‘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.
Yang Ling was taking time off to pay ceremonial calls to relatives and friends, to wish them well and a prosperous New Year, which was the custom on the first day of the Chinese New Year. In the native quarter the celebrations, which had only just begun, would go on for days. The junks and sampans cramming the harbour were all illuminated, as were the streets, through which a tidal wave of multicoloured paper lanterns, gaudy banners, dancing dragons and flower girls filed.
At Government House there was to be dancing and feasting and fireworks throughout the night. Marietta had been looking forward to it for ages and as she was being transported from her home in a sedan chair, she was incandescent with excitement. Already the air was thick with sulphur from the fireworks, drowning out the strong night scents of jasmine and all the other exotic flowers that grew on Hong Kong. Every so often salvos of firecrackers ricocheted from street to street. The night held every promise of being a truly splendid affair.
On arrival at the flower-decked lantern blazing Government House, along with Hong Kong’s most illustrious, languid and sophisticated personages, Marietta stood beside her father, looking a picture of scrubbed and shining innocence with her rich chestnut-coloured hair tied back with a bright yellow ribbon, pink cheeks and olive-green eyes above the full-skirted yellow dress with its puffed shoulders and long sleeves. It was the opinion of everyone who saw her that she was an exceedingly pretty girl and in another year or so would be a ravishing beauty.
In no time at all she was whisked away by her excited group of friends. Julian and Oliver were just two of her personal entourage of admirers and she listened patiently as they lavishly complimented her with passionate pledges of undying devotion, smiling at each one sweetly. They all vied with each other to dance the waltz, the quadrille, the schottische and the polka with her, while she happily scribbled their names in her gilt-edged programme. Oliver complained bitterly to find she had his name down only once, especially since he had something of extreme importance to tell her—as did Julian.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Oliver,’ she said without the slightest remorse, ‘but you’re not the only one to be disappointed. The ball would have to last all night and all day tomorrow for all of my suitors to be satisfied. I hope you suffered no ill effects from our