Chapter 2
Thomas William August Kerr, seventh Duke of Argyle, was a man not used to being refused.
He was used to being obeyed and deferred to from a young age.
His success in financial matters and sport, as well as with the fair sex, had rendered him conceited and short-tempered; his wealth and rank, as well as his imperious manner, prevented most people from standing up to him.
Some weeks earlier, while attending a society ball at which his current mistress was absent due to a last-minute indisposition, he had cast a bored eye over the assembled guests and noticed a lively girl at the centre of a crowd of young people; they were all laughing at something she had said.
He had never seen her before and his curiosity was piqued.
He had arranged an introduction and asked her to dance, genuinely believing he was honouring her, and had been content to observe her, making no effort to entertain her in his turn.
He had expected her to flutter her eyelashes at him and try to beguile him with smiles and he was taken aback to be met with complete indifference, a reaction which had pricked his ego as well as his curiosity.
Despite his annoyance, he kept an eye on her.
He inquired discretely about her and her family and, behind his somewhat forbidding facade, his interest was stirred.
Marguerite was often to be seen amid animated groups of her peers—men vied to dance with her, and she appeared to be quite attached to one of them, a tall young man with light brown hair who often took her hand and drew it through his arm to escort her to supper.
Once Argyle saw her kiss the man’s cheek.
Sometimes, as if she felt his gaze upon her, her hazel eyes lifted and met his.
She did not smile, and he seemed to detect a hint of mockery in her glance, for a second or two, then she turned away.
And there was yet another side to her. One evening, as he was leaving the theatre to go to his carriage, he saw Marguerite and her parents walk out before him.
Emerging onto the road, he witnessed an extraordinary scene: a ragged street urchin had come to look at the horses waiting for the spectators to get into their carriages, and he ventured to pat one on the nose.
One of the grooms cuffed him about the ears, shouting, ‘Off with you, filthy little cur.’ Marguerite, seeing this, had flown into a rage and berated the man soundly. Astonished, he said, ‘But, my lady, I do not like vermin like him near my cattle.’
She shouted, ‘He is a child! You had no need to hit him. If I see you do something like this again, I will see to it you are punished. Do you understand?’ She looked at him with narrowed eyes.
‘Yes, m’lady.’ The man backed off before the force of her fury.
Marguerite, nodding to the boy to wait, rummaged in her reticule for some money and, noticing a street vendor nearby who was selling little cakes, purchased a few.
On the stand stood a large pot from which a couple of people had filled their bowls and she asked the woman, ‘What is this drink you sell?’
‘Salop, Miss. Very nourishing it is. It will put roses in your cheeks.’
‘Let me have a bowl, please.’ She was perfectly calm again.
She took the bowl and the cakes and gave them to the boy.
‘Here. Eat up, and when you have finished, give the bowl back to the lady. And do not go near people’s horses again, there’s a good boy.
’ She patted his head, ignoring his dirty hair, and the mud that had sullied the hem of her beautiful gown.
The boy said, ‘Thank you, missus,’ and grasped her hand with his grubby fingers.
Marguerite went to join her parents at their carriage.
Argyle, who had stopped on one side to observe the scene, noticed that she did not wipe her hand on her handkerchief.
Her mother had mounted the carriage; but her father stood outside waiting for his daughter, observing the scene with an amused look on his face.
He took her hand and helped her up without further remark, as if this was a common occurrence in their family.
This event intrigued him. Marguerite was unusual: her French side gave her a spirited elegance her British contemporaries lacked—she could switch between the two languages at will and had a natural poise which went beyond beauty.
He inquired discreetly and was told she was an only child, and that her father treated her as an equal—and he saw this had made her strong-willed, rather than spoiled.
He decided to amuse himself by pursuing his acquaintance with her.
It surprised him that this proved more difficult than he anticipated—he was not in the habit of paying compliments, expecting women to try to attract his attention and use their wiles to charm him.
Marguerite was polite but distant—she did not seem interested in him nor did she seek out his notice.
Sometimes, when he asked her to dance, she was otherwise engaged, and did not appear to regret the fact.
That set his back up and made his demeanour even more stiff and high-handed than usual.
His ego was piqued—she annoyed and attracted him in equal measure.