Chapter 7
Argyle also was haunted by the kiss. Marguerite’s reaction had startled him.
From the little he knew of her character, he had not expected prudishness—but he would not have been surprised to have been met with fury, even a slap on the cheek.
He had been so disconcerted by her response, that he had deepened the kiss more than he had intended—he had only meant to press his lips briefly against hers.
The taste of her mouth, the feel of her soft, warm body, her totally unexpected ardour had sharpened his hunting instincts—by Jove, this was a prize worth capturing.
He would be ruthless in his pursuit, but he was shrewd enough to know he had to step carefully—this girl was no kitten, and if she definitely decided against him, there would be no having her.
And now, more than ever, he knew he had to have her.
The situation, however, was becoming complicated—since he was going everywhere he was invited, people were starting to talk, to gossip that he was at last looking for a wife; someone told him it was being circulated that he had broken with his latest mistress; mothers redoubled their efforts to interest him in their daughters.
All this annoyed him—at the same time he saw Marguerite avoiding him, and, although he contrived to be in her path as often as possible, he too kept their exchanges brief and noncommittal.
He did not want her to become an object of gossip, and he had noticed her cousin looking at him with suspicion.
Thinking about all this, alone in his library with a book open on his lap, he saw his place in society had evolved in a strange way.
He had lost his parents at an early age—his father had been killed in a hunting accident, and his mother, heartbroken, had followed soon after.
Her health had always been uncertain, and she had a few miscarriages; Thomas was her only surviving child.
He had been very close to his mother, and her passing had left him with a great sense of absence.
He inherited his father’s title, and found his position changed overnight: starting from the family solicitor down to the youngest housemaid, everyone treated him with deference, some almost fawning.
He suddenly even felt unwelcome in the kitchen, where he used to spend much time being coddled by the old cook who had been with them for years, had known him since he was in short trousers and delighted in spoiling him with all his favourite foods.
Now it was always Your Grace, women bobbing curtsies and men bowing before him.
Being by nature a loner, he had no close friends, and his outings into society, although he was only nineteen, also became fraught with embarrassment: mothers started surrounding him, trying to interest him in their daughters, and the girls all but flung themselves at him.
Not wanting to give an impression of interest where he felt none, he found it hard to be friendly, and retreated into his shell.
At home he wandered the empty rooms, which the servants kept spotless but which he scarcely noticed, changing nothing over the years: the wallpaper becoming faded, the furniture and paintings gradually darkening.
He vented his energy in sport; and for amusement, he spent time with rakes and light-skirts, who expected nothing from him, except perhaps money.
And that was another thing—his meeting with the solicitor, after his father’s death, had enlightened him to the fact that there was no money.
Or not much, at any rate. His father was both insouciant and a gambler and had not looked after his affairs as he should have done.
Debts had accumulated. And here Argyle had found his vocation: he decided he would put things to right and found consolation in the work.
Thus it was that, at the age of five-and-twenty, he had become wealthy but serious beyond his years.
He had learned to be self-sufficient and strong and was very intolerant of what he considered stupidity or frivolousness in other people.
He had been brought up to have good manners but knew nothing of companionship.
And so he had no one whom to consult about his dealings with Marguerite—once again, he had to rely on his own instincts, but he also believed he did not need anyone’s advice. Except that of his great aunt, perhaps.