She couldn’t believe her eyes when she recognised Max Trevellyan approaching her.

Their eyes met and locked for a moment. Then Marietta’s opened wider and wider as she experienced astonishment and incredulity before brusquely recollecting herself. He was dressed in a well-worn tweed jacket and the pale sunlight fell across him, touching his thick dark hair. His silver-grey eyes were clear and alert.

For one dreadful moment she panicked, feeling an urgent desire to turn and run. For heaven’s sake—she was Marietta Westwood, afraid of nothing and no one. She almost did turn and run, but the fierce resolve with which she had been born and which had developed inside her since she was a child kept her rooted to the spot.

‘It’s you,’ she said frostily, on a calmer note—though her heart, for some bewildering reason, was beating quickly.

About the Author

HELEN DICKSON was born and lives in South Yorkshire, with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.

Previous novels by Helen Dickson:

THE DEFIANT DEBUTANTE

ROGUE’S WIDOW, GENTLEMAN’S WIFE

TRAITOR OR TEMPTRESS

WICKED PLEASURES

(part of Christmas By Candlelight) A SCOUNDREL OF CONSEQUENCE FORBIDDEN LORD SCANDALOUS SECRET, DEFIANT BRIDE FROM GOVERNESS TO SOCIETY BRIDE MISTRESS BELOW DECK THE BRIDE WORE SCANDAL DESTITUTE ON HIS DOORSTEP SEDUCING MISS LOCKWOOD MARRYING MISS MONKTON BEAUTY IN BREECHES MISS CAMERON’S FALL FROM GRACE THE HOUSEMAID’S SCANDALOUS SECRET*

*Castonbury Park Regency mini-series

And in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:

ONE RECKLESS NIGHT

AUTHOR NOTE

I loved writing WHEN MARRYING A DUKE …, detailing the trials and tribulations of my heroine, creating a larger than life hero and the woman who loves him. It is a love story, and the hard and fast rule of a romance writer—which is carved in stone—is that there must be a happy ending.

Reading is a tremendous joy to me—I read anything from historical romance and family sagas to thrillers and fantasy. I love to absorb myself in the stories, and feel a real sense of discovery with each new book. Foreign shores rarely feature in any of my books, so using Hong Kong as the location in the opening chapters of WHEN MARRYING A DUKE … was an unlikely setting for me to choose. I enjoyed researching this fascinating island.

While the setting of Hong Kong and the issues of the time are real, my characters are entirely fictitious.

When Marrying
a Duke…

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Prologue

Waking shortly after midnight and unable to go back to sleep, thinking a glass of milk might help to settle her, Marietta padded from her room. Yang Ling, her Chinese nurse, was asleep in a nearby bedroom, dreaming of the Chinese New Year that was upon them, and the visit she would make to her family to wish them well and good fortune in the year to come.

The night was moonless, a black quilt shrouding the hills of Hong Kong, but by the nuances and textures of the dark the girl was drawn towards the stairs. She moved quietly so as not to wake her parents, for she was ever conscious that her mother needed her rest. Ever since she had miscarried yet another child—three in total—her parents had slept in separate rooms, so Marietta was surprised to hear muffled voices coming from her mother’s bedroom. Something had changed. Marietta sensed it and shivered. Concerned because her mother was sobbing, thinking she might be ill, she paused, straining her ears to listen.

‘Leave me be, Monty,’ she wept. ‘You promised me there would be no more children.’

‘Don’t deny me, Amelia,’ her father’s pleading voice said. ‘Not now—not again. I can’t stand it.’

‘No, Monty. Don’t ask me to go through it again. When our last baby was born dead you gave me your word … that you wouldn’t …’

Her mother’s frantic pleas must have fallen on deaf ears because, apart from the creaking of the bed, there was silence. There was no one to see the swift shadow dart along the landing, the agile shape that fled silently back to her room. Scrambling into bed, Marietta pulled the covers up over her head to shut out any sounds she might hear. Confused by what she had heard and at nine years old still too innocent to understand what went on between a husband and his wife—only that whatever it was they did resulted in pain and suffering for her mother and another dead baby—afraid for her mother and desperately sorry for her father, she wept.

At breakfast the following morning, Monty Westwood experienced a sudden feeling of unease as his eyes met the steady gold-tinted green eyes of his young daughter sitting as still as a statue across from him. For one discomfiting moment it seemed that she was staring into the very heart of him, noting his faults and failings and measuring his guilt. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he reached for some toast, glancing down to spread it with butter. But he could not control the flush that rose to his cheeks, nor the slight trembling of the hand holding the knife. He was like a man caught red-handed in a felonious act.

Monty adored his daughter. She was vibrant and spirited, but now her eyes had a cold and knowing glint as she stared steadily back at him. She was accusing him without opening her mouth. She knew he had spent the night in her mama’s bed. She knew, even at her age, what might follow as a consequence of his lust for his wife—for any woman who was willing to accommodate him.

Five months after that night and pregnant yet again, Marietta’s mother went into labour. Everyone was too occupied to notice Marietta peering tentatively round the partly open door of her mother’s room. What she saw caused her heart to sink and her stomach to convulse. The bed was soaked with a quantity of blood around her mother’s body. Marietta knew she was dead. She was motionless, her face ashen, her eyes fixed for ever in a state of death.

Marietta took a backward step, her face blanching, her hand to her mouth, faltering so that she almost tripped over her own feet. Then she turned and fled the scene. Her mind had closed up, shutting itself against the sight of her mother. Her face was as blank as an unwritten page, all emotion having been driven deep within her, where it would fester for a long time to come.

Chapter One

With the sun shining out of a sky as blue as blue could be, a small, isolated knot of boisterous young people gathered to enjoy themselves at the horse racing at Happy Valley on the island of Hong Kong, which was a major trading post of the British empire. They were the sons and daughters of businessmen, merchants and bankers, all enjoying the freedom and entertainments to be had on this tiny island, the Sovereign British Territory off the Chinese coast populated by Westerners and Chinese immigrants.

‘I honestly swear that if I have to sit and talk to those frumpish old tabbies I shall die of boredom,’ Marietta declared sharply, observing the group of stiff-backed ladies all sporting a colourful array of flowered and feathered hats and bonnets on their coiffed heads seated on a veranda overlooking the racecourse. Young married women who no longer mixed with their unmarried friends, being excluded from the excitement and demure flirtation, were seated in chairs beneath the shade of the trees. ‘Promise me, Oliver, that if such a thing should occur, you will have the goodness to rescue me.’ Smoothing her skirts, she sighed in a way that displayed a very fetching dimple. ‘I beg of you if you value our friendship.’

Glancing down into Marietta’s wide olive-green eyes flecked with golden lights, Oliver Schofield would have forfeited both his feet to do her bidding. ‘I give you my word,’ he replied adoringly. ‘You know perfectly well I would do anything you asked me to do, Marietta.’

Oliver Schofield was a good-looking young man, just one of several who hung around the group of pretty girls. They were like a cloud of bright butterflies beneath light and colourful parasols. Their fashionable wide skirts of palest pink, light-blue, lemon and creamy white, pleated and flounced in delicate tulle and chiffon and muslin, swung and swayed and dipped to reveal their shoes and the lower part of their white stockinged legs.

With a gay and uncritical nature, Marietta Westwood outshone all the other girls and was the most sought after among these bright young things. Having spent a great deal of her time with her father and allowed to do very much as she pleased, at seventeen she possessed an active mind, a lively wit and an amazing tendency to think for herself.

As a child, as soon as she had stepped off the ship she had been enchanted with the tiny island of Hong Kong. She loved life in the colony—the picnics, regattas and parties, where she waltzed and polkaed the night away. She was just one of a civilised society, if one could ignore the heat and humidity of the South China seas and the suffocating stuffiness of the Europeans. Sporting their beards and whiskers and top hats and waistcoats and woollen suits as if they were in London, they would never dream of succumbing to the natural elements of the colony—unlike her father, who favoured wide-brimmed hats and cool linen suits, which gave him a crumpled air.

Marietta moved towards Oliver with the lightness of step of a fawn. She was naturally cautious, like one who suspects there is a delightful danger ahead, but is prepared nevertheless to enjoy it. She smiled at him beautifully.

‘I know I can rely on you, Oliver—always the gallant one and so sweet, that’s what you are.’ Taking his arm, she drew him to one side, leaning forwards so that only he could hear what she said. ‘You haven’t forgotten our outing tomorrow, have you? You said you would take me with you to the native quarter.’

His face fell. ‘No, Marietta, I can’t.’

‘But you promised!’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

Her lips forming a petulant pout, Marietta gave an indignant toss of her head. ‘Then I’ll never speak to you again. I swear I won’t.’

‘It’s not that I don’t wish to take you with me,’ Oliver said, goaded, ‘but the native quarter is not a fit place for a young English girl to visit. It’s not safe. Besides, your father would never consent to it.’

‘He won’t be here. He’s leaving for Kowloon tonight and won’t be back until the day after tomorrow. Besides, what possible harm can come to me in your company?’ she added mischievously.

Oliver shrugged. ‘I warn you, Marietta, it can be awfully dull. There can be little of interest for you there.’

Marietta lifted her chin. ‘I will be the judge of that. But since you seem to be averse to my company, I shall not trouble you nor hold you to your promise. Perhaps some other gentleman will be more willing to accompany me instead.’

‘Come, Marietta, you need not take that attitude with me,’ Oliver said in a more conciliatory manner. ‘The fact is you misunderstand my reluctance to take you with me.’ He hesitated, then went on in a low voice, ‘I would not wish it to reach your father’s ears that I have taken his daughter to purchase opium supplies—on behalf of a friend of mine, you understand, who is unable to go himself. I have the address of a merchant and I plan to visit him tomorrow.’

She stared at him. It all seemed so terribly exciting. ‘Are you afraid you can’t trust me? Is that why you won’t take me? I promise I will be all discretion if that’s what worries you.’

Oliver shrugged. ‘I see I am outwitted and shall have to give in to your wishes. But you must promise not to tell anyone, Marietta.’

With a sense of adventure and eager to explore Hong Kong’s China Town, Marietta’s eagerness increased. ‘Of course you may trust me,’ she exclaimed. ‘Though you really need not fear my father’s disapproval, for he has told me himself that he has the greatest faith in opium as a medicinal cure for everything from the most serious illness to toothache. I do know some people abuse it, but one has to be sensible about these things. I am already a convert to it since it was opium that Yang Ling gave me in the posset to cure a fever I had last month.’

Privately Oliver doubted if Marietta’s father would approve of the use he planned to make for the drug, but he wouldn’t express his doubts to Marietta. He wished he’d been firmer with his refusal to take her, but when Marietta turned her big, dark green eyes on him, resolutions were apt to vanish. He was happy enough to have her smiling at him again and told her he hadn’t doubted her for a moment. Some people had prejudices and misconceptions about opium smoking, but since she wasn’t one of these killjoys, he would be happy to take her to the native quarter.

Thanking him prettily and arranging to meet him the following morning, Marietta turned her attention to Julian Fielding, who was holding the reins of Oliver’s horse and seated atop his own. Suddenly she had what she considered to be a brilliant idea to spark up the afternoon. Spinning on her heel, she sprinted towards Oliver’s horse and with a fluency that caught the eye, she hoisted herself up into the saddle, her legs astride the huge gelding.

Emma, a petite brunette and Marietta’s best friend, in a flurry of pink taffeta and bouncing ringlets, moved to stand beside Oliver. ‘Oh dear! Whatever do you think Marietta is planning to do now?’ she enquired, knowing that whatever it was, her friend was about to make a freak of herself cavorting on the back of Oliver’s horse.

Oliver sighed, resigned as always to Marietta’s reckless escapades. ‘She will do whatever she wants to do—which is what she always does, Emma.’

‘Come along, Julian,’ Marietta urged with a shout of laughter, hearing the smattering of giggles as the group looked on and encouraged by it. ‘Let’s you and me have a little race of our own. To that post at the end of the green and back—and I bet I win.’

With a gentle kick at the horse’s flanks with her heels and firing an amused glance over her shoulder at her friends, while feeling the force of the ancient ladies’ unwavering scandalised cold stares, their faces taut with disapproval on the veranda, with her skirts ballooning behind her she was off, with Julian, always game for anything, tearing after her.

Their horses’ hooves thundered over the hard green turf. All the way to the post they were neck and neck, and not until they turned for home did Marietta pull ahead, finishing a length ahead of Julian. Unfortunately her horse was going so fast she had to pull up sharply, causing the animal to stumble on a raised hillock and tossing her over its head. After flying through the air, in a tangle of flounces and frills and furbelows as her skirts were upflung, she landed on the ground. Unhurt and laughing happily despite the loss of her dignity—for she was the victor after all—she scrambled to her feet.

‘Dear God in heaven,’ she heard someone exclaim in a furious voice, his temper roused, not at all pleased at being almost knocked off his feet. ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going, you stupid girl? You might have caused a serious accident.’

Marietta hadn’t seen him at first. She was too busy trying to regain her balance, but she did feel a crackle in the air and perceived the unnatural silence when it fell among her chirruping friends. As she stood, with her nerves jangling like wind chimes in a typhoon, her heart began to beat unaccountably faster when she found herself confronted by the formidable Lord Trevellyan and his beautiful wife, Nadine, who had been forced to halt when she tumbled right in front of them.

Marietta was for once speechless. He was surely the finest man that ever was. Meeting his silver-grey eyes, she felt herself instantly redden with pleasure.

‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ Lord Trevellyan demanded, his voice about as friendly as cold steel, not quite done with chastising her.

The icy tone of his voice checked any wayward thoughts Marietta might have concerning Lord Trevellyan. Having halted in a small puddle left over from the previous day’s rain, she saw that Oliver’s horse had splashed mud on to Lord Trevellyan’s shiny black shoes.

‘Oh dear!’ she put in hastily. Able to see the funny side of the incident, she tried to stifle her mirth, but on seeing the look of unconcealed displeasure on Lord Trevellyan’s face as he looked down at his shoes, her mirth threatened to erupt into hilarity. ‘It really was an accident,’ she began defensively, ‘but I fear I’ve made rather a mess of your shoes …’

Lord Trevellyan’s voice stopped her in mid-sentence. ‘Never mind my shoes. My advice to you, Miss Westwood, is that you learn to ride a horse of that size before getting on to its back.’

Lord Trevellyan was at his most forbidding following yet another bitter altercation with his beautiful wife. The mocking smile on his lips did nothing to make Marietta feel better, although, had she but known, it was himself he was mocking, for Miss Westwood was renowned for her outrageous antics and having witnessed her unblushing display of riding a horse that would have horrified every strait-laced lady who’d borne witness, he grudgingly conceded that she was a refreshing sight in the circumstances.

From a distance he had watched her galloping at breakneck pace with the daredevil recklessness of youth. With her face pressed close to the horse’s mane, a jubilation, there was a simplicity in the way she rode, as if she were one with her mount, confident, trusting and elated. At a glance she was one of the most fearless, skilled riders he’d ever seen mounted—man or woman—and he would love to see her over jumps. Her legs had been displayed to almost immoral advantage by the lifting of her skirts as she had ridden the gelding, golden ribbons around her slender waist that would require no subterfuge to make it appear smaller, flying jauntily behind her. Not until she was almost on top of him had she hauled the horse to a smart stop, and at the same time the horse had tossed her over his head.

Marietta looked at him with eyes that seemed to change through all the shades of green beneath the fringe of long, sooty lashes. Her hair—piles of shining rich mahogany-brown hair—had come loose of its pins during her reckless ride to beat her opponent. Drawing herself up, she set her bonnet at a ridiculous angle atop curls as undisciplined as she was, the ribbon streamers dancing this way and that. Immediately she launched into an apology.

Unimpressed, Max listened to her. The fact that this dratted girl had disrupted his day annoyed him intensely. It was not the first time they had met. He had noticed her vaguely at several events. All the other girls of her age were demure and for the most part kept their eyes cast down, whereas Miss Westwood always stared directly at those she was speaking to, looking about her with a keen and lively interest, her eyes bright with expectancy.

She showed none of the restraint impressed into young girls of good family. It would seem that when Miss Westwood conjured up some new escapade, she set about it with the determination and tactical brilliance of a female Napoleon Bonaparte. The ladies of the island heaped the blame for her undisciplined behaviour on Monty Westwood, of course, for allowing his daughter too much freedom to do as she liked. Max was apt to agree with them.

Based on that sweet pleading look she was giving him, she was apparently hoping he’d be as stupidly susceptible to her appeal as everyone else. Instead, Lord Trevellyan raked her with an insultingly condescending glance from the top of her gloriously tousled hair to the tips of her feet.

‘Of all the brazen, outrageous stunts I have ever seen, yours, Miss Westwood, beats the lot. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to behave?’ he asked contemptuously. He saw her flinch, but he went on, his voice penetrating. ‘I believe you have been in the colony long enough to know its protocol and that young ladies do not go around flaunting themselves as you have just done. Have you lost all sense of propriety?’

Marietta hesitated. Thinking he would accept her explanation ceased to be tenable. She knew that Lord Trevellyan was a man who was used to giving orders, but she too had learned something, which was not to look abashed when she felt it. Her mirth having disappeared, she threw back her shoulders, lifted her head and met his eyes with a fiercely direct stare, unafraid and absolutely uncowed, the action telling him quite clearly that she was neither sorry nor ashamed of her behaviour.

‘I was not flaunting myself, Lord Trevellyan. I was doing no wrong. I took a tumble, that is all.’

‘And almost knocked my wife and myself to the ground in the process.’

‘I have said I am sorry, I can do no more than that.’ She looked into his wife’s exquisite face. ‘Lady Trevellyan, may I offer my sincere apologies for my clumsiness and for speaking so impulsively?’

‘Yes, you may and apology accepted. Everyone who rides comes off at some time—why, even my husband has been known to take the odd tumble,’ Nadine said, casting a cynical eye at the darkly scowling face of her husband before looking again at Marietta. ‘You’re not injured, I hope?’

‘No—thank you for asking,’ Marietta replied, her lips curving into a bright smile. ‘I bounce pretty well.’

‘Next time be sure to keep hold of the reins,’ Lord Trevellyan snapped.

Marietta’s smiled vanished. ‘Can I help it if the horse was fresh and I could not hold him?’ she countered.

Lord Trevellyan’s brows snapped together over dangerously irritable eyes as he stared down at the rebellious girl. ‘You’ve a sharp tongue, Miss Westwood,’ he said, his voice silky, but his eyes narrowed in the menacing fashion over which he appeared to have no control, ‘and you are also an impertinent, spoilt, undisciplined child. Your father would have done us all a service—including yourself—if he’d turned you over his knee when you were of an age for him to do so.’

Stung, Marietta fumed, her green eyes almost black with temper. ‘And by the tone of your voice, my lord, I imagine that you would gain immense pleasure in delivering the punishment yourself.’

‘What a delightful idea,’ he replied grimly.

Lord Trevellyan’s rebuke was so unexpected, so public, so intense as to be offensive. He didn’t even have the good manners to help her to her feet or enquire if she was hurt, unlike his wife. Marietta’s face went scarlet and her precarious control snapped. ‘How dare you say that to me? Is this how you talk when you are bullying the people you do business with?’ She was tempted to include his long-suffering wife, but thought she’d better not.

Glancing at the blonde-haired woman by his side, not for the first time she thought how enchanting she was. She was so beautiful Marietta always found it difficult to tear her gaze from her. Dressed in the height of fashion, she had a slender body and the magnetism of a woman who is confident of her own beauty without being obsessed by it. Her poise was to be admired as she stood serenely by her husband’s side. Acutely aware of her own dishevelled appearance, Marietta pushed her hair back from her face and brushed the dust from her skirt. She returned her gaze to Lord Trevellyan, her anger not appeased.

‘And how dare you call me a spoilt child?’ she retorted indignantly. ‘As well you know, I am the daughter of a gentleman of some note on the island and you should treat me with more respect.’

Lord Trevellyan scowled gravely, though Marietta suspected him of a strong desire to laugh at her, to mock her.

‘Respect is something that must be earned, Miss Westwood, and from what I have just witnessed, you have a long way to go before you can do so.’

In his mind this could also be applied to her father, for there were many on the island who would dispute his daughter’s use of the word gentleman where Monty Westwood was concerned.

It would never occur to her that her father and his partner were two of several traders in the colony whose shady endeavours were of professional interest. But he would not sully the sensitive ears of a seventeen-year-old girl with the disgusting truth about her adored father’s illicit dealings in the opium trade.

The Chinese had banned opium from its territories, but it was smuggled into Hong Kong from India covertly, increasing the addiction of the Chinese to the drug. He was convinced that Miss Westwood’s knowledge about the drug went no further than it being a very effective medicine. And, he thought, when he considered the misery it caused, long may she continue to do so.

‘You don’t know me, Lord Trevellyan, so you have no right to say that. And I have apologised to you—and your wife—which you would have heard had you taken the wool out of your ears.’

Max wasn’t accustomed to being answered back and was taken aback at her remark. One dark brow lifted over an amused silver-grey eye, before he checked himself and his lips curled scornfully across his even white teeth. ‘It sounded more like an excuse than an apology to me,’ he replied crisply, wondering what the hell he was doing arguing with her. Hearing the sound of youthful laughter, he glanced beyond her, noting the boisterousness of her group. ‘It’s certainly a wayward bunch you are with.’

‘These are my friends, actually,’ Marietta snapped defensively.

‘I think everybody would be obliged if they’d restrain their enthusiasm,’ he remarked, glowering beneath ferociously dipping eyebrows.

‘Why? We are just having some perfectly harmless fun.’ Snatching her bonnet off her head, she assumed an appearance of remote indifference as she turned her back on Lord Trevellyan and his wife and haughtily flounced back to her friends.

‘I say, Marietta!’ Oliver remarked, astounded and full of admiration for the way she had stood up to the formidable Lord Trevellyan. ‘You gave him what for.’

‘He deserved it,’ she remarked haughtily. ‘The man is arrogant, high-handed and quite despicable.’ Every word she uttered she believed was true, but if so, why was she drowning in an ocean of mortification? Why couldn’t she have walked away instead of arguing with Lord Trevellyan, which was what any well brought-up, self-respecting young lady would have done.

Marietta had first seen Lord Trevellyan at a musical tea party being held at a prominent merchant’s house. Her eyes had been caught by the handsome man who was a stranger in their midst. In contrast to the bored languor of other gentlemen present, he moved with an easy grace that expressed confidence, which sat on him lightly but with a strength of steel. His manner was authoritative, his tall frame positively radiating raw power and the kind of unleashed sensuality her best friend Emma was always talking about.

His charm was evident in his lazy white smile and there was an aura about him of danger and excitement that stirred her young and impressionable heart. Marietta thought it was an aura that women would find exciting and which would add tremendously to his attraction—indeed, every woman present seemed to be aware of his presence. But he appeared not to notice the smiles showered on him. His eyes looked cool and restless, his expression restrained and guarded. It was as if he were fed up with the whole occasion, which made Marietta suspect that he would very much like to be somewhere else.

As she’d continued to look at him she’d only become more aware of him as a man. She was motionless. There seemed to be a warmth, a hidden fervour of feeling, as if her whole being had been stirred and some change were taking place in its very depths. All at once she wanted desperately to make this fine gentleman notice her, to dazzle him with her wit and brilliance, while he had probably seen her merely as some silly schoolgirl.

Her eyes had continued to follow him until, unable to stand the suspense of not knowing who he was any longer, she asked her father.

‘Who is that man, Papa—the tall man with the black hair? I can’t say that I’ve seen him before.’

‘That—Oh! Max Trevellyan—Lord Trevellyan. He’s also a member of the British aristocracy—a duke, no less, but when he’s in Hong Kong he prefers to leave his title at home in England. That’s his wife, Nadine, a nice young woman and very beautiful, as you can see.’

‘Wife? Oh, I see.’ And Marietta did see. She’d been swamped with disappointment. Lady Trevellyan was perhaps the loveliest woman she had ever seen as she’d watched her walk across the room to her husband’s side. Her hair was blonde, her face exquisite, and she was poised, her slender figure swaying beneath the silk and lace of her dress when she moved. When she looked at her husband her lips were smiling, her eyes half-closed. Marietta recognised something in the charm of her attitude that caused a strange disquiet to fall on her.

After that occasion, even though her eyes sought Lord Trevellyan out, she always remained at a distance. Once they were introduced, but he took no more notice of her than he would any seventeen-year-old girl.

Marietta’s home was a substantial mansion high up on the Peak, which, overlooking the busy harbour and Kowloon, attracted prominent European residents because of its temperate climate compared to the subtropical heat in the rest of Hong Kong.

She had been born in England. Her father had come to Hong Kong after the Charter Act had opened the China trade to independent enterprise. Before that, taking advantage of the fashion craze for Kashmir shawls, which were a prized possession for any woman who could afford to buy them, and aware of the commercial opportunity, he’d made his fortune importing shiploads from India to Europe and America. Before long he was trading in other commodities from India—sumptuous goods, luxurious and exotic. It was in India that he’d met Teddy and they’d formed a partnership.

Arriving at the house, Marietta encountered Teddy on the veranda—the debonair Teddy Longford, a lady’s man who oozed charm and flattery. He was sitting in a bamboo chair with a cigar in one hand and a brandy in the other, his long legs stretched out in front of him. On seeing her he smiled a welcome.

‘Ah, here you are. Your father was wondering where you’d got to. I feel I must warn you that he’s not in the best of moods, having heard of your escapade at Happy Valley.’

‘Oh dear,’ Marietta said ruefully. ‘I was hoping he wouldn’t have found out about it. I thought I’d see you there.’

‘Not today. I had other fish to fry.’ A warm gleam lit up his brown eyes.

Marietta laughed, giving him a knowing look. ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself, Teddy. Do I know the lady?’ she said teasingly.

He lifted a dark, winged brow, his lips twitching with humour. ‘I very much doubt it—but she’s a looker all right.’ Taking a long draw on his cigar, he squinted at her through the smoke. ‘Are you looking forward to the New Year celebrations?’ he asked, referring to the forthcoming event to be held at Government House.

‘Very much. What about you, Teddy? Will you be there?’

‘Naturally. Your father and I have a very important lady to escort.’

‘Then how could I resist two such handsome escorts?’ Marietta laughed, dancing off to placate her father.

Lord Trevellyan’s rebuke for her inappropriate behaviour had done nothing but inflame Marietta’s smouldering resentment towards him, but when confronted by her father’s state of agitation over her escapade, she felt a deep remorse for causing him such anxiety. Her first idea of slipping to her room to change her clothes was instantly discarded when she saw how pale he was.

Upright and decisive, Monty Westwood was a tall man with thinning fair hair and mutton-chop whiskers. His olive-green eyes were flecked with gold—a feature his daughter had inherited. He was a handsome man, though his flesh wasn’t as firm as it had once been, but he’d lost none of his ability to charm the ladies, although of late Marietta had noticed he’d lost weight and his tan had become an unhealthy yellow.

For a long time now Marietta had begun to suspect he wasn’t well—although if he wasn’t he would never talk to her about it. He did not burden his daughter with his own worries, for there were some things he might have talked about, but didn’t. His eyes held a faraway look and his pupils were often dilated. Of course he drank too much, but then everyone in Hong Kong drank too much and many suffered from damaged livers.

Marietta loved her father passionately. He was the only person in the world she did love—the only person she had loved since the death of her mother.

‘Please don’t worry about me, Papa. Here I am, safe and sound. I am sorry to have caused a fuss and I hope you are not too cross with me. I’m sorry. I know my behaviour doesn’t reflect well on you.’

Relief at seeing his daughter unharmed following her tumble caused the blood to return to Monty’s cheeks and he gave rein to his feelings. ‘You naughty child, Marietta! What have you been doing? Ever since Mrs Schofield called I have been so anxious.’

Marietta grimaced. ‘Oliver’s mother! I might have known she would seek you out to inform you of my latest misdemeanour. She hates it that Oliver and I are such good friends.’

Having stopped off at his club for a reviving drink after extensive negotiations with business associates at his office, which had taken up most of the day, Monty had arrived home to find Mrs Schofield—a tiresome busybody who minded everyone’s business but her own—waiting in the hall to relate his daughter’s latest escapade. She had gone on to list all of Marietta’s shortcomings and insisted that he kept stricter control on her at all times.

It was one of those occasions when Monty felt a twinge of guilt over not having remarried, because it meant that Marietta had been left to the care of her amah, Yang Ling. Yang Ling was like all Chinese, industrious and cheerful, and Marietta was extremely fond of her. She acted as her companion and personal maid and accompanied his fun-loving daughter everywhere.

‘I thought you must have been injured,’ he went on. ‘As for Julian Fielding—it is singularly tiresome of him to cause so much trouble. I shall speak to his parents. He should not have ridden off with you like that. It was totally irresponsible—of you both,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Julian isn’t to blame. It isn’t his fault,’ Marietta said defensively. ‘It was my idea to race. I took a tumble on Oliver’s mount, that is all. I didn’t mean to make a scene and it was nothing serious. Unfortunately I happened to land at Lord Trevellyan’s feet and he was none too pleased.’

Monty glanced at her sharply, his interest peaked. Lord Trevellyan never failed to make a big impression on those he came into contact with. He had a clever financial brain and was possessed of one of the finest business minds he knew. As with everything in his life his business affairs were conducted like a well-oiled machine. Those he dealt with were in awe of him, regarding this cold, frighteningly unapproachable deity whom, because of his wealth and the benefits of being associated with such a clever, powerful man, they strove desperately to please.

‘So you have spoken to the formidable Lord Trevellyan.’

‘Yes—although what he had to say wasn’t at all pleasing. What does he do? Is he very rich?’

‘I’ve made a lot of money, Marietta—I won’t go into the intricacies of it because you wouldn’t understand—but the days of the small shipping businesses are over. This time belongs to financial wizards with money, power and authority—men like Lord Trevellyan with grand ambitions. It’s about economics and insurance and industrial development. What did he say to you?’

‘He gave me a dressing down for muddying his shoes.’

‘Then I can only assume that coming from Lord Trevellyan it was well deserved.’

‘I suppose it was. I tried to apologise. His wife was more forgiving, though. How does she put up with him? She has my sympathy. She’s very lovely, isn’t she, Papa?’

‘Yes, she is. But—things aren’t always what they appear to be on the surface.’

Marietta looked at him with sudden interest. ‘Why, what do you mean?’

‘Never mind,’ he said airily.

She didn’t ask him to explain, but it left her wondering.

Arriving at Marietta’s house the following morning, Oliver didn’t recognise the girl dressed in loose black trousers and a long-sleeved, green-and-yellow-patterned tunic, round-toed slippers and one thick pigtail hanging down her back waiting at the gate. She had pencilled thin kohl lines around her eyes to alter their shape. It took him a moment to realise it was Marietta, waiting for him to take her to the native quarter. He was about to walk past her and, seeing his intent, she broke out into peals of laughter. Failing to see what was so entertaining, Oliver turned and looked at her stiffly.

‘I had you there, Oliver. Did you not know me?’

‘Marietta!’ Oliver was deeply shocked. ‘Why are you dressed like that? And whose clothes are they?’

‘I’ve borrowed them from Yang Ling. You said yourself that the native quarter is not a fit place for an English girl to visit, which is why I’ve adopted this garb. It’s going to be such fun. No one will recognise me.’

‘Yang Ling? You have told Yang Ling?’ He sincerely hoped she hadn’t.

‘Of course not,’ Marietta laughed. ‘I wouldn’t dare. She is convinced that Europeans lose face by visiting the native quarter and she would have a fit if she were to find out. Now come along! We are wasting time and if we loiter any longer someone may see us and ask questions.’

Oliver wasn’t enthusiastic about taking Marietta in disguise to the native quarter, but saw no way of making this plain to her without throwing her into a tantrum which would draw unwelcome attention to them. So without another word, they set off on his proposed tour in a light carriage driven by a coolie and drawn by a skinny horse, instead of the more common mode of transport of sedan chairs, which were carried up and down the steep roads of the island. Neither the grilling heat, which beat down on her little flat hat with relentless force, nor Oliver’s attempts to tell her how she should behave when they reached the native quarter and that she must remain silent could dim her enthusiasm.

Their conveyance made good speed, eventually entering the seedy area of China Town, an area where not many respectable Westerners ventured. The streets were lined with shabby establishments with palm-leaf walls and thatched roofs. Bamboo curtains hung in doorways and Chinese writing was on boards dangling above buildings. The streets were narrow, steep and densely packed. The strong smell of hot oil mingled with spice, garlic and incense wafted above the general odours of dirt and decay. Washing was draped like bunting across the streets and heavily laden donkeys trundled along while barefoot children played.

At last the vehicle stopped in front of a large framed house with an open veranda. Marietta followed Oliver inside. The air was oppressive. Several men were taking their ease—Chinese and European—stretched out or sitting cross-legged on heaps of cushions with long pipes before them. The room into which they entered was dimly lit. Marietta’s eyes opened wide when from behind a beaded curtain two girls glided forwards. One had blue-black hair that was drawn back from a face that was pearl-like in its perfection and colour, with large slanting eyes. Her gown of crimson silk clung to her curves. The other girl was almost identical except that she was dressed in yellow. They stood in front of Oliver like dolls. They smiled with perfect teeth between plump red lips.

‘Who are they?’ Marietta whispered, never having seen Chinese women who looked like these.

‘The entertainment,’ Oliver replied, leaving it at that, not wishing to shock Marietta’s sensibilities by telling her the nature of the entertainment they performed.

Looking around the room lit by oil lamps, Marietta saw there were more girls, some so scantily clad as to be indecent. The crimson-clad woman sidled up to Oliver.

‘You likee me?’ she said, playing coy.

‘Yes, but not now.’

A portly middle-aged Chinese man with long moustaches drooping on either side of his small, fleshy mouth seemed to appear from nowhere, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He bowed respectfully.

‘May I present Tiger Lily and Jasmine. They are offering you their services with the magic of their exquisite bodies. They are skilful and will soothe your aches in some infinitesimal degree, but if their clumsiness is offensive, you should beat them for their correction and your pleasure.’

‘No,’ Oliver said. ‘I have not come for the girls, Mr Chang.’

Mr Chang accepted this and clapping his hands sharply, the girls melted into the background. He paid small interest to Marietta, who had her eyes cast down. Facing Oliver, he bowed in greeting while Marietta felt inordinately pleased with herself when his eyes passed over her without suspicion.

‘It is good to see you again, Mr Schofield,’ he said in silky tones as well as perfect English. ‘Will you honour me by accepting refreshment?’

‘I should be glad to, Mr Chang.’ Turning to Marietta, he said in quiet but firm tones, ‘Wait for me in the carriage. I’ll just be a few moments, but on no account wander off.’

Resentful at being so casually dismissed, but knowing better than to argue, Marietta returned to the carriage, expelling a sigh of exasperation on seeing the driver with his head bowed taking a nap. As time passed and Oliver did not return she became annoyed. The shadows were lengthening and the native quarter was beginning to wake from its afternoon torpor. Deciding she’d had enough, she stood up, then climbed down from the carriage and went back into the building to look for Oliver.

Like a moth blundering in the lamplight she stumbled over the cushions littering the floor. Eventually she saw Oliver. She was disappointed to find he had given in to the temptation to sample the wares. He was reclining on a pile of cushions with a pipe in his mouth, sucking in the vapour from a bowl held over the flame of a lamp, holding it in as long as possible, then slowly letting it out through his mouth. He was already on the blessed edges of oblivion, the strong narcotic having dulled his senses to forgetfulness and Marietta’s presence.

Angry that he could be so irresponsible, forgetful of her disguise, before he could take another pull from the pipe she snatched it from him and, placing her hands on his shoulders, shook him hard.

‘Oliver, wake up. Please pull yourself together.’

When he opened his eyes they were unfocused, his pupils just pinpricks in the centres of his irises.

‘Do not be alarmed.’ Mr Chang suddenly appeared silently behind her. ‘Your companion will wake soon and be none the worse for smoking the pipe.’ Turning his glittering black eyes on Marietta, he saw her more clearly. He opened his slit eyes a fraction wider. ‘Ah, you are English missee.’

‘Yes, I am English missee,’ she repeated crossly.

He moved closer and brushed her cheek. ‘And with skin like a peach. A treasure beyond price. You stay here, English missee. There are many who would pay handsomely for your company.’

Not so naïve that she didn’t know what he implied, she gasped. ‘How dare you? Despite what I look like, I am a respectable English girl and my father counts for something on the island. Be good enough to wake Mr Schofield and we will leave.’

Ignoring her, Mr Chang took her arm. ‘Not so hasty now, English missee.’

Beginning to get alarmed and feeling a sudden chill when she became aware of furtive figures lurking in the shadows, Marietta shook her arm free. ‘Do not touch me. I warn you that the British Consul knows of our whereabouts and you will be in serious trouble if you try to keep me here.’ Looking at Oliver, she saw him stir. ‘Oliver, wake up,’ she said sharply. ‘You must take me home at once.’

Seeming to remember where he was, Oliver thrust the pipe away. Shaking his head, he staggered to his feet, struggling to fight the opium fumes that fogged his brain. ‘Marietta! Oh God—forgive me—I quite forgot.’

‘Clearly.’ She raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘What a complete idiot I have been. I thought you had come to buy the drug for an acquaintance when all the time you wanted it for yourself.’

Swaying slightly, Oliver regarded her for a moment with a closed expression, then leaned in with a confidential whisper. ‘There you have me, Marietta. I will confess that I am here to purchase the narcotic for my own use. As you have witnessed yourself, I am rather fond of the odd pipe. It’s quite common, you know.’

‘I don’t dispute that, but how could you, Oliver?’ Marietta found the idea of smoking opium frightening. Her imagination was already vibrant. She was aware of what happened to people who took mind-altering substances, that it ruled its addicts with its weapons of need and distrust. Once in its grip, there was no escape. She sincerely hoped that, where Oliver was concerned, his indulgence in this particular vice was a passing phase. ‘Now pull yourself together for I think there is some villainy afoot. I think your Mr Chang wants to keep me here.’

Taking his arm, with great difficulty she managed get him on to the veranda, relieved when no one tried to stop them and ignoring the pipe smokers who rose and drifted away into the shadows.

‘Devil take it,’ Oliver mumbled, stumbling to his knees and grabbing at a post to keep himself from falling flat on his face. ‘I’m all at sea.’

‘It jolly well serves you right,’ Marietta scolded.

Suddenly a tall, lithe black-haired man materialised from across the street. ‘Get up, man,’ he retorted as he hoisted Oliver to his feet.

‘Thank you,’ Oliver muttered. ‘I am much obliged.’

Marietta’s head spun round on hearing the strong authoritative tones. Suddenly she wished the ground would open and swallow her up. She lowered her head to hide her face, for there was no one in the whole world she would so much dislike to discover her in this disguise as Lord Trevellyan.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Max demanded of Oliver.

Oliver’s eyes darted about, but he saw there was no escaping Lord Trevellyan’s interrogation. ‘I—came on behalf of a friend to collect a package, and before I knew …’

‘Like hell you did,’ Max ground out. ‘You knew what kind of establishment this is—that not only is it a house of ill repute, but that Chang deals in narcotics. If you are hell-bent on self-destruction, young man, you are going the right way about it.’

Marietta was about to move behind Oliver when a warm hand on her shoulder pulled her back and spun her round to face him.

‘Wait. Are you with him?’

Knowing there was no escape, Marietta raised her head and met his gaze, her eyes wide with horrified embarrassment. She saw astonished recognition in his eyes and tried to shrink away, but he held on to her shoulder, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.

‘Miss Westwood. Just as one might have expected. What an absolutely tiresome girl you are.’ She flinched before the exasperation in his voice. ‘I might have known—although I didn’t expect to meet you engaged in yet another mad escapade quite so soon. It leaves me wondering what the devil you’ll get up to next.’ He rounded angrily on Oliver. ‘Have you no sense? You must have known it was the height of dangerous folly to bring a young girl to a place such as this. Not only does Chang deal in opium, but slaves are his speciality—the younger the better, and the fairer the skin the higher the price.’

‘I hadn’t meant to bring her, but …’

‘She insisted.’ Max fixed his fierce gaze on Marietta. ‘Do you go out of your way to court danger and excitement? I suppose it’s pointless me asking if your father knows you are here?’

Marietta shook her head.

‘Then he should.’ He looked at Oliver with severe approbation. ‘It would be advisable for you to leave now, Mr Schofield. I’ll escort Miss Westwood home.’

Eager to be gone, Oliver didn’t raise any objections as he was hoisted up into the rickety carriage. Turning his attention to Marietta, Max took her arm and almost dragged her across the street to a waiting sedan chair.

‘Kindly take your hands off me,’ she snapped, angry and resentful of his interference. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere with you.’

‘That’s too bad. Get in.’

‘I most certainly will not.’

‘Shut up,’ he hissed, his voice like acid.

As he shoved her inside without gentleness, her ill-fitting shoe came off and dropped into the street. Cursing softly, he picked it up and thrust it into her hands. In a silky, dangerous voice, he said, ‘Be still. I am averse to leaving you to the mercy of an opium-soaked idiot.’

Clutching her shoe, taking judicious note of the taut set of his jaw and feeling the first tendril of fear coil in the pit of her stomach, Marietta did as she was told. She didn’t think she could escape and, anyway, she would only enrage him further. Besides, if she didn’t let him vent his wrath now, he would undoubtedly tell her father—which he would probably do anyway. She shot him a mutinous, measuring look. He looked dangerous and invincible. She already knew he had a vile temper. She judged from the ominous look in his silver-grey eyes that he was even now considering shaking her for her idiocy. Rather than give him the satisfaction, she sat frigidly in the sedan while he walked briskly along side.

Steeling herself to endure the journey home, she sat in angry silence all the way, relieved when the coolies carrying the sedan halted outside the gate. She scrambled out, impatient to be rid of her persecutor.

Chapter Two

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.’

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