time an unmistakably sentimental one, brought her to herself. She was standing almost on tiptoe, one hand raised to rest against her new husband’s chest, and there was the strange fluttering through her veins that she was coming to expect whenever he touched her. Whatever she did, she must not betray her true feelings, not to this man she had just married.
Blushing in real earnest now, and without her veil to protect her, Marina let Justin place her hand on his arm as they turned. Slowly they began to walk back down the aisle and she made herself behave as her position now required. Nodding and smiling from side to side, the new Countess of Mortenhoe was conscious of genuine smiles, of her mother unashamedly weeping into her lace handkerchief, of some speculative looks and one or two less friendly glances.
Well may they stare and wonder, she thought as they emerged on to the steps of St George’s overlooking Hanover Square. They probably find it as hard to believe as I do that Justin Ransome should marry Charlie Winslow’s sister, a woman who has been on the shelf these four years past.
And what possessed me to agree? she wondered as she had done almost every waking hour since Justin’s proposal, the panic rising in her breast again. Whatever made me think I could make a success of a marriage to a man I have known only eleven weeks and who makes no pretence of the fact he does not love me?
As the animated, chattering guests thronged out of the church into the bright sunshine, she turned, catching their mood all of a sudden. She threw her bouquet with a laugh into the mass of young ladies who reached and jostled for it. Beside her Justin laughed too, amused by the sight of ladylike behaviour abandoned for a few moments, and she glanced up at him again.
And why did he ask me? she queried for the hundredth time. Why should one of the most eligible men in London wish to marry me? She had gone over his words again and again, had dreamed them, analysed them to the point of exhaustion. It was too late to wonder now, she realised as Justin helped her into the waiting carriage. Far too late.
Eleven weeks earlier—3 April 1817
Take a deep breath. Justin Ransome stood on the upper step of the double-fronted house in Cavendish Square with his life in the balance. Today, after twenty years, if he could keep his temper in check and his wits about him, he was going to achieve the ambition that had driven him since he was eight years old.
He found his right hand was in his coat pocket, the thumb and forefinger rubbing the small crystal lustre that had been a talisman for all of those years. The sharp edges had become dulled with handling, the ball of his thumb had a callus from the habitual, unthinking gesture.
Now. He raised his hand, let the knocker drop with a thud that echoed the knocking of his own heart against his ribs. Almost immediately he heard faint footsteps from inside the house. They were expecting him, of course. He stepped back slightly as the door opened, a fortunate move; for, instead of the impassive figure of the family butler, a small boy erupted out of the opening pursued by a frantically barking dog almost the same size.
At the sight of the tall man on the step the hound skidded to a halt and regarded him hopefully, head on one side. Justin braced himself to repel a leap, but the creature simply dealt his highly polished Hessians a swipe with a slavering tongue and bounded after its young master.
So much for working oneself up into a state of high drama: fate had a sure way of bringing one down to earth.
‘Giles! Hector! Oh, sir, I can only apologise for my brother.’
Justin looked up from the rueful contemplation of his footwear to find himself being regarded with anxiety by a fine pair of silver grey eyes.
‘Which is which?’ he enquired of the owner of these admirable features, smiling as the anxiety in them was replaced with something closer to amusement. The lady was dressed for walking, presumably in the wake of the harum-scarum child.
‘Giles is my little brother. Hector is the abominable hound. I am Miss Winslow and my brother—my elder brother—is Charles Winslow. Just so you know how to direct the account from your bootmaker.’
‘Good morning, Miss Winslow.’ Justin, by now diverted by the situation, held out his hand. The gesture was met with a warm smile and a confident handshake in return. ‘I am Justin Ransome. I am sure only the most superficial damage has been done: a wipe will put it to rights.’
‘Lord Mortenhoe.’ Miss Winslow nodded. ‘I recall Charlie said you would be calling. I cannot conceive where Bunting has vanished to. Ah, there he is. And I should not be keeping you standing here on the doorstep—you must think you have arrived at Bedlam, not a respectable home. Bunting, here is Lord Mortenhoe to see Lord Winslow, but first, please see if Kyte can do something with his lordship’s Hessians—that hell hound of Master Giles’s has been slobbering all over them.’
‘Of course, Miss Winslow. My lord, if you would care to step into the salon, I will fetch Lord Winslow’s valet to you immediately. One trusts no lasting damage has been done.’ The butler relieved Justin of hat, gloves and cane and opened the door into the front reception room as another young lady came down the stairs.
Justin bowed slightly to the new arrival, succeeding in reducing her to blushing confusion. She was a pretty child of perhaps fifteen, still childishly plump but with wide blue eyes, a pert little nose and abundant blonde ringlets emerging from under her somewhat plain bonnet.
‘My lord, this is my sister Elizabeth. Lizzie, Lord Mortenhoe has called to see Charlie and unfortunately has encountered Giles and Hector.’ Miss Winslow held out her hand. ‘My lord, I can only apologise once more and leave you to the care of Bunting and Charles’s valet. If I delay much longer, I shudder to think what havoc will have been wrought upon the gardens in the Square.’
‘Miss Winslow, good day. I trust you have an uneventful walk.’
She smiled up at him, drawing on her gloves. ‘No hope of that, my lord. Good day to you. Come, Lizzie.’
Justin was left with the impression of amused tranquillity, a pleasing sensation. Not a beauty, the elder Miss Winslow, with her soft brown hair, oval face and wide grey eyes, but a soothing presence, which was very much in tune with his needs just now.
The valet descending upon his Hessians with a cry of distress distracted him from further thoughts of the Misses Winslow. ‘The merest dabbing with a little warm water, my lord, then a buff with my own polish and a chamois cloth, and all will be restored. If your lordship will permit me to remove both boots...’
Justin submitted and was therefore at the disadvantage of standing in his stockinged feet when his host sauntered in. ‘Mortenhoe.’ They shook hands and the younger man peered at Justin’s feet. ‘Raining, is it?’
‘No, my lord,’ the butler hastened to intervene. ‘That Dog, my lord.’
‘Oh. Enough said. Is Kyte fixing things? Good. Do you want to borrow some slippers? No? Then let’s make ourselves comfortable in my study.’
Winslow led the way across the hallway and waved his guest to a chair. As Justin sat he found he had an admirable view out over the Square to where young Master Winslow was engaged in hot pursuit of his dog while his sisters, parasols unfurled, looked on.
‘Brandy?’ Lord Winslow was unstopping a decanter.
‘Not for me, thank you. But please—’
His host needed no encouragement, pouring a good measure into his glass before dropping into the chair opposite. Justin regarded him thoughtfully. Having now, he assumed, seen all the brothers and sisters, he could see the likeness between Charles and his younger sister, despite Charles’s dark brown hair and Lizzie’s blonde curls.
But in the brother the good looks were already blurred at only twenty-seven by what, from his reputation, was a mixture of late nights and strong drink. The elder Miss