London, selling the little villa in Rye and moving into rented rooms, there had been enough for occasional treats for a while. She remembered the lights and the spangles, the white horses and the acrobats, and she smiled.

      ‘Is your head better?’ Marcus asked abruptly when she did not elaborate.

      ‘Yes, thank you. You are a good physician.’

      ‘Not at all. But I am glad it is all right. My conscience was pricking me for not insisting on the doctor after all.’

      ‘I expect I have a hard head,’ she said lightly, watching her breath puff into the frigid air.

      ‘You were lucky not to have been killed,’ Marcus said, a snap of anger in his voice. ‘How could he have hit a woman?’

      ‘Perhaps he did not know I was one?’ Nell suggested. ‘My candle blew out almost immediately. But to believe that, you would have to accept I am not in league with him.’

      ‘I do accept it. ‘The pair broke into a trot and were ruthlessly reined back in.

      ‘But you still do not trust me.’

      ‘Give me your word that you are hiding nothing from me, Nell, and I will take it.’ The silence stretched on while she wrestled with her conscience. They were out of the parkland and into the woods before Marcus said, ‘I thought as much. You mistrust me as much as I do you.’

      ‘I might not tell you my secrets, but I do not lie to you,’ she said bitterly. ‘Admit that, at least.’ She wanted him, wanted his trust and his belief and, impossibly, his love. She wanted to believe his father innocent of any wrong, to believe that he had only followed his conscience and his honour. She wanted her father to have been innocent and faithful. She wanted, she knew, the moon.

      Nell twisted on the seat, clumsy under the thick rug, her knee bumping against his. ‘Marcus—’ she began, not knowing what she meant to say. The words died in her throat as she saw his face, unguarded. There was pain there, conflict. Need. This was not any easier for him, so fiercely protective of his family, than it was for her, she realized.

      ‘Marcus,’ she repeated, and he pulled up the pair, turned and looked down into her face. Neither of them spoke. But the vapour in the air betrayed the sharp breath he had taken and the look in his eyes stopped her heart for one dizzying moment.

      They were at a fork in the road. Without speaking, he turned uphill, the pair working hard in the traces to manage the slope of the rutted track. After a few minutes they emerged into a clearing with a view down through the trees to the vale below. With its back to the woods stood a strange tower built of split flints, its battlements crumbling, its one window and door facing west.

      ‘The folly,’ Marcus said, driving the team into an open-fronted shack by its side. ‘We picnic here, almost all the year round.’

      Without explanation, he helped her down from her seat, threw rugs over the horses and reached up to take a key from on top of a beam. Heart pounding, Nell followed him through the fake medieval door into a charming but chilly room in the Gothic taste with a stone floor, arched ceiling and a fireplace. Tin trunks and rustic tables and chairs made up all the furnishing.

      Nell went to the window and rubbed at the small panes. ‘It is very clean and tidy.’ She had to say something, anything.

      ‘As I said, we use it a lot.’ Marcus was on his knees on the hearth, stacking kindling and wood shavings from the pile standing ready. The fire flamed into life as he added more wood. She stood watching him as he worked—his kneeling figure, his bent head, the vulnerable skin between his hair line and his collar that she wanted to touch so much—and felt the room grow warmer, far warmer than the blaze he was kindling justified.

      When he stood, turned to face her, she found there were no words, not even a question. She knew why she wanted to be there, why Marcus had brought her there, and she knew, if she turned and walked away, he would let her go.

      Nell laid the muff and hat on the table and unwrapped the scarf from round her neck. Her hands, as she peeled off her gloves, were suddenly quite steady. She loved him. She wanted him, and she was so tired, so very, very tired, of being alone. This would not be for long, she knew that; he would not want her again, once he had taken her. She had no arts, no experience of lovemaking to hold a sophisticated man of the world. What had happened to her would make her stiff and awkward in his arms however hard she tried to relax. But she would know, just once, what it meant to lie with a man in mutual desire and passion, and that memory would last for a lifetime of loneliness.

      Marcus lifted the lid of one of the trunks and brought out blankets and cushions which he spread and heaped before the hearth into a makeshift bed and then slowly, his eyes on her face, he began to unbutton his greatcoat.

      She followed his actions, her coat joining his on a chair, her fingers fumbling with the laces on her stout shoes as he sat and pulled off his glossy brown boots. He had more garments than she, but his were easier to remove—coat, waistcoat and neckcloth discarded while she was still undoing the buttons on her spencer.

      And then he did move, stepping round the bed to draw her to the fire, holding her close, stilling her fingers on the fastenings of her plain wool gown.

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