Chapter 6
Marguerite was enjoying London. She did not miss the sophistication and formality of Parisian society, because she had found, in her new friends, a sense of humour to match that of her British father, which she had always so much enjoyed.
She found it fun to flirt in a playful and ironic manner, and be part of a group where banter and laughter were the order of the day.
She knew that at some point she would have to think of her future; but her parents, ever indulgent, were not pressing her yet, and she was determined to make the most of her freedom.
When she first became aware of the Duke of Argyle’s attention upon her, she was indifferent—there were other men circling about her, but she was as yet uninterested in anything serious.
She knew he was considered a great catch, but he was so stern and unsmiling, so haughty in his manner towards everyone, that she could not like him.
An eagle’s profile and piercing eyes, pupils dark as patent leather.
Dancing with her he was stiff and monosyllabic.
His intervention in the street, when he had paid off the hackney, she had almost not noticed, so concerned was she by the plight of the girl; and she had not given it a second thought afterwards.
His proposal of marriage had taken her entirely by surprise—she had refused on impulse, without reservation, because why would she consider spending her life with someone so uncongenial?
However, in the weeks that followed, he had started to make her feel unsettled.
She often felt his eyes upon her, which surprised her, because she had expected that being rejected would cause him to cut her dead, conceited as he was.
But he had not—he had sought her out, and brought her lemonade, and talked to her more than he had ever done so far—and insisted on dancing with her, holding her closer while waltzing than Charles had ever dared to do.
What was he trying to prove? She did not like it, and hated to admit to herself that the proximity of his tall body during the waltz had troubled her.
* * *
One evening, at one of the most fashionable crushes of the season, Marguerite noticed Argyle watching her as she danced with Charles—she was at ease with him, and she had reached up and kissed him on the cheek when he had complimented her on her gown, a soft teal blue that suited her fair complexion.
He said, frowning a little, ‘I am not the only man to think you look lovely, my dear. Argyle has his eye on you. I confess I do not like it.’
Marguerite said, ‘There is nothing in it, I assure you,’ but the remark made her consider her relationship with Charles.
He took it upon himself to comment on his purported rival, but he had not declared himself, or made her an offer; therefore he could not pretend a hold on her.
Lately he was often laughing and sharing private jokes with her cousin Alice.
Their own intimacy never went further than the odd peck, the hand drawn through his arm, the usual light-hearted banter.
Did she want him to declare his feelings?
Marguerite was not sure about that—it did not make her jealous that he was paying attention to Alice.
Charles was saying, ‘I am glad to hear it. I should think he is a dead bore, always so glum and high in the instep. I doubt he would come up to scratch anyway, he is meant to be quite a rake—and averse to marriage.’
Little do you know, Marguerite thought, curtsying as he bowed, then following his lead in the set.
She caught Argyle’s eye as she turned and immediately looked away—it was true his face was quite harsh.
But Charles’s presumption in giving her advice annoyed her—he was so sure of himself, of his handsome countenance and his charm—she was not about to make him her mentor.
She sat with her mother when Argyle came later to ask her to dance.
She could not politely refuse unless she wanted to avoid dancing altogether—but she loved to dance, and this was a waltz, her favourite.
Argyle greeted her mother graciously, and Marguerite knew she was expected to accept—so she did, and gave herself up to the music, keeping in step and trying to ignore the slight unease his proximity induced in her.
Argyle was taller than her, so she did not notice he had his eyes fixed on her face until he said, ‘Are you in love, Marguerite?’
She was thrown into confusion. ‘What do you mean? What business is it of yours?’ She saw his dark eyes were inscrutable.
‘I want to know if you are in love with that young man you are always flirting with.’
‘I—I…’ She found she could not answer, so she repeated, a little abruptly, ‘I still do not see how that is your concern, sir.’
He said, ‘Damn, we must speak alone. Come.’ They happened to be close to a curtain, which was a little parted—he pushed it aside and steered her through it, and they came out through the open French window onto a small balcony overlooking the formal gardens.
A few couples were strolling along the paths, which were lit with flickering torches; but there was no moon, and in the weak starlight nobody could see them.
The music reached them faintly from behind the heavy curtain.
Before she could react, Argyle turned to face her—he grasped her arms, his fingers digging into the bare flesh above her long silk gloves. He said, ‘I still have designs upon your person, Marguerite. You must know that.’
She pulled herself out of his grasp and her eyes flashed in the dim light. ‘And you must know that I do not care, Your Grace.’
His voice was a growl. ‘Thomas. You must care—you will care. My offer remains open until you resolve to marry another.’
They stared at each other for a moment without speaking. Marguerite bit her lip, and slowly he reached out and drew his thumb across it to free it from her teeth. She saw his saturnine face close to hers—his eyes very dark, his lips parted on a hint of white teeth.
He kept his thumb on the corner of her mouth, his large hand cupping her cheek.
‘Perhaps this will help you decide.’ He put his mouth to hers and she felt a bolt of lightning strike her very core.
Her lips parted and his tongue touched hers—but instead of feeling shock or revulsion she found herself responding with all her being.
For an endless moment she lost herself: her body abandoned against his, his arm like a steel bar across her back, her hand on his chest. Then there were voices, quite close, and they drew apart.
She said, breathing hard and trying to sound angry, ‘Somebody could have come in.’
He gave a brief laugh, deep in his throat. ‘Nobody came in.’ He brushed a strand of hair off her face and said, with a change of tone that surprised her, ‘All right, my dove, I have made my point. Let us resume our dance.’
He parted the curtain and, looking out quickly, led her through and took her in his arms again. They joined the dancers stepping and turning—the ballroom was very crowded.
Marguerite kept her back straight and her eyes on his cravat, breathing deeply, trying to get her heartbeat to slow down, hoping that no one had noticed them emerging from behind the curtain; but conscious of his face close to hers, and the warmth of his hand on her back—her dress was cut quite low, and his thumb brushed the bare skin above it.
When the dance ended she curtsied, not looking at him, and went to find her mother, praying she would not have noticed her absence from the ballroom.
Happily, Lady Lennox had gone off to play cards, and Marguerite joined a group of her friends, who were so busy laughing and joking that they obviously had observed nothing. Except for Alice, who looked at her arm, and said, ‘What have you done to yourself?’
Peering at it, she noticed a red mark on the flesh just above her glove. She said, as offhand as she could manage, ‘Oh, I’ve no idea,’ and pulled her glove higher to cover it. She felt Alice look at her strangely, and hoped her cheeks were not too red—but her cousin said nothing.
Marguerite kept away from Argyle for the rest of the night—it was not difficult in the crush of people.
She felt she was suffocating in the overheated atmosphere, the air thick with mingled perfumes, cigar smoke, and perspiring bodies.
Thankfully, her mother had a headache and wanted to leave soon after.
Her father escorted them out, and all three stopped at the top of the steps leading down to the street and breathed in the fresh night air.
Lord Lennox said, ‘I have no idea why we subject ourselves to these unbearable conditions.’
Marguerite said, ‘So that I can dance—and find myself a husband?’
Her father laughed. ‘The cost is high. We will go to the country, and you will find a husband on the hunting field.’ He gave them an arm each and they walked down the steps.
Marguerite said, ‘A country squire. Hmm…I might like that. More even-tempered than a duke, hopefully.’
In the carriage, her mother remarked, ‘Argyle does not seem offended by your refusal of his offer, does he? I thought it was most polite of him to ask you to dance.’
Marguerite shrugged, hoping it was too dark in the carriage for her parents to see her blush. She said, ‘He is too full of his own importance to care.’ Her voice sounded strange to her ears.
Lord Lennox said, ‘Perhaps he has decided to persevere.’ He winked at his daughter, who pretended not to see.
Later, in the safe darkness of her bedchamber, Marguerite could think of nothing but that kiss. Everything about Argyle was hard—his face, his eyes, his arm against her back—and yet his lips were soft, and he had brushed the hair off her cheek in a gesture that was almost tender.
Over the next few days, the kiss haunted her.
She knew she wanted more, but she was afraid—what of, she did not know.
So she did her best to avoid him and was as cold and distant as she could bring herself to be during their brief exchanges, although she often felt his eyes on her.
These days, he seemed to be everywhere she went.