Helen Dickson - When Marrying a Duke...

Marietta was full of self-recrimination. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ she whispered as she walked away in belated shame. The silent punishment she was heaping on herself for throwing a tantrum, as well as her shoe, at Lord Trevellyan was reinforced by her childish reply. It was all she could do not to turn back and explain that she had never intended to hurt him. Never had she felt so obnoxious or so miserable. How she hated herself for lapsing into the silly tempers she’d indulged in as a child.

After several moments of self-recrimination, she wondered how she could possibly atone for this calamity, for her father, always malleable in her hands and ready to forgive her any misdemeanour, would never forgive her for her actions today. Going to the native quarter disguised as a Chinese girl and visiting an opium den was bad enough, but she could imagine his righteous wrath when he found out she had physically assaulted Lord Trevellyan. What she had done could not be kept from him. Lord Trevellyan had said he would tell him and there was nothing she could do about that.

Instead of going into the house she went into the garden. Beneath the largest tree a circular bench had been constructed to fit around the trunk. This was where she sat looking down at the jumble of rooftops that tumbled down the hill to the harbour. Her unhappy reflections were disturbed when she heard someone approaching from behind. The next thing she knew, her lost shoe appeared on the bench beside her. It was him. For a split second she was tempted to flee, but checked herself. She would remain here and face him and admit her fault.

‘Well? What have you to say for yourself, Miss Westwood?’

Marietta realised he was waiting for her to apologise. Without turning to look at him she said, ‘If you must know, I’m not nearly so angry with you as I am with myself for what I did. I never meant to hit you. It was irresponsible and dangerous—and—and childish.’

‘I agree, it was. But thank you for apologising.’ Picking up her shoe, he sat beside her, admiring her honesty and candour and her ability to admit her mistakes.

His closeness brought to Marietta a warm waft of his cologne. It was a fresh, clean scent, but with a masculine undertone, a spicy blend of citrus and sandalwood.

His gaze slid over her, his expression neutral. ‘You look ridiculous, by the way.’

‘I know I do, but for obvious reasons I had to disguise myself. Are you really going to tell my father?’

‘I should. Have you any idea what might have happened to you today? Young Schofield should have known better than to take you there and he deserves to be horsewhipped for becoming intoxicated while he was supposed to be taking care of you.’

‘I made him take me,’ Marietta said in Oliver’s defence.

‘Then he should have known better than to agree.’

‘Please don’t tell my father,’ she whispered. ‘He—he isn’t well—in fact, of late I have seen a deterioration in his health. The last thing he needs is to worry about me.’

‘Then you should try harder to behave yourself.’

‘You’re right, but I seem to have a habit of always doing the wrong thing, no matter how hard I try not to.’

‘And your father will do anything to make his little girl happy and not give you the punishment you deserve.’

‘Please don’t say that,’ Marietta said quietly, unable to conceal the hurt his off-the-cuff remark caused her. ‘It’s isn’t like that. Since my mother’s death I’ve spent my life trying to fill the void in my father’s heart with the love her death took from him.’

‘Trying to be the antidote to his grief.’ Max regretted his remark about her when he saw how much it pained her.

She smiled wanly. ‘Something like that.’

To Max it sounded more like she needed her father to fill the void in her own heart, that she needed to be needed. ‘You are obviously concerned about him.’

‘He is my father. Of course I’m concerned. He may not be the perfect father, but he is the only one I have and I love him dearly. For a long time we’ve only had each other and I cannot think what my life would be like without him.’

‘I think I have the picture,’ Max said. And he did. Miss Westwood was young, a brave, proud, spirited girl who was trying to make the best of things in a world she wasn’t equipped to face on her own. In retrospect, she did seem rather like a vulnerable child.

‘Please don’t tell my father,’ she pleaded, tears not far away, and completely unaware that she was a vision with dark-lashed, olive-green eyes and a face too lovely to be real.

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘You must promise me there will be no repeat of today.’

‘There won’t be. I promise, and I am so sorry to have interrupted your day.’ Something which resembled a smile crossed Lord Trevellyan’s face.

‘You did not disturb anything,’ he replied briefly. ‘Consider it forgotten. However, a look of contrition sits charmingly on such a pretty face.’

It was not a compliment so much as a calm and sincere statement of fact.

‘You are most generous. Thank you.’ He was obviously trying to reassure her and she thanked him with a pale ghost of a smile, embarrassed by his attentiveness. She experienced an unfamiliar twist to her heart when she met his understanding gaze—an addictive mixture of pleasure and discomfort. ‘I seem to be making a habit of apologising to you of late.’

‘I have noticed,’ he replied, meeting her gaze.

Tilting her head to one side, she asked, ‘Are you really a duke? My father says you are.’

He gazed down at her searching green eyes. ‘Absolutely. Although I prefer to play down my rank here in Hong Kong. Why do you ask?’

‘I’m curious. I’ve never met a duke before. You’re not in the least like what I imagined a duke should look like.’

‘And how do you imagine a duke should look?’

‘Old, stout and gouty with a quizzing glass.’

The image her description conjured up brought a smile to his lips. ‘Good Lord, what a fertile imagination you’ve got, Miss Westwood. But even dukes have to be young at some time during their lives.’

‘Yes, I suppose they must,’ she said with a laughing look.

For a moment Max’s gaze lingered on the rosy perfection of her face, then settled on her entrancing green eyes. He stood up. ‘I must go,’ he said abruptly. ‘I have things to do. Will you be all right?’

Marietta stood and faced him. ‘Yes—and thank you.’

‘It was my pleasure, Miss Westwood.’

As she watched him walk away, she thought how nice he had been. He had treated her better than he had at Happy Valley. And he really was very handsome, she smiled to herself. He was an intimidating man, but his eyes had been kind and warm when he’d looked at her, and his mouth … She checked herself. It’s not right, she thought. Lord Trevellyan was a gentleman with a wife. He was only being friendly. Don’t be so foolish. But she did think of him and when she did there was a small spring of joy which kept bubbling up, no matter how hard she pushed it down.

Marietta was in high spirits as she prepared for the New Year festivities. She had spent three days behaving in an impeccably ladylike fashion in order to reassure her father that her lapse from grace at Happy Valley had been an isolated incident, and that there was no need to revert to the strict surveillance that Mrs Schofield had recommended. She was thankful that Lord Trevellyan had kept his word and not told him of her visit to the native quarter.

Despite not having a mother to exercise a restraining influence, Marietta was attired in a sensible dress that made every concession to the modesty of a seventeen-year-old girl. She accompanied her father to the Chinese New Year party being held at Government House. It was eighteen eighty, the year of the dragon. The Chinese were on holiday. It was a time for celebrating, for colour, noise, processions and dancing dragons.