Читать книгу When Marrying a Duke... - Хелен Диксон, Хелен Диксон, Helen Dickson - Страница 8

Instructing the coolies to wait, Max looked down at Marietta, his face hard. ‘I’ll have a word with your father before I go.’

‘He isn’t at home.’

‘Then I’ll catch up with him later. He should know what his daughter gets up to in his absence—for your own good, you understand.’

‘No, I do not understand,’ she flared. ‘Tell me, Lord Trevellyan, are you really as heartless and unfeeling as you sound right now?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You’re a monster. Why are you talking to me like this?’

‘Someone has to.’

‘What I do has got nothing whatsoever to do with you. I would be obliged if you would mind your own business.’

‘When I find a girl of your age in one of the most notorious opium dens in Hong Kong, I make it my business.’

‘It’s also a place where brothels and gambling dens thrive,’ she flared, ‘which leads me to question the purpose of your own visit to the native quarter, Lord Trevellyan.’

He raised one sleek, questioning brow. ‘And you know what a brothel is, do you, Miss Westwood?’

Her face turned scarlet with embarrassment and she found she couldn’t look at him. ‘Yes—at least—I think so.’

Max was shocked, for such things were never discussed with an innocent girl. ‘Damn it, there are some things a girl of your age shouldn’t know about.’

Marietta didn’t, not really. One day she had asked Oliver to explain what a brothel was, having overheard some young men making ribald remarks among themselves about such establishments. In a roundabout way Oliver had told her what a brothel was, firmly stating that, of course, he never visited them. She had always taken everything Oliver said as the gospel truth—but today had changed all that.

‘I can’t see why not. I’m seventeen, Lord Trevellyan, not six, and I cannot for the life of me understand why a man would want to visit such places if he is in love with his wife.’

‘Brothels are full of married men, Miss Westwood,’ he replied drily. ‘When you are older you will no doubt realise that. Why did you go there? What made you want to?’

She shrugged. ‘It was the adventure, I suppose, the excitement of doing something different.’

‘Something wrong, more like. Just what did you think you were playing at, doing something as lunatic as going to a place like that? Have you no brains at all?’

‘Don’t speak to me like that. I won’t listen.’ Her hands were trembling now, and her legs felt weak beneath her. I’m usually so strong, she thought. Why do I feel like a child? She knew why it was. She was in the wrong. In a fit of pique, Marietta threw her shoe at Lord Trevellyan, almost hitting him in the face, before turning on her heel and flouncing off.

‘Miss Westwood.’

Marietta paused and scowled back at him. She beheld a face of such dark, menacing rage that she shuddered. ‘What?’

‘That’s a nasty temper you have there. You could have taken my eye out.’

‘I’m only sorry I didn’t take your head off.’ On that note she left him and stalked away.

Max watched her disappear down the drive, her ridiculous fat plait bouncing against her back and her shins exposed like a couple of white sticks beneath her wide trouser bottoms and wearing only one shoe. Although he was accustomed to being assaulted, it was usually by someone of his own age and sex, not an angry young woman. Tiresome though Miss Westwood was, she didn’t lack personality, perhaps to be expected of Monty Westwood’s daughter. He was a man fond of breaking regulations, who believed his nefarious dealings in Hong Kong were a well-kept secret—it was hardly surprising that he had fathered such a little firebrand.

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.

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 outing the other day.’

Oliver coloured pink to the gills and he was right out of countenance for once. ‘I say, I’m sorry about that, Marietta. There was the devil to pay when Father found out.’

‘Why? Did you tell him?’

‘Not me. Lord Trevellyan. Why did the man have to interfere? As a result I am being sent to England—Oxford, to be precise—where I’m to read history for the next three years. How appalling is that?—although I suppose the fact that Julian is to come with me will alleviate the misery,’ he said miserably.

Marietta stared at him in disbelief. Knowing she was to lose two of her best friends was devastating. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she already knew her friend Emma was to leave for Europe, to be finished off at some school or other. To lose all three would bring such a big change to her life that she couldn’t bear to think about it.

‘Surely not! I’m sorry, Oliver. I shall miss you—both of you—and Emma. Things won’t be the same without you.’

‘Did Lord Trevellyan tell your father about—you know?’

‘No. He threatened to, but I’m relieved he didn’t.’

Their conversation was observed by Oliver’s mother, whose whole life had been scrupulously and religiously dedicated to the precepts of convention and keeping up position, and maintaining her dignity. She was shocked by Marietta’s behaviour and the unacceptable influence she had on Oliver, which was one of the reasons why she had persuaded her husband to send their son to England.

‘I have to say, Mildred, that that young lady’s manners are an outrage, her conduct reprehensible. She is a wilful hoyden who must be the despair of her father and an embarrassment.’

‘Be that as it may, but it is just high spirits and she has such a sweet disposition,’ said fairminded Mrs Mildred Beaumont, ‘and that dress is exceedingly becoming on such a young girl.’

‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ snorted Mrs Schofield, her displeasure concerning Marietta deepening when she saw her practically dragging Oliver on to the dance floor where they proceeded to dance a lively polka. She was also annoyed that her good friend did not appear to agree with her over Marietta’s shocking conduct. ‘Do you know what my maid told me tonight as I was dressing? She told me that Monty Westwood is thinking of engaging a teacher to instruct his daughter to speak Chinese. Did you ever hear of such a thing?’

Mrs Beaumont was startled out of her customary calm. She said incredulously, ‘Learn Chinese? You must be mistaken. No lady would do such a thing. Besides, I doubt Mr Westwood will be able to find anyone to teach her since the Chinese consider us all barbarians.’

‘I assure you it is true.’ Mrs Schofield’s attention was diverted from this fascinating topic by the arrival of Lord Trevellyan and his charming wife.

Marietta’s attention was also captured by the arrival of Lord Trevellyan and his wife. Observing them enter the room as she was being spun around at a maddening pace by her partner, forgetting to hop when she should have, she gazed with something like awe at Lady Trevellyan. Wearing a shadowy smile, tall and slender in woven green silk, her gown decorated with silver thread and seed pearls, she really did look quite splendid and Marietta’s wasn’t the only gaze that was drawn to her.

As her husband escorted her into the centre of the room, she did not glance to left or right. Her figure swayed as if the very air that surrounded her set it in motion. Her hands were gloved in dove grey, her grave, charming face held to one side. There was warmth, but little colour, in her cheeks and her eyes, large dark eyes, were soft, her lips sensitive and sweet. There was something inexplicably dainty and fragile about her and the look on her face was as though she had come into contact with a force too strong for her—her husband, perhaps? Marietta wondered cynically. She watched Nadine say something quietly to her husband. Whatever it was she said, his long mouth curled with derision.

With the festivities in full flow and the reception rooms full to overflowing, Marietta danced with her friends and dashing young officers until her feet ached and smiled so much she thought her face would crack. Feeling somewhat downhearted that she was about to be deserted by her three closest friends, she headed for a door that led to a veranda where, hopefully, she could be by herself to collect her thoughts.

She smiled to herself as she watched her father socialising. It wasn’t too long ago when he had been invited everywhere and treated as someone of importance, but things had changed. Now the gentlemen conversed and laughed with him, but of late she’d noted a hint of reserve in their manner towards him. Perhaps she was imagining it, but for some unknown reason she didn’t think so and it was beginning to worry her. She was also concerned because he didn’t look too well tonight. He looked tired, his face was flushed and his eyes over-bright. She hoped the evening wouldn’t be too taxing for him.

Lady Trevellyan was in deep conversation with Teddy by the door, talking low-voiced. The lace on her white shoulders stirred with the soft rise and fall of her bosom. While they were smiling at one another, Lord Trevellyan suddenly appeared behind his wife and said something, at which Teddy stepped out of the room.

Thinking nothing of it, Marietta slipped out on to the veranda. The sky was bright with flares and rockets and Catherine wheels. She was relieved to find she was the only one there, but her solitude was to be short lived.

Minutes later, stepping out on to the veranda, Lord Trevellyan strolled towards the young woman leaning on the balustrade with her small chin propped upon her palms, gazing at the harbour lights and the rockets soaring into the night sky leaving a blaze of colourful sparks in their wake. The moon shone and the sea shimmered—there couldn’t have been a more romantic setting.

Hearing a step behind her, Marietta turned and looked at Lord Trevellyan, unable to explain why her heart suddenly did a somersault at the sight of him. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, turning back to the wonderful panoramic view spread out before her.

‘So this is where you’re hiding. I was beginning to think a dragon had carried you off.’

Marietta’s heart skipped another beat. ‘Why? Were you looking for me?’ she asked, hoping this was so.

‘No, but I did see you leave the party and thought you might have gone home when you didn’t return.’

‘I’m amazed that you thought of me at all, and I’m not hiding. It was so stifling inside. I wanted some air.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. Would you mind if I stayed out here with you a while?’ he asked, perching his hip on the balustrade and looking down at her, with none of the anger of their recent encounters. She wore her hair loose, the weight of it rippling about her shoulders like a rich silken cloud. She really was quite refreshing, not at all overawed as many of the women were when he spoke to them.

Marietta’s senses went into instant overload at his nearness. His voice sounded as dark and sultry as the night. With a faint scent of his familiar cologne wafting over her, he loomed tall, as indomitable as the hills on which Hong Kong was built.

‘No, of course not,’ she said in answer to his request. ‘The veranda’s for everyone and the view is quite splendid, don’t you think? It’s also the perfect spot from which to watch the fireworks.’

‘It certainly is. It’s a rare display.’

‘I cannot understand why, when the Chinese are so thrifty, they spend a tremendous amount of money on something that is so short lived and soon forgotten.’

‘Ah, but they will be remembered by many—along with the noise they make. Some of them are quite deafening. This night, the first of the year of the dragon, will be remembered for its festivities. Without the fireworks and the cymbals and the gongs to frighten away evil spirits, it would not be the same. And what has caught your interest?’ he asked as she leaned forwards and looked down.

‘If you must know, a rather long orange-and-purple caterpillar that’s just crawled along the street below. It had huge blue eyes and wobbly feelers with knobs on the end. I was wondering …’ she sighed almost wistfully ‘… how many people were inside it and if they talk to each other as they go along.’

‘I imagine they do. So tell me, why the long face?’

‘I wasn’t aware that I had one.’

‘Take it from me, you have. Has someone upset you?’

‘No—at least …’ She sighed. Nothing seemed to escape those penetrating silver-grey eyes of his.

‘I hope I’m not the cause and that you’re not bearing a grudge over our little altercation when I forcibly made you leave the native quarter.’

‘No. I don’t bear grudges—even if you do think I’m a flighty, fluff-headed socialite who only cares about enjoying herself,’ she said with a puckish smile curving her lips. ‘I said I was sorry and I meant it. I hope you will accept my thanks for not telling my father. I’m grateful to you for that. And I was quite obnoxious on our encounter in Happy Valley, wasn’t I?’

‘Yes, you were, but I don’t bear grudges either.’ He grinned, his eyes dancing with humour. ‘It’s not every day a pretty young lady throws herself at my feet,’ he teased lightly.

‘Not intentionally. I’m glad I didn’t land on you or your wife. I should hate to have hurt her, or you for that matter.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate your concern. But you might have hurt yourself. So—why the long face?’

‘Oliver and Julian are going to Europe to further their education. I’ve only just found out.’

‘I see. And you’ll miss them, naturally.’

‘Yes, of course I will. Emma, my closest friend, is also leaving the island. Her parents are sending her to be finished off somewhere in Europe.’

‘And that bothers you?’

‘It felt like having a bucket of cold water poured over my head. If it weren’t for you telling Oliver’s father about his visit to China Town, he wouldn’t be leaving. Do you make a habit of interfering in other people’s lives, Lord Trevellyan?’

‘Only when I deem it necessary,’ he replied coolly. ‘I’d like to think I’ve done young Schofield a favour.’

‘But his father is sending him to England.’

‘It’s the best thing for him, if you ask me.’

‘I wasn’t, and that is your opinion.’

‘Which I trust.’

‘But to see my three best friends leave the island! We’ve been together for a long time. I can’t bear to think of the group being broken up. Nothing will be the same any more. Life will be so boring.’

‘Oh, I think you’re still young enough to change all that.’

‘I doubt it,’ she admitted bluntly. ‘To be honest, I don’t know if I would want to.’

‘So a betrothal to the opium-smoking young man I found you with in the native quarter the other day is not to be considered?’

‘Oh, no,’ she replied. A frown marred her smooth forehead at the idea that she and Oliver might be linked together. ‘Even though my father is unaware of Oliver’s partiality for a particular narcotic, he would not encourage a match between us.’

‘He doesn’t like Mr Schofield?’

‘Oh, no, that isn’t the reason. In fact, Father would have no reservations about Oliver making me an excellent husband. It’s just that he would have serious reservations about my life with my prospective mother-in-law.’

Max chuckled softly. ‘Having encountered Mrs Schofield on several occasions, I can see his point. She’s a tiresome busybody and worse than a washerwoman for the pleasure she takes in idle gossip and malicious talk.’

‘Exactly. Besides, I believe she thinks I have a disruptive influence on her precious Oliver.’

He arched a brow. ‘And have you?’

‘I don’t think so, but perhaps the fact that I love having fun and don’t always listen to the dictates of my father has crystallised all my sins in her mind.’

At the tragic note in her voice, humour softened Max’s features and his firm, sensual lips quirked in a smile. ‘Poor you. What a truly miserable time you are having, Miss Westwood. Still, I applaud your honesty. It’s a rare virtue in one so young.’

‘My father says I’m unconventional and I suppose I am, which is why all the old tabbies on the island are always complaining to him about me and giving him advice on the best way to deal with a wayward daughter. But he likes me the way I am and wouldn’t like it if I were to change.’

‘Your father is quite right. You are what you are. You can’t please everybody. One’s true character springs from the heart and dwells in the eyes. Unconventionality is an invitation to disaster in the world we inhabit.’

She stared at him. ‘My word, how very profound.’

Gazing into his unfathomable eyes, she saw cynicism lurking in their depths. There was something primitive and dangerous about Lord Trevellyan. She had the uneasy feeling that his elegant attire and indolent stance were nothing but disguises meant to lull the unwary into believing he was civilised, when he wasn’t civilised at all. He looked like the sort of man who had seen and done all sorts of things, terrible and forbidden things, things that had hardened him and made him cold. A chill crept up her spine as she wondered what dark secrets lay hidden in his past. Surely there must be many to have made him so cynical and unapproachable.

‘I don’t mean to pry, but are you happy, Lord Trevellyan? What I mean is, do you get the very best out of your life?’

He looked irritated by her question, but he answered it. ‘I don’t suppose so, but then, who does?’

‘There you are, you see.’ She lifted her face up to the star-strewn sky, her entire being radiant with optimism, innocence and hope. ‘I love life, even when things happen to me and my friends are deserting me. I can’t stop loving life.’

Transfixed, Max stared at her. Marietta Westwood was unspoiled, without artifice or pretence, young and naïve and realistic. Her irresistible smile doused his momentary irritation and brought an answering smile to his lips. ‘Long may you continue to do so.’

Marietta turned and looked at him. In his late twenties, Lord Trevellyan’s potent attraction to women was a topic of much scintillating feminine gossip among the ladies, young and old, in the colony, and as Marietta gazed into those cynical grey eyes, she suddenly felt herself drawn to him as if by some overwhelming magnetic force. Understanding was in his eyes, along with a touch of humour. It was these things, as well as his dark good looks and blatant virility, that impelled women towards him, even though their attentions went unrewarded, for he ignored them all. He was so worldly, so experienced, that he clearly understood them. He understood her, and although it was obvious he didn’t approve of her, he accepted her for what she was, with all her faults.

‘Are you going to return to your wife?’ she asked. ‘She might want you to dance with her.’ A strange expression crossed his face, as if he were struggling to master some emotion—anger, she thought.

‘Not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because, Miss Inquisitive Westwood, she’s dancing with someone else.’

‘I know—Teddy—my father’s business partner.’

His smile disappeared and his face darkened. ‘I am aware of that.’

Marietta tilted her head to one side and considered him quizzically. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Should I mind?’

‘Since it’s the custom to dance with different partners when one attends a ball, then I don’t think you should.’

‘Then I don’t.’

Unaware of his sudden change in attitude, Marietta proceeded to delight Lord Trevellyan with a wickedly humorous description of some of the events she’d attended on the island and some funny stories acquainted with the people she knew. She told him of how, on one of her trips to Kowloon on one of her father’s boats, Teddy, who was leaning comfortably against the side of the boat and made soporific by the warmth of the sun and the lulling of the waves, had fallen into a doze and slipped overboard.

‘You managed to pull him back aboard, I see,’ Lord Trevellyan remarked somewhat drily.

‘But of course. He was most indignant about it and was sure someone must have pushed him in.’

Inexperienced and unsophisticated as she was, Max was fascinated by her clever tongue, by her sharp mind and the fount of knowledge she stored about others as she went on to relate other tales, her olive-green eyes shining into his.

Marietta smiled at him impudently, surprising him with her next question. ‘Why don’t you want to dance with your wife?’

He drew back. ‘Because I’m not in the mood.’

They both turned to look at the dancers twirling around the polished dance floor. As if on cue and within three yards of the darkening veranda, his wife and Teddy waltzed by. Lady Trevellyan’s eyes were raised to his, as though answering some question he had asked, and he was gazing at her intently. She wore a white gardenia in her hair and from where they stood Max and Marietta could almost smell its perfume. Her every movement was feline, containing the same elastic mixture of confidence and sophistication that masked an underlying interest in her partner. They saw the rise and fall of her bosom and the languor in her eyes, her parted lips and a look on her face Marietta thought quite strange, for it was a look a woman usually bestowed on her husband.

Lady Trevellyan peered over Teddy’s shoulder before they disappeared from view. There was a sudden glint in her eyes now as she fixed them on her husband, a glint in which there was no sympathy at all, but only pleasure sharpened with a trace of something very much like spite. There was no perceptible movement of muscle or vein, no change in colour, but it was impossible to mistake that Lord Trevellyan had moved straight from condescension into cold rage.

‘Teddy is always a popular figure at dances,’ Marietta told Lord Trevellyan quietly, wondering why she felt a sudden need to defend her father’s business partner. ‘He dances so well that all the ladies are eager to have his name on their dance card.’

‘So it would seem,’ Max murmured drily, turning his back on his wife.

Marietta saw the cynical curl to his lips and observed the way his shoulders tensed, but she didn’t comment on it. Perhaps matters weren’t as they should be between Lord Trevellyan and his wife, but he was far too English and private a person to talk openly about it, and it was not for her to ask.

‘If you’re not in the mood to dance with your wife, then dance with someone else.’

One dark brow lifted over an amused silver-grey eye. ‘Are you asking, Miss Westwood?’

Her answering laughter tinkled like bells, filling the air around them with its gaiety. ‘Heavens, no! My friends wouldn’t let me live it down—dancing with a man much older than myself.’

He leaned back and gave her a look of mock offence. ‘I’m not so long in the tooth. How old do you think I am?’

After giving his question a moment’s thought, she said, ‘About thirty?’

‘Wrong. Nowhere near.’

‘Then how old are you?’

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out, Miss Westwood.’

Tilting her head to one side, she gazed up into his mesmerising grey eyes. Standing so close to him, she was unable to think clearly. She wasn’t certain anything mattered at that moment except the sound of his deep, compelling voice. The piercing sweetness of the music drifting through the open doors wrapped itself round her. How she wished the man beside her would smile and take her in his arms and dance with her, despite what she had just said, that he would place his lips against her cheek and … She checked herself. She wished so many impossible things.

‘I hope you weren’t offended when I said I wouldn’t dance with you. Of course,’ she said, lowering her eyes, her cheeks suddenly warm with embarrassment and anticipation, ‘if you were to ask me, I wouldn’t dream of refusing your offer. I would be happy to dance with you.’

Slowly she raised her eyes to his and Max noted the unconcealed admiration lighting her lovely young face. She didn’t know how explicit her expression was—like an open book, exposing what was in her heart. Max saw it and was immediately wary. He had schooled his face over the years to show nothing that he did not want it to show. He was therefore perfectly able to disguise his exasperation with himself for having misjudged things. He should have realised she was of an age to have a schoolgirl crush.

The lines of his face were angular and hard, and behind the cold glitter of his grey eyes lay a fathomless stillness. Marietta watched his firmly moulded lips for his answer.

‘That won’t happen,’ he said flatly, gentling his voice, while knowing he was being deliberately cruel, but it was necessary.

Marietta was mortified and shocked by his refusal, but she was more shocked by her nerve for having the audacity to ask him. ‘No, of course not,’ she said in a shaky, breathless voice. ‘I should have known better than to suggest such a thing.’

Max didn’t like having to wound her sensibilities, but it couldn’t be helped. His voice was condescendingly amused as he tried not to look too deeply into her hurt eyes, eloquent in their hurt, which remained fixed on his face. ‘Think nothing of it. And I wasn’t offended.’

‘Oh—well, that’s all right then. You don’t have a very high opinion of women, do you, Lord Trevellyan?’ she said, unable to stop herself from asking.

‘Should I?’

‘Yes, when you have such a beautiful wife.’

‘You’ve noticed,’ he remarked drily.

‘I would have to be wearing blinkers not to.’

‘Do you have a beau, Miss Westwood?’

‘No, not as such.’

‘Some day you’ll have to marry in order to have children.’

She glanced at him sharply. ‘Oh, no, Lord Trevellyan. If I marry, it won’t be to have children.’

‘Don’t you like children?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘But you don’t want children of your own?’

‘No, and if I have to pledge my hand in order to produce an heir, then I might very well remain a spinster.’

‘That’s a very decisive statement for a seventeen-year-old girl to make.’

‘I’m sure you must think so, but seventeen or sixty, I won’t change my mind.’

Marietta meant what she said. She would never forget what her mother had gone through to try to produce another living child, or the pain and the terrible grief that came afterwards. Yang Ling had told her that daughters often took after their mothers and the thought of childbearing preyed dreadfully on her nerves. She went cold every time she thought of it—what might be the sequel to making love, when past dangers and future fear might become utterly submerged.

‘You’re still very young, Miss Westwood, with time to change your mind. Tell me, am I really all those unflattering things you called me at Happy Valley? Arrogant, high-handed and despicable, I believe you said.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I haven’t changed my mind about that. I’m only sorry that you heard me say them.’ She was laughing and he smiled at her, his teeth flashing against his tanned skin. He looked all formal in his evening attire—a figure of authority, assured, cynical and formidable. But having spent the last few minutes with him, he suddenly seemed a hundred times more rakish and with hidden depths. Without thinking, she said, ‘You also look like a pirate—not the kind they have in the China Seas, but one of Caribbean kind—a buccaneer that carries beautiful ladies off to his lair on some island known only to him.’

That made him laugh and, in the shimmering light from a thousand lanterns, he saw her flawless young face and the brilliance of her long-lashed eyes and generous mouth. Abruptly he stood back. He stared down at her for a long, long moment, then, quietly serious, he said, ‘Don’t change, Miss Westwood. Don’t ever grow up. Stay just exactly as you are.’

‘That’s impossible.’ She cocked her head to one side and gave him a quizzical look. ‘I thought you didn’t like me.’

‘What made you think that?’

‘Because of what happened at Happy Valley—and then in China Town—you were awful to me.’

He grinned and with his finger and thumb tweaked her chin playfully. ‘You deserved it.’ Momentarily distracted when the music stopped playing, he glanced into the ballroom. ‘Please excuse me. I think it’s time I returned to my wife.’

Marietta didn’t move as she watched him go, not realising that in years to come they would both have reason to think back on this short time they had spent together on the veranda at Government House, as flower girls, fire-breathing dragons and caterpillars snaked their way through the streets below.

The rest of the evening passed all too quickly for Marietta. Her father retired to a card room, there to join other merchants to drink some fine brandy and to discuss the previous year’s profits and losses. Marietta returned to the dance floor where she was reunited with her friends. With her father out of the way she drank some champagne with Oliver and danced with some of the young officers in the colony, who exclaimed ingenuously about her looks and the way she danced, making her feel very grand and grown up. Would Lord Trevellyan ask her to dance? she wondered. She hoped so. Eagerly she looked for him, disappointed when she couldn’t see him. Assuming he must have left with his wife, from that point her evening declined.

Later, when Marietta walked past the table where Lord and Lady Trevellyan had been sitting, she looked down and spotted a fan on the floor beside a chair. She recognised it as being Lady Trevellyan’s. Retrieving it, she thought she would have one of the servants return it to her hotel, but as she was making her way to the ladies’ rest room, she saw Lord and Lady Trevellyan standing alone close to the main entrance and assumed they were on the point of leaving and awaiting their transport.

She hurried towards them, but something she saw on Lord Trevellyan’s face made her pause. Hidden by the fronds of a large potted plant, she saw that as Lord Trevellyan looked at his wife there was revulsion on his face, and above all contempt. Having no wish to intrude or to listen to what they were saying, Marietta stepped back, but if she were to move now they would see her and she had no wish to be accused of eavesdropping.

‘Did you have to make a total spectacle of yourself, Nadine? Everybody was watching.’ Max’s mood was mocking, cruel and angry as he addressed his wife.

‘Why should I care?’ she asked.

‘Why? Because it’s embarrassing that’s why. I’m your husband, in the same room, and you were making a degrading spectacle of yourself.’

His voice was sharp and Nadine recoiled from the coldness in him. He saw the tautness return to her face along with the ice-cold politeness, which was the sum and substance of their marriage.

‘What’s wrong, Max? Are you jealous?’

‘Jealous? No. Just humiliated. What you do in private is your business. What you do in public, when I’m present, involves me, too.’

‘What about you?’ Nadine asked quietly. ‘What about what you get up to?’

‘I don’t embarrass you in public.’

‘No? Then it’s all right for you to spend almost the entire evening on a lantern-lit veranda alone with a woman?’

His look became one of scorn. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. If it is to Miss Westwood you are referring, she is seventeen—hardly out of the schoolroom—a juvenile. You’ve got a very suspicious nature, Nadine.’

‘I’m your wife.’

‘And I’ve heard it all before. You have a weakness. You can’t help yourself.’

‘What do you want, Max? Little did I know when I married you that the position I thought honourable would become my own special prison.’

Max paused a moment and gazed at her coldly. ‘A prison of your own making, Nadine. You do well out of it. And you needn’t worry about me in that respect. I won’t be cutting off my nose to spite my face. You’re only one woman among many, and for a man it’s easy to find relief for his baser needs.’

‘Nothing would please me more,’ she replied, equally as cold.

‘I’m sure that’s true—but be warned. Don’t tempt my temper too far. Tread carefully and perhaps you will survive.’

In the silence that followed, the conversation Marietta had overheard hung in the air like the acrid smell of smoke that lingered after a fire. Her cheeks burned with mortification as she stared at the open doorway through which they had just disappeared, her mind a blank. How could Lady Trevellyan think that she … and her husband! Oh, the very idea was too awful, too embarrassing to contemplate. The evening suddenly felt bleak and black and her earlier high spirits had been dented. Everything was well and truly ruined.

The following day Marietta’s father became very ill, the worry of it driving all thoughts of returning Lady Trevellyan’s fan from her mind. She had been in the breakfast room when Yang Ling came to tell her. Marietta sprang to her feet, her face blanching in sudden terror.

‘It’s your father, Miss Marietta. He’s had some sort of attack. The doctor has been sent for.’

Her father was in bed propped up against the pillows, the mosquito net having been turned back. Fighting for breath, he turned his eyes to his daughter as she stumbled across the bedroom.

‘Father—what—what has happened?’

She sank to her knees beside the bed and took hold of one of his hands, which rested on the snow-white sheet, and into her head came the fragmented thought that this was the first time she had seen her father ill in bed. Despite her worries concerning his health of late, he had always been about his business. The thought that he might die terrified her and she clung to him as a child clings to its mother in a childish nightmare.

‘What is it, Father? Tell me? Oh dear, where is the doctor?’

‘Calm down, Marietta. It’s only a bit of a turn.’ His voice was a thread, but his blue-tinted lips turned up in a small smile.

‘I know, I know, but we can’t be too careful.’

The doctor came—old Dr White, who attended her father on a regular basis. He was a tall, angular man, dressed from head to toe in black except for a stiff white collar trapped beneath his jawbone. He took his patient’s wrist and placed his ear to his chest and whispered to Marietta that he didn’t like the sound of it, but to keep him warm and feed him nourishing broth and custard.

‘Give him this draught to help him sleep and I’ll call again tomorrow.’ It was laudanum. ‘If you should need me, Miss Westwood, send one of the servants and I will come at once.’