The Bride's Seduction. Louise Allen

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