When Marrying a Duke.... Helen Dickson

ever was. Meeting his silver-grey eyes, she felt herself instantly redden with pleasure.

      ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ Lord Trevellyan demanded, his voice about as friendly as cold steel, not quite done with chastising her.

      The icy tone of his voice checked any wayward thoughts Marietta might have concerning Lord Trevellyan. Having halted in a small puddle left over from the previous day’s rain, she saw that Oliver’s horse had splashed mud on to Lord Trevellyan’s shiny black shoes.

      ‘Oh dear!’ she put in hastily. Able to see the funny side of the incident, she tried to stifle her mirth, but on seeing the look of unconcealed displeasure on Lord Trevellyan’s face as he looked down at his shoes, her mirth threatened to erupt into hilarity. ‘It really was an accident,’ she began defensively, ‘but I fear I’ve made rather a mess of your shoes …’

      Lord Trevellyan’s voice stopped her in mid-sentence. ‘Never mind my shoes. My advice to you, Miss Westwood, is that you learn to ride a horse of that size before getting on to its back.’

      Lord Trevellyan was at his most forbidding following yet another bitter altercation with his beautiful wife. The mocking smile on his lips did nothing to make Marietta feel better, although, had she but known, it was himself he was mocking, for Miss Westwood was renowned for her outrageous antics and having witnessed her unblushing display of riding a horse that would have horrified every strait-laced lady who’d borne witness, he grudgingly conceded that she was a refreshing sight in the circumstances.

      From a distance he had watched her galloping at breakneck pace with the daredevil recklessness of youth. With her face pressed close to the horse’s mane, a jubilation, there was a simplicity in the way she rode, as if she were one with her mount, confident, trusting and elated. At a glance she was one of the most fearless, skilled riders he’d ever seen mounted—man or woman—and he would love to see her over jumps. Her legs had been displayed to almost immoral advantage by the lifting of her skirts as she had ridden the gelding, golden ribbons around her slender waist that would require no subterfuge to make it appear smaller, flying jauntily behind her. Not until she was almost on top of him had she hauled the horse to a smart stop, and at the same time the horse had tossed her over his head.

      Marietta looked at him with eyes that seemed to change through all the shades of green beneath the fringe of long, sooty lashes. Her hair—piles of shining rich mahogany-brown hair—had come loose of its pins during her reckless ride to beat her opponent. Drawing herself up, she set her bonnet at a ridiculous angle atop curls as undisciplined as she was, the ribbon streamers dancing this way and that. Immediately she launched into an apology.

      Unimpressed, Max listened to her. The fact that this dratted girl had disrupted his day annoyed him intensely. It was not the first time they had met. He had noticed her vaguely at several events. All the other girls of her age were demure and for the most part kept their eyes cast down, whereas Miss Westwood always stared directly at those she was speaking to, looking about her with a keen and lively interest, her eyes bright with expectancy.

      She showed none of the restraint impressed into young girls of good family. It would seem that when Miss Westwood conjured up some new escapade, she set about it with the determination and tactical brilliance of a female Napoleon Bonaparte. The ladies of the island heaped the blame for her undisciplined behaviour on Monty Westwood, of course, for allowing his daughter too much freedom to do as she liked. Max was apt to agree with them.

      Based on that sweet pleading look she was giving him, she was apparently hoping he’d be as stupidly susceptible to her appeal as everyone else. Instead, Lord Trevellyan raked her with an insultingly condescending glance from the top of her gloriously tousled hair to the tips of her feet.

      ‘Of all the brazen, outrageous stunts I have ever seen, yours, Miss Westwood, beats the lot. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to behave?’ he asked contemptuously. He saw her flinch, but he went on, his voice penetrating. ‘I believe you have been in the colony long enough to know its protocol and that young ladies do not go around flaunting themselves as you have just done. Have you lost all sense of propriety?’

      Marietta hesitated. Thinking he would accept her explanation ceased to be tenable. She knew that Lord Trevellyan was a man who was used to giving orders, but she too had learned something, which was not to look abashed when she felt it. Her mirth having disappeared, she threw back her shoulders, lifted her head and met his eyes with a fiercely direct stare, unafraid and absolutely uncowed, the action telling him quite clearly that she was neither sorry nor ashamed of her behaviour.

      ‘I was not flaunting myself, Lord Trevellyan. I was doing no wrong. I took a tumble, that is all.’

      ‘And almost knocked my wife and myself to the ground in the process.’

      ‘I have said I am sorry, I can do no more than that.’ She looked into his wife’s exquisite face. ‘Lady Trevellyan, may I offer my sincere apologies for my clumsiness and for speaking so impulsively?’

      ‘Yes, you may and apology accepted. Everyone who rides comes off at some time—why, even my husband has been known to take the odd tumble,’ Nadine said, casting a cynical eye at the darkly scowling face of her husband before looking again at Marietta. ‘You’re not injured, I hope?’

      ‘No—thank you for asking,’ Marietta replied, her lips curving into a bright smile. ‘I bounce pretty well.’

      ‘Next time be sure to keep hold of the reins,’ Lord Trevellyan snapped.

      Marietta’s smiled vanished. ‘Can I help it if the horse was fresh and I could not hold him?’ she countered.

      Lord Trevellyan’s brows snapped together over dangerously irritable eyes as he stared down at the rebellious girl. ‘You’ve a sharp tongue, Miss Westwood,’ he said, his voice silky, but his eyes narrowed in the menacing fashion over which he appeared to have no control, ‘and you are also an impertinent, spoilt, undisciplined child. Your father would have done us all a service—including yourself—if he’d turned you over his knee when you were of an age for him to do so.’

      Stung, Marietta fumed, her green eyes almost black with temper. ‘And by the tone of your voice, my lord, I imagine that you would gain immense pleasure in delivering the punishment yourself.’

      ‘What a delightful idea,’ he replied grimly.

      Lord Trevellyan’s rebuke was so unexpected, so public, so intense as to be offensive. He didn’t even have the good manners to help her to her feet or enquire if she was hurt, unlike his wife. Marietta’s face went scarlet and her precarious control snapped. ‘How dare you say that to me? Is this how you talk when you are bullying the people you do business with?’ She was tempted to include his long-suffering wife, but thought she’d better not.

      Glancing at the blonde-haired woman by his side, not for the first time she thought how enchanting she was. She was so beautiful Marietta always found it difficult to tear her gaze from her. Dressed in the height of fashion, she had a slender body and the magnetism of a woman who is confident of her own beauty without being obsessed by it. Her poise was to be admired as she stood serenely by her husband’s side. Acutely aware of her own dishevelled appearance, Marietta pushed her hair back from her face and brushed the dust from her skirt. She returned her gaze to Lord Trevellyan, her anger not appeased.

      ‘And how dare you call me a spoilt child?’ she retorted indignantly. ‘As well you know, I am the daughter of a gentleman of some note on the island and you should treat me with more respect.’

      Lord Trevellyan scowled gravely, though Marietta suspected him of a strong desire to laugh at her, to mock her.

      ‘Respect is something that must be earned, Miss Westwood, and from what I have just witnessed, you have a long way to go before you can do so.’

      In his mind this could also be applied to her father, for there were many on the island who would dispute his daughter’s use of the word gentleman where Monty Westwood was concerned.

      It would never occur to her that her father and his partner were two of several traders