Janice Preston - Mary And The Marquis

Mary took a deep breath. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Why should she be ashamed of escaping the dreadful fate her father had planned for her?

‘I come from a village close to Newcastle where...’

‘But that is not where you grew up.’

‘Well, no. How did you...?’

His lips quirked. ‘I detected a hint of an accent, Mary. I guessed you were Scottish.’ His face grew serious, his dark eyes narrowing as he stared at her. ‘Have you really walked all the way from Newcastle to here?’

‘No, not all the way, w— I encountered many generous souls along the way who offered to share their transport. I have been very fortunate.’

‘Your husband failed to leave provision for you? How did you live, before he died?’

‘He was steward to a gentleman and we lived in a cottage on his estate. Michael, my husband, died in a fall and his employer allowed u—me to remain at the cottage. I took in sewing for the household and I also helped with correspondence and other business in return for food and pin money. But then Mr Wen— the gentleman died unexpectedly...’

Mary faltered. They had been dark days, with two young children and losing the one hope she had of remaining independent. ‘His son did not wish to continue his father’s arrangement and I had no other way of earning money to pay rent. I had to leave.’

Rothley’s dark brows drew together in a frown. ‘His father’s arrangement?’

‘Yes. As I said, I did sewing and some letter writing. He entrusted me with both the household and the estate accounts. I have a good head for...’ Mary registered Rothley’s expression and his tone. She was momentarily lost for words. ‘Oh!’ She hauled in an indignant breath. ‘You think...you think...!’

Words failed her. Belatedly, she understood precisely what Rothley implied.

‘I do not condemn you, Mary. The father clearly had excellent taste, but I can understand the son’s reluctance to take on his father’s obligation. I see now the difficulty in obtaining further employment in the area.’

She leapt to her feet, her cheeks burning. Rothley’s hand shot out and grasped her wrist. She twisted and pulled, but could not break free.

‘Wait, Mary, please. There is no need to be ashamed. You said yourself you are only travelling from necessity and that your intended destination is not from choice. I can offer you an alternative. Stay here, with me. I will take care of you.’

He wants me as his whore. He is no better than Simon. As his grip loosened, Mary snatched her wrist free and backed out of his reach. She whirled to face him.

‘Just because I am a widow you gentlemen seem to believe I exist simply to slake your thirst. Well, I don’t! Do you hear me? I shall never...’

She paused, willing her voice not to wobble. ‘I am a respectable woman and I beg leave to inform you I resent your...your...insinuation...that I might have behaved immorally with Mr Wendo— with my employer. He was a lovely gentleman and extraordinarily kind to me and my...my...Michael. I...’

To her horror, tears blurred her vision. She had never imagined Mr Wendover’s kindness to her could be so badly misconstrued. Her breath juddered, loud in her ears. She must get out of here. She ran to the door.

‘Mary...wait...’

She ignored him, slamming the door behind her.

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