Free Fenella Miller by A Dissembler

searched for somewhere to cast up her accounts—if she vomited all over his boots she would never recover from the humiliation. She spotted a bronze urn and snatched it up.
    ‘Good God! Not in there—it has a hole in the base. Hold on. I will open the window.’
    She felt a welcome draft of cool air as her head was unceremoniously shoved over the window ledge. Mercifully in time, as she lost the contents of her stomach harmlessly over the flowerbed that ran down the side of the house.
    ‘Good girl. Are you finished?’ She nodded, unable to speak, and he lifted her in and carried her to the armchair. ‘Sit there a moment and recover. Here, wipe your face on this.’
    A spotless handkerchief was thrust into her hand and she did as he instructed. She felt too weak to protest. She closed eyes and in the distance she could hear him speaking to someone.
    Then she sensed he was back by her side. She flinched as she felt his hand touch her cheek.
    ‘Open your eyes, you pea-goose. Look at me.’
    Obediently her eyes flickered open to find a matching pair staring back at her. He was crouching on the floor beside her, his expression friendly, his eyes amused. ‘I shall not strike you. Though I own it was a pretty close-run thing. Had you had not been ill…’ he paused and his mouth curved, revealing a set of even white teeth. ‘Well—that is past now. I have not struck a woman yet and I hope it may remain that way. How are you feeling? You are still a trifle pale.’
    ‘I am quite well, thank you, sir.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper because, for some reason, his proximity was making it difficult for her to speak.
    There was a tap at the door and he sprung to his feet. ‘Good, that will be the refreshments I ordered.’
    Marianne shuddered. Surely he was not going to insist she eat anything? That would be punishment indeed. She watched as a parlour maid placed a tray on the mahogany desk in the centre of the room.
    ‘Don’t look so worried, sweetheart, it is lemonade.’ He poured a glass and carried it over. ‘Here you are, it will take away the foul taste and restore you.’
    Reluctantly she took the glass and sipped. Her digestion threatened to rebel but she swallowed vigorously and all was well. And, he was right, after the first few mouthfuls she did begin to feel better. He watched, then nodded, satisfied and pulled over a nearby chair and straddled it.
    ‘If you are feeling well, my dear, we have to talk. Shall we start with your stupidity in front of The Lion?’
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Marianne closed her eyes. If she feigned faintness would he go easy on her? To her surprise the censorious voice ceased and she risked a peak. He was watching her, leaning back, relaxed, his long legs crossed, his hands folded behind his head, happy to wait until she was ready.
    ‘Try and stay awake whilst I ring a peal over you—there’s a good girl!’
    For a moment she didn’t react then she found herself grinning and the tension between them vanished as if it had never existed.
    ‘That is much better. I have always preferred my victims to be conscious when I chastise them.’ The smile he directed at her left her breathless.
    ‘I do apologize for causing Lady Arabella to fall. I had forgotten my mount has the strongest dislike to being kicked.’
    ‘It was probably the magnificence of Lady Arabella’s riding habit that impaired your memory,’ he commented dryly. She spluttered, trying hard to contain her giggles by putting her hands to her mouth. He nodded, his expression innocent. ‘I know, my dear, but a habit like that is no laughing matter. Indeed, it was enough to frighten the horses in itself, without your precipitate departure.’
    Through her laughter Marianne managed to gasp. ‘She was not hurt, you know, it was all a sham.’
    He yawned, as if bored with the conversation, then leant forward, speaking in confidence.
    ‘A play act? Do not say so! And the poor girl forced to drink several