Georgie Lee – Miss Marianne's Disgrace (страница 1)
‘If you agree to come here and play the piano for me I can create another story.’
He smiled with all the charisma he employed to woo patrons in London, hoping she wouldn’t dismiss the idea outright.
She laced her arms beneath her breasts and stepped back, the cynical schoolmarm returning. ‘And what instrument do you hope I’ll play afterwards? I’m not Madame de Badeau, a woman to be hired as a mistress.’
He didn’t blame her for being cautious. Once he’d achieved fame, the number of people he could trust had shrunk significantly.
‘I don’t want a mistress but a muse.’
It was difficult to look at her and not think of twining his hands in her golden hair, tasting her pink lips as they parted beneath his and freeing those glorious breasts from their prim confines. He’d better not concentrate on them if he wanted to win her co-operation and keep himself free from distraction and bankruptcy.
‘I need you.’
My inspiration for Sir Warren came from reading about Sir Walter Scott, the famous novelist, and from medical history.
Scott teetered on the verge of losing everything he’d earned when he became entangled in a publishing scheme and sank into crippling debt. He was determined to pay it off through his writing, and achieved his goal mere months before he died. Unlike Scott, Sir Warren’s near bankruptcy is the result of another’s scheming, but his desire to pay back investors on his own is similar to Sir Walter Scott’s. I modelled Priorton on Scott’s beloved Abbotsford.
Sir Warren’s background as a Navy surgeon was inspired by my research for a historic battlefield medicine class that I teach. Life as a Navy surgeon in the time before anaesthesia was bloody and nerve-racking, and it seemed like a good way to torture an artistic soul.
Through their burgeoning love Marianne and Warren help each other overcome their pasts and build a future together. I hope you enjoy
Miss Marianne’s Disgrace
Georgie Lee
A lifelong history buff, GEORGIE LEE hasn’t given up hope that she will one day inherit a title and a manor house. Until then she fulfils her dreams of lords, ladies and a Season in London through her stories. When not writing, she can be found reading non-fiction history or watching any film with a costume and an accent. Please visit georgie-lee.com to learn more about Georgie and her books.
To all the writers who struggle through challenges
to achieve their goals.
Contents
England, September 1820
The crack of shattering porcelain cut through the quiet. Miss Marianne Domville whirled around to see Lady Ellington, Dowager Countess of Merrell, on the floor amid shards of a large chinoiserie bowl. Moments ago the bowl had been resting on the edge of a table while Lady Ellington had walked about the room, admiring the Italian landscapes adorning the panelling.
‘Lady Ellington!’ Marianne rushed to her companion. ‘Are you all right?’
Mrs Stevens, their new friend, knelt on the Dowager’s other side. Together, they helped Lady Ellington to sit up. Next to her lay a large sliver of the broken bowl, the razor-sharp edge rimmed with red from where it had sliced Lady Ellington’s upper arm.
‘I—I don’t know,’ Lady Ellington stammered. She clasped the wound as blood seeped through her fingers and ran down over the elbow to stain the top of her satin gloves. ‘I tripped on something and somehow knocked the bowl to the floor when I fell.’
‘Let me see.’ Marianne tried to look at the injury, but Lady Ellington twisted away.
‘You needn’t fuss so much,’ she chided in a shaky voice. ‘It’s just a scratch, nothing more.’
‘Then allow us to examine it.’ Mrs Stevens reached over and gently peeled Lady Ellington’s fingers away from the wound. Her lips tightened as she studied the wide and bleeding cut.
‘This needs immediate attention.’ She pressed her handkerchief over it.
Lady Ellington winced and a fine perspiration spread out beneath the line of her light-blonde hair streaked with grey.
‘Will she be all right?’ Marianne asked as the embroidery on the linen blurred with red. One of her schoolmates at the Protestant School in France had cut herself this deeply. It had become inflamed and she’d gone from a lively child to resting in the churchyard in the space of two weeks. For all Marianne’s misfortunes, none would equal losing Lady Ellington.
‘Of course,’ Mrs Stevens reassured in a motherly tone. ‘But the wound must be closed. Fetch my son. He used to be a naval surgeon. He’ll see to it.’
‘But he wasn’t at dinner.’
‘He came in after we withdrew and is probably with the men. Go quickly. I’ll stay with Lady Ellington.’
Marianne rose on shaky legs and walked in a fog of worry out of the study. She turned down one hall, then paused. The heavy sauce from the fish course twisted in her stomach. This wasn’t the way. As she doubled back, the sweep of her footsteps on the carpet dulled the panicked thud of her pulse in her ears. She hadn’t paid much attention when she’d followed the ladies to the study after leaving the sitting room. She’d been too busy fuming over Miss Cartwright’s snide comments to concentrate on what turns they’d made to reach the distant room.
‘Where’s a footman when you need one?’ They’d been as thick as fleas along the wall at dinner and in the sitting room afterwards. Now there wasn’t even a lowly maid scraping out ashes in any of the empty rooms flanking the hall. Lady Ellington might bleed to death before Marianne found her way back to the other guests.
No, she’ll be fine. All I need to do is find Mr Stevens.
She turned a corner and the door to the wide front sitting room came into view. She exhaled with relief and rushed towards it, careful not to run. She didn’t want to fly into a fit of worry, not with Lady Ellington relying on her to keep a level head. Hopefully, the men hadn’t lingered in the dining room.
No such luck.
The women looked up from around the card table as Marianne stepped into the doorway. Their faces were no warmer or more welcoming then when she’d left them fifteen minutes ago.
‘Can we help you, Miss Domville?’ Lady Cartwright drawled, as if it hurt her to be polite.
‘Lady Ellington has injured herself and is in need of help. I must find Mr Stevens.’