Regency Silk & Scandal eBook Bundle Volumes 1-4. Louise Allen

was as though the good clothes wrought their own magic, Marcus thought, studying Nell as she pecked at her dinner. With her hair dressed by the maid and in one of Honoria’s evening gowns—its amber silk making her eyes greener and her hair more richly honey-brown—she looked every bit as much the well-bred young lady as did his sisters. But then, he realized, he had paid little attention to her clear speech and obvious education. She might be a milliner now, but she had not always been one. Miss Latham had been born and brought up a lady. More secrets. More lies.

      She was very pale and avoided looking at him, which was an achievement, considering that he sat opposite her. With five women and only two men, the table was, of necessity, unbalanced. He was flanked by Verity and Diana Price, with Nell and Honoria opposite. His father had felt well enough to take the head of the table; his mother, elegant as always, was at the foot.

      But Nell, while she did not look at him, could not seem able to keep her eyes off his father, her expression serious, questioning, as it kept flickering towards the earl. Was she watching him for signs of weakness, anxious about the effect her delivery of the parcel had had on his health?

      She caught the fullness of her underlip in her teeth and the unconscious gesture drew his attention to her mouth and sent a lance of heat straight to his loins. He must have made some movement, for her eyes finally met his, colour touching her cheeks at whatever she saw there. She looked away again and listened to Verity’s chatter about the plans for her come-out ball, but Marcus sensed her wary attention was still on him.

      She had hardly spoken a word all through the meal. That might simply be the shyness of a young woman propelled into a world far above her own. But it was obvious Nell Latham knew the rules of polite Society. Faced with a table laid for a formal dinner, she had not made a single wrong move and her behaviour with the servants showed the polite self-confidence of someone used to domestic staff. And yet she lived in that garret. Yes, gently bred indeed—and what had brought about her fall?

      He watched her now as she thanked the footman for refilling her water glass, her smile vanishing as she darted another glance towards his father.

      ‘Mrs Poulson tells me that Lady Wyveton has returned to the Hall,’ his mother remarked. ‘Her housekeeper told Mrs Poulson that she is very low in spirits, poor lady. I mention it,’ she added with a glance at her daughters, ‘because I do not believe in whispering behind her back. Better that what has happened is known and a kindly discretion observed rather than gossip and speculation.’

      ‘Wyveton deserves to be horsewhipped,’ the earl said darkly. ‘Carrying on like that with a married woman, right under his own wife’s nose. And her own cousin at that. Outrageous.’

      Nell was making no bones about staring at his father now. She was looking at him directly, a frown between her rather strong brown brows, her expression, if it was not too fanciful to think so, one of scarce-controlled anger.

      ‘Will there be a divorce, Papa?’ Honoria asked, eyes wide with the horror of it.

      ‘One hopes not. Let this be a warning to both of you to consider most carefully the company you keep. It was an imprudent marriage, come to ruin.’

      ‘Is the man beyond forgiveness, then, my lord?’ It was the first remark that Nell had made, other than requests to pass the butter or the salt, or murmured thanks. Everyone stared at her. ‘Might there not be some extenuating circumstance, or perhaps he has repented?’ she persisted.

      ‘It is unforgivable, whatever the circumstances,’ the earl said, colour high in his cheeks. ‘It always leads to degradation and disaster. I knew a case once—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘You will call upon Lady Wyveton, my dear?’

      The conversation moved into safer waters, but Marcus kept his eye on Nell. How bizarre, that she should defend the adulterer. Most women would champion the wife—except in cases such as Lady Caroline Lamb’s—and castigate the husband. Had Nell once been involved with a married man?

      Warned earlier by his mother that keeping his father sitting over the decanters after dinner would earn her severe displeasure, Marcus lured him into the salon after one moderate glass with promises of backgammon. As it happened, Verity begged for a chess lesson which the earl granted with an indulgent chuckle, leaving Marcus free to observe his target.

      His mother, Diana Price and Honoria were deep in discussion over the all-important gowns for the Carlow ball. Nell was sitting beside them, her expression politely attentive, her eyes unfocused, looking inwards. Just what was going on in that neatly coiffed head?

      ‘Miss Latham?’

      She started. ‘My lord?’

      ‘Would you care to stroll through the Long Gallery?’

      ‘I confess some exercise before retiring would be welcome after such a long time in the carriage.’ She rose, then hesitated. Oh, artistically done, Miss Latham, now the excuse… ‘But you should be resting, my lord. Your wound—’

      He had thrust his hand between the buttons of his swallow-tailed coat, refusing to attempt his dinner encumbered by a sling, and now his shoulder was aching like the very devil. ‘Hardly a twinge,’ Marcus lied. Nell’s mouth pursed in a moue of disbelief, but she laid her hand on his offered arm and allowed herself to be walked to the door.

      ‘This is a fascinating house,’ she observed with the air of one determined to make polite conversation. Marcus led her across the Great Hall and up the shallow stairs with their grotesque carvings on every newel post. ‘Is it Tudor?’

      ‘Mainly. It was built by my ancestor, the first viscount. The land and the title were a gift from Henry VIII in return, so the family legend goes, for marrying an inconvenient mistress of the monarch’s at the time he was courting Jane Seymour. The story is, of course, that she was with child.’

      Nell shot him an assessing glance as though measuring him up to fill the monstrous monarch’s shoes. ‘Poor woman. I hope she had some liking for your ancestor.’

      Marcus remarked, half jesting, ‘You have no sympathy for an adulterous king then?’ Nell tripped on the top step and he caught her arm to steady her. Far too thin, he thought in an attempt to deny the frisson that touching her produced.

      ‘I imagine what he wanted, he took,’ she said with a shiver that transmitted itself to his hand, still curled lightly about her upper arm. ‘He had all the power and they had none, those women he ordered to his bed.’

      ‘And yet you defended an adulterer to my father?’

      ‘Every case is different, every person is different. To condemn without understanding is harsh.’ Her voice was urgent with an undertone of distress and there was colour in her cheeks.

      ‘You speak from experience then?’ Marcus asked with every intention of provoking her into lowering her guard.

      ‘Of adultery? You are suggesting I have been some man’s mistress?’ Nell tugged her arm free of Marcus’s hold, conscious that she had let his fingers linger there too long, just for the illusory comfort they gave, and despising herself for it. ‘You think I am Salterton’s whore? Is that what you are implying? ‘The thought of the dark man with his air of menace and his dancer’s sinister grace touching her, made her shudder.

      ‘You were not born to the life you are leading,’ he countered, his intelligent face watchful as he probed.

      ‘And that makes me what, exactly? Other than unfortunate?’ she demanded. ‘I deliver a parcel and now you feel free to question my morals, probe into my life?’ Would she be this angry, or less, if she had not discovered the sinister link between their families? ‘You are no better than Henry VIII—overbearing, arrogant and perfectly prepared to browbeat a woman.’

      ‘I will do what I have to, to protect my family,’ Marcus said flatly, but there was colour on his cheekbones and his eyes were angry. ‘Sooner or later you will tell me what I want to know.’

      ‘After you produce the thumbscrews?’ she flashed, flinging open the nearest door and marching