Marianne

weal on Francis's left cheek. He sprang back, clapping his hand to his hurt face and drew it away wet with blood.

'Coward!' She spat at him between her teeth. 'I'll make you fight me! Defend yourself or by the memory of my mother whom you have insulted, I swear I'll pin you to the wall!'

A dark flush of anger swept over Francis's face. His grey eyes flamed. In that instant, Marianne read in them, naked and violent, the lust to kill. Seizing the sword which still lay on the table, he bore down on her, an evil glitter in his eye.

'Have it your own way, damn you!' He muttered.

With one swift movement, Marianne whipped off the long skirt of her riding habit which threatened to impede her movements and stood up in boots and breeches. In an instant, she was on guard. At the sight of those long, slim legs and hips, outlined with anatomical precision by the close-fitting silk, a twisted smile crossed Francis's face.

'Gad, what a shape. And there was I thinking this marriage had nothing more to offer! Why, a moment ago I'd quite made up my mind to kill you. Now, damme if I won't be satisfied with disarming you – or perhaps pinking you – very lightly – just enough to make you properly submissive to the exercise of my conjugal rights. There's nothing like a taste of the whip to tame a filly without breaking her spirit. I like my mounts to have some fire in their veins!'

Even as he spoke, he had engaged. A feverish flush was on his cheeks and a wild light in his eyes. For the first time, Marianne saw revealed the cruelty of that mouth from which she had looked only for kisses. As he fenced, Francis favoured her with a detailed description of what lay in store for her when he had her at his mercy. Confronted with the blazing contempt of this seventeen year old girl, all vestiges of shame or self restraint were stripped from him and sheer hatred made him determined, at all costs, to bend her to his will.

Sunk in her own misery and loathing, Marianne heard without properly understanding, without even really listening to his words. The wonderful picture she had built up of Francis was slowly and finally crumbling away, leaving in its place only a half-drunk man, whose handsome mouth spat out a stream of obscenity. And, insensibly, implacably, overcoming disgust, there came the renewed desire to kill.

But gradually, the odious voice fell silent and at the same time an expression of surprise replaced the anger on Francis's taut features, a surprise that was soon tinged with uneasiness. This slender, dark girl, with the defiant green eyes was fighting with the skill and address of an experienced duellist. There was no opening in that unwavering guard. The slender, bright blade seemed everywhere at once, multiplied a hundred, a thousand times by Marianne's supple wrists. The girl fought like a tigress, continually circling her opponent, changing her guard a dozen times. The foils rang together ominously, meeting faster and faster as Marianne forced Francis Cranmere to a killing pace.

Like all the prince's circle, young Lord Cranmere was a keen sportsman and accounted an excellent blade. All the same, he had his work cut out to defend himself against the lithe green-clad figure darting into the attack from all quarters at once, yet never, for all that, failing to parry adroitly in defence of her own skin. Not a muscle stirred in the lovely face but Francis could tell from the fierce light in her eye how deeply she relished this moment. He had a disagreeable sensation that she was playing with him. At the same time, his throat constricted with sudden desire. She had never seemed to him so lovely, so desirable. The excitement of the fight had put colour in her smooth cheeks, a rosiness on her lips. Her fine linen shirt, soaked now with sweat so that it clung alluringly to her body, was open at the throat, giving promise of the rich swell of her breasts.

Enraged to find himself thus held at bay by one he had regarded as no more than a pretty, love-sick goose and eager to make an end, the sooner to enjoy her, Francis lost his head and began to make mistakes. There was, in addition, the fatigue of a heavy night at cards and the fumes of alchohol misting his brain. Marianne saw this and redoubled her agility. Francis lunged, aiming for a decisive thrust. She parried by a hair's-breadth and then, slipping with a quick, snake-like movement under her adversary's blade, thrust home. Her point buried itself in Francis's breast.

The young man's grey eyes widened with a look of enormous surprise. The sword slipped from his suddenly loosened grasp and clattered to the floor. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came, only a gout of blood which dribbled down his chin. He crumpled where he stood and, slowly, Marianne drew out her sword. She let it fall, without even thinking to wipe it, and went on her knees beside the wounded man. His eyes were already clouding. Her throat tightened and suddenly she wanted to cry. Her hatred had left her now that he was dying.

'You did me a great wrong, Francis – I am avenged. Now, die in peace. I have forgiven you.'

From beneath half-closed lips his eyes sought for her and his hand groped to touch her. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

'A pity,' he murmured. 'I could – have loved you—'

He closed his eyes with a groan. It was then, as she still knelt by him, Marianne heard a fearful shriek behind her.

'My God! Francis—'

Marianne turned quickly and was just in time to jerk herself backwards to avoid being knocked down by Ivy as she cast herself sobbing onto the lifeless body. She had not heard the door open or seen the other girl enter. How long had Francis's cousin been there? How much had she heard? Marianne looked down at the graceful form, prostrate amid the swirling folds of her white gown, and frowned, wondering at the violence of her grief. Ivy was clasping Francis's body and uttering whimpering cries, like a wounded animal, out of all proportion in Marianne's estimation with the natural grief to be felt for a mere cousin. But she had little time to wonder before Ivy rounded on her, her face streaked with tears and rendered unrecognizable by grief and malice.

'This is your doing, I suppose,' she said fiercely. 'You found out at last that he did not love you, that he could not love you – and so you killed him! It wasn't enough for you to bear his name, to be his wife before the world, to have the right to serve him—'

'Serve him? You are out of your mind!' Marianne's lip curled scornfully. 'The women of my house do not serve! As for this man, I killed him in fair fight! There are two swords—'

'But only one has blood on it! You jealous little French slut, you knew it was me he loved and you could not endure it!'

'He loved you?' Marianne was genuinely astonished.

Ivy St. Albans's lovely face was transfigured with the fearful joy of flinging the searing truth in the teeth of her hated rival.

'He was my lover! For months now we have been united, body and soul. He would have married me, but neither he nor I had money. Then you turned up, you and your old fool of an aunt. It was just what we needed, a pair of silly women who asked nothing better than to drop a fortune at his feet. It was child's play for Francis to win you. Everything went off as he had hoped, better even since the old woman had the sense to die and leave you everything! But then you guessed, didn't you, that he meant to keep you tucked away down here in the country while he lived with me in London, with me and your money! It was that you could not stand—'

Marianne listened in amazement to this eruption of fury and hatred. Horrified, she saw at last the cynical calculation, of which she had been the object, and cold-blooded way in which these two had coolly set about playing on her own innocence and her aunt's goodness. Even more than the insult, which had already been wiped out, it was the contemptuous way this creature dared to speak of her aunt's memory that roused her anger.

'You would not have enjoyed my fortune for long,' she said coldly. 'Your precious Francis lost it all tonight; the little of his own he had left and everything I brought him. The master of Selton Hall at this moment is Jason Beaufort!'

The news struck Ivy like a thunderbolt. Her fine blue eyes dilated, her jaw dropped and a deathly pallor spread over her face.

'All – the whole fortune?'

'All! I have nothing left but my honour, and even that he dared dispose of. He deserved to die, you see! I could have shot him down, from behind, like a mad dog or stabbed him in the back. I gave him a chance. He lost. The worst for him.'

'And for you, also. You killed him, you shall hang!' Ivy screamed, no longer able to contain her fury. 'I shall testify against you! You dared to strike him, you, who should have been too happy just to be his humble slave! But you are forgetting the Prince of Wales. The prince is his friend and he will not let your crime go unpunished. I am