‘Yes, miss. Provided you have an attendant.’
‘Who would be an appropriate attendant should I wish to go for a walk now?’
‘I’ll accompany you, miss, as is right and proper. If you’ll wait for me in the hall I’ll just get my coat and join you there.’
Witchett was as prompt as her word and within five minutes Dorothea was strolling under the cherry trees, enjoying the sensation of sunlight on her face. Her pelisse kept out the cold breeze as she wended her way around the paths past beds of bright daffodils and early crocus. A child’s ball suddenly landed at her feet. Stooping to pick it up, she looked around for the owner. A fair lad about six years old stood uncertainly on the lawn on the other side of the daffodil bed. Smiling, she walked around to him, holding out the ball.
‘Say thank you, Peter,’ came a voice from a seat under one of the trees. Dorothea saw a nursemaid rocking a baby in her arms, smiling and nodding at her.
She turned back to find the child bowing from the waist, saying, ‘Thank you, miss,’ in a small gruff voice.
Impulsively she asked, ‘Would you like me to play catch with you for a while? I’ve just come out to enjoy the sunshine, so why don’t we enjoy it together?’
The wide smile that greeted this was answer enough, and, after glancing at his nursemaid to see she approved, young Peter settled down to a game of catch with his newfound acquaintance.
So the Marquis of Hazelmere, strolling around Cavendish Square on his way to Merion House, found the object of his thoughts playing ball in the square. Leaning on the railings surrounding the park, he watched as Dorothea taught Peter to throw. She was facing away from him, some distance away. Suddenly a particularly wild throw of Peter’s, greeted with hoots of laughter from the players, sent the ball rolling across the lawn to land in a nearby flower-bed. Dorothea followed. As she bent to pick the ball up Hazelmere couldn’t resist asking, ‘Alone and unattended again, Miss Darent?’
She whirled to face him, an ‘Oh!’ of surprise dying on her lips. For one wild moment his threat to beat her if he found her unattended again took possession of her mind. The appreciative gleam in his eyes left her in little doubt that he had accurately guessed as much. As her equilibrium returned she mustered what dignity she could to reply, ‘Why, no, Lord Hazelmere! I’m now too experienced in society’s ways to make that mistake, I assure you.’
One black brow rose. Hazelmere, unused to having young ladies cross swords with him, noticed Witchett materialising at Dorothea’s elbow. ‘I’m about to call on Lady Merion,’ he said. ‘I think perhaps, Miss Darent, you should also be present.’
‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.’
Unable to see her face as she bent down to take leave of the boy, Hazelmere could not be certain whether the comment had been artless or uttered on purpose to deflate his pretensions. Very little of Miss Darent’s conversation was artless. Well, that was a pleasant game for two to play, and there were few more skilled in it than he. He continued his stroll along the railings to the gate, where he stood, negligently at ease, and openly watched her as she came towards him.
To herself Dorothea made a firm resolution. Henceforth she was not going to let the odious Marquis get the better of her! She was a calm, cool, mature woman—even Celestine had commented on her poise. Why on earth she fell apart whenever Hazelmere was about was more than she could comprehend. She was heartily sick of the betraying flush that rose so readily in response to his taunts. Every second comment he made was designed purely to throw her into confusion and allow him to manage matters as he willed. Well, thought the determined Miss Darent, very conscious of that hazel gaze as she approached the street, that might work on the London misses but I’m not going to let him stage-manage me! With the sunniest of smiles, she met him at the gate.
If Hazelmere entertained any suspicions of this evident change of heart he kept them to himself. His experienced eye registered the countrified pelisse and the tangle of her hair, wind-blown and escaping from its pins. He wondered why such a combination should appear so attractive. In silence they crossed the street and were bowed into Merion House by Mellow. ‘Lady Merion is expecting you, my lord.’
Surrendering her pelisse to Witchett, Dorothea caught sight of her reflection in the hall mirror. Arrested by the picture of her hair in such turmoil, she wondered whether she should keep her grandmother waiting while she set it to rights. She raised her glance to find herself looking into the Marquis’s hazel eyes, reflected in the mirror. He smiled in complete comprehension. ‘Yes, I would if I were you. I’ll tell her ladyship you’ll join us in a few moments.’
Realising she could not continually pull caps with him, particularly when he was being helpful, she confined herself to a curt nod before whisking herself up the stairs, Witchett trailing behind.
Hazelmere paused for a moment to flick a speck of dust from his sleeve before nodding to Mellow. ‘You may announce me now.’
For this interview Lady Merion had arrayed herself in a gown she knew made her look particularly formidable. Instinct born of experience warned her that there was more to the encounters between the Marquis and her granddaughter than she had been told. She was unsure that Dorothea herself knew the full sum. On the other hand, Hazelmere would certainly be aware of every nuance. She was determined to extract a much more detailed explanation from him before she called Dorothea to attend them. As he strolled elegantly across the room to bow over her hand she fixed him with a basilisk stare which in years past had produced confessions from the most hardened of reprobates.
Hazelmere smiled lazily down at her.
With a jolt she realised that there was a large difference between demanding the reason for a cricket ball landing in her drawing-room from a ten-year-old boy and demanding an accounting of his behaviour from a thirty-one-year-old peer, who, aside from being a leader of the ton, was also one of the most dangerously handsome men in the kingdom. And, she fumed, noting the amused understanding in the hazel eyes, the jackanapes knows it!
Baulked, she motioned him to a seat and reluctantly gave her attention to the next item on her agenda. She waited until he was seated, admiring the way his immaculate morning coat sat across his shoulders. His long muscular thighs were encased in skin-tight buff knee-breeches, and his Hessians shone like the proverbial mirror. She might be old, but she still noticed such things. ‘I understand I must thank you for rescuing my granddaughter, Dorothea, from an unfortunate incident at that inn the other evening.’
One well-manicured hand waved dismissively. ‘Having recognised your granddaughter, even someone with a conscience as faulty as mine could hardly have left her there.’ The gently mocking tone and the laughter in his face robbed this speech of any impropriety.
Accustomed to the subtleties of social conversation, Lady Merion thawed visibly. ‘Very well! But why this meeting?’
‘Unfortunately the crowd from which I extricated Miss Darent contained at least one member of the ton who cannot be trusted to forget the incident.’
‘Dorothea mentioned Tremlow.’
‘Oh, yes. Tremlow was there, and Botherwood and Lords Michaels and Downie. But they are relatively harmless, and, unless I’m much mistaken, would probably not recall the incident unless their memories were jogged, and perhaps not even then. I’m more concerned with Sir Barnaby Ruscombe.’
‘Ugh! That repulsive man! He always dabbles in the most malicious scandalmongering.’ She paused, then eyed the Marquis speculatively. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about him?’
‘Alas, no. Anyone else, quite probably. But not Ruscombe. Scandal is his trade. Still, given that we can invent a plausible tale to account for my having previously met Miss Darent, I can’t see there’s any risk of serious damage to her reputation.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ agreed Lady Merion. ‘But it would be wise to have her here, I think. Ring that bell, if you will.’