When Marrying a Duke.... Helen Dickson

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      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.

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