Chapter 13 #2
She did have one source of satisfaction. Betsy Swinton had received a proposal from the Honourable Kenneth Erroll, second son of a Viscount, who appeared to be as smitten by her kindness and good nature—and her lovely blue eyes—as by her fortune.
Mr Erroll did not fancy either the Army or the Church and thought it unfair that his brother was inheriting everything while he was condemned to be as poor as a church mouse.
He loved to hunt and fish and was more than happy to spend his life in Yorkshire, drinking good claret with his father-in-law, with no need of acquiring any other profession.
As well as enjoying the charms of a curvaceous and cheerful wife, a portion of whose dowry would go towards repairing the roof of his father’s house, which made his father perfectly reconciled to his son marrying into ‘trade.’
Meanwhile, Sir Robert was reconciled to the lack of a title by seeing his daughter happy—and, after all, his future son-in-law was a scion of the nobility.
He was also quite shrewd—Sir Robert was certain he could entice him into his business soon enough.
Betsy was radiant and pronounced herself much in love.
She thanked Marguerite profusely for all she had done and repeated her invitation to visit; Marguerite was envious, and wished her own life could be as simple.
Charles, returned to town, was friendly as ever.
He told her he had missed her but did not go any further.
Crampton sent flowers and called in the mornings; she tried to let him down gently and was ashamed to see the incomprehension and hurt in his eyes.
All her friends could see she was distracted and remarked upon it.
Distraction turned to frustration. Still, she hoped time would bring her counsel.
Meanwhile, dancing with Charles one evening, she caught a glimpse of Alice who was sitting with her mother on one side, and the look on her face gave her pause.
She was gazing at Charles with open adoration.
Marguerite was shocked—how could she have been so blind, so self-involved, as not to see it?
When the dance ended, she went and sat next to Alice, and said in a low voice, ‘I’m so sorry, dear cousin. I had no idea you liked him so much.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Alice, laughing a little.
‘Charles. I am talking about Charles. You want him. I will keep away.’
‘Oh, Marguerite, it is not so simple. He has to want me, too. And I think he wants you more.’
‘Nonsense. He only flirts, and even that, lightly. He has never said or done anything more.’
Alice had a glint of hope in her eyes. ‘Really? He looks smitten by you.’
‘I assure you he’s not. Either that, or he has a strange way of showing it. No, I am the new girl in town, and he feels the need to make other men jealous. Oh dear, that sounds very conceited of me, doesn’t it?’ She gave a short laugh.
‘No, it is the truth. But I don’t want you to keep away. He has to choose me for myself, otherwise I don’t want him.’
‘That is a very sensible way of looking at things. But it must be painful, to be in love.’
‘Aren’t you?’ Alice turned to look at her.
‘I…I don’t know. And that is painful, too.’
Charles came up to claim Alice for the next dance; and Marguerite, looking at the calm way Alice smiled at him, was envious of her self-control. She watched Charles smile back and vowed to be more concerned with her cousin’s wellbeing.
* * *
One day her parents were out, and Marguerite was alone in the library when the butler announced the Duke of Argyle.
She lifted her head from her book, not sure she had heard right, and saw him walk in.
Her heart gave a lurch. She rose and said, ‘What are you doing here?’ She glared at the butler, who was hovering by the door, torn between disapproval and romantic speculation, and he went out, closing the door behind him.
Argyle bowed, his face grave. ‘Good afternoon, Marguerite.’
She coloured. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not mean to be rude. But you startled me.’
His voice was weary. ‘Thomas: we were agreed. Do not blame your butler, I told him you were expecting me. I came to see you, what else?’
‘Thomas, then. What do you want?’ Confusion made her abrupt.
He was silent for a minute, staring at her, then he said, ‘You are not making this easy for me, are you? I want to marry you.’ His face remained of stone and there was an edge of annoyance, or impatience, in his tone.
‘But—I have already refused.’ She did not even know why she was answering him thus.
She thought him impossibly attractive in his immaculate coat of blue superfine, plain waistcoat and pristine white neckcloth—lately she found other men unbearably foppish.
More than half of her wanted to throw herself on his chest and feel his arms close about her.
There was no warmth in his voice. ‘I am aware of it, but that was before we—knew each other better.’
Marguerite felt her cheeks flaming but was at a loss for words. She had not asked him to sit down and he had remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. She did not sit down either.
He said, his voice a little softened, ‘We did seem to be getting on perfectly well at Harwick, don’t you think?’
She said, frankly, ‘We did. But this will not last, will it? I am bound to annoy you by stating my opinions, or you will provoke me by sneering at my friends. Then every meal will be silent, while we both seethe—and coldness will set in. I have seen it happen, and it is unbearable.’
He was curious. ‘Is that what your life is like, at home?’ Having met her parents, he found it hard to believe.
‘Oh, no, no. My mother is sweet and adores my father. And Papa is the most genial man alive. He loves to laugh and is almost never cross. But I have seen it in other families—anger, or indifference.’
‘So, you are comparing me to your father, and find me wanting. Is that it?’
His words surprised her, but perhaps he was right.
Why would she want to exchange the life she had, with someone who was her role model since she was tiny, who made her laugh and feel safe, for something probably not as pleasant?
But then her father did not make her want to touch him or feel his skin against hers.
Seeing she was silent, he went on, his voice harsh again. ‘I notice you have been avoiding me—but I would like you to reconsider. I know I said my offer would remain open until you decide to marry another, but I find I cannot bear the waiting. Therefore I have decided to leave England.’
‘Oh.’ She paled. ‘Where will you go?’
‘I am not certain yet. Perhaps India, I hear there are good opportunities there. I will leave in a month or so, when I have made the proper arrangements. If you change your mind before then, you must tell me yourself. Otherwise, this is goodbye.’ His dark eyes were hard in a bleak, unsmiling face, his black brows drawn together above his nose.
‘I…I do not know what to say.’ Her heart was knocking in her chest, and she felt hot and cold at the same time.
He hesitated, and she imagined he was about to speak.
Say you do not want me to leave—the words hung in the air, unspoken and unheard.
Then his face hardened again. ‘There is no need to say anything—for now. But I will have a goodbye kiss.’ Before she could react, he took her in his arms and kissed her fiercely, holding her as in a vice, one hand on her throat.
She could not help herself from responding.
When he left, without another word, she let herself fall into an armchair and tried to make sense of her feelings.
What had she done? Why had she sent away a man who set her on fire every time he touched her?
She was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, but she was terrified of getting burnt.
Today, she would have given in if he had said he loved her, that he could not live without her—but he had not.
Instead, he had threatened her with his departure—implying it was she who would suffer.
For one short minute, she thought he was about to say something more to her, but he had stopped himself.
And then he kissed her, and must have felt her weakness, the way she had trembled and melted against him—but still he had put her from him and left without a word.
Could she live with his high-handed manner and self-regard her whole life?
And his cruelty—he knew the effect his kisses had on her and used them as a weapon.
For a minute she wondered if he might mellow under her influence, but then she remembered her French grandmother saying, ‘Les hommes ne changent pas.’ Dear grand-mère, she missed her so much.
She sprang up and paced the room, trying to put her thoughts in order.
Belatedly, she saw her own behaviour left much to be desired: she had allowed a man to make love to her, a man who wanted to marry her, and then cut him dead.
He had a right to be angry. She found herself recounting, over and over, the delicious moments at Harwick, when he had smiled, and kissed her, and allowed her to drive his horses—and his caresses, the feel of his body, on the library sofa.
She had been the one to give him false hope.
She knew her parents did not dislike or disapprove of Argyle, but then, he was unfailingly polite to them, as well he might be, given his hopes of an alliance.
She was aware that her father rated his intelligence highly, and she determined to talk to him—another thing she knew, she tolerated Charles less and less since the night in the library.
His laugh seemed insipid, his compliments false, and he had not even the courage to kiss her properly.
Poor Charles—she almost laughed; he had done nothing wrong, he only paled in comparison to the man that was Argyle.
He deserved to marry a nice girl like Alice.
* * *