Chapter 5
Argyle had left his aunt’s house determined to call upon Marguerite’s parents at the earliest opportunity, certain of his positive reception.
A week later, leaving the Lennox house after having had his suit rejected, he went straight home and sat in his library, trying to pretend for a moment that he was not reeling from Marguerite’s refusal.
First, he felt a stab of anger—the little baggage, how could she have refused the best offer she would ever get?
She had not even taken a minute to consider, she had dismissed him without a second thought.
He tried to devise a method of revenge which would make her realise what she had missed, while at the same time putting her in his power and in his bed.
He gave a savage laugh as he admitted to himself that he hated her for not doing what he despised other girls for doing: setting their caps at the one of best catches in the matrimonial stakes.
Then he realised he did not hate her—in fact he was close to falling in love with her.
He was insanely attracted to her by now, that was certain—but was it lust, or perhaps the lure of the unattainable?
All he knew was he must have her, but still under his own terms. He would make her fall in love with him, and then he would decide what to do—once he had gained control.
Against his better judgment, he devoted himself in earnest to the conquest of Marguerite.
He accepted invitations to which he would not have deigned even to reply in the past, and attended, hoping to see her; if she was not there, he left early—and if she was, he found opportunities to talk to her without appearing too interested.
He refused to appear too interested—so he did not send her flowers or pay her any compliments.
He arranged to cross her path as if by mere coincidence.
* * *
The first time he met her after she had rejected his offer, he asked her to dance. When she refused, saying she was feeling hot, he said, ‘Then let me get you a glass of lemonade, and sit with you. The fact that we are not getting married, does not mean we cannot talk together, don’t you think?’
She smiled, her rosy lips parting over white teeth, and said, ‘You are right. And thank you, yes, I would love some lemonade—I meant it that I am hot, I was not trying to avoid you.’ She sat down on a sofa by the wall.
He brought the lemonade, and sat next to her. ‘It would be a pity for us to be awkward with each other, since we are bound to meet in society.’
She fanned her face and took a sip of the lemonade. ‘That is true. But I do not feel awkward. One is not obliged to accept every offer that is made, n’es ce pas?’
Argyle noticed a strand of blonde hair clinging to her hot cheek in front of a small, pretty ear, and stopped himself from pushing it back. He said, stiffly, ‘Of course, although obviously I had hoped mine would have been agreeable.’
‘I daresay it would have been to most girls. But I am not most girls.’
‘I can see that,’ he said, smiling slightly. ‘May I ask, if it is not impertinent, do you have someone else in mind with a view to matrimony?’
‘Well, I might have, but I do not think this is any of your concern, Your Grace.’ She seemed to realise she had been abrupt, because she said, kindly, ‘I hope you do not feel too disappointed. I do not like hurting people.’
His Grace almost got up to leave. The minx, who did she think she was?
Any other woman would have jumped at his offer.
He would show her. But for now, he drew himself up and said, his voice cold, ‘Of course I am somewhat disappointed—I did not make a proposal of marriage without putting considerable thought into it. But I daresay I can find a replacement easily.’ He hoped this was just insulting enough.
But she did not seem to think so. ‘I am glad to hear it. I wish you the best of luck.’
He felt like strangling her—or perhaps kissing her into silence. He was dying to kiss her mouth—the short, curly upper lip showing a glint of two front teeth. He said, ‘Come, now that you are refreshed, dance with me as a token of friendship.’ He rose and offered her his hand.
Marguerite took it and rose too, putting down her glass. ‘Of course, Your Grace.’
The dance was a waltz, and he put his arm around her waist, drawing her as close to him as was proper, and a little more; he said, ‘As we are to be friends, Lady Marguerite, perhaps you could stop calling me Your Grace? My name is Thomas.’
The only person who had ever called him Thomas had been his mother; he did not know why he had proposed this. He bent his face to hers and inhaled her scent—something fresh and flowery, gardenias, perhaps.
She considered. ‘That might be a little too intimate, don’t you think?
Perhaps I could call you Argyle.’ She smiled at him—she smiled at him as a friend.
It made him wild. He said, ‘Thomas,’ between gritted teeth, but he was not sure she heard him.
He tightened his arm around her and swept her around the ballroom, and after a while he felt her yield a little.
But when the music stopped, she curtsied deeply, and turned her back on him.
* * *
At another ball, seeing her sitting alone on a sofa watching Betsy dance with a sturdy young man, he went to sit next to her.
Betsy wore another horrible gown in a virulent shade of green silk, showing an excessive expanse of bosom slightly veiled by an intricate sapphire necklace, but her face was fresh and animated. The young man was smiling at her.
Argyle said, ‘I see you have succeeded in making your new friend the toast of the town.’
Marguerite laughed. ‘Hardly. I have only managed to make a few people see beyond the hideous clothes. Everyone who saw her on a horse admired her.’
‘Yes, that was a clever piece of staging, I admit.’
She ignored the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Thank you. She is a nice girl.’
‘If you say so,’ he said indifferently. ‘I keep meaning to ask you, what happened to the girl you assisted in the street some weeks ago? Did they treat her at the hospital?’
She looked at him as though surprised he would remember, or take the trouble to inquire, but only answered, ‘Yes, they cleaned her cut and dressed it—and they put a bandage on her ankle to support it.’
Thinking he was being sympathetic, he said, ‘I expect riding with her in the hackney must not have been a comfortable experience—she appeared to me to be exceedingly dirty.’
Marguerite stared at him. ‘She was. But I wonder how clean you or I would be, Your G-Argyle, if we lived in the conditions she has to suffer.’ Seeming to realise she had spoken abruptly, she changed the subject.
‘The hackney driver proved to be a good man—he waited for us at the hospital, and then drove her home before taking me to my house.’
His lip curled. ‘With the amount of money I gave him, madam, it was the least he could do.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘I had not thought to ask him to stay—he could have taken the money and left. Not everything is about money, Your Grace.’
‘And you ventured into the slums with her.’ It was not a question.
‘Of course—I could not have left her by the side of the road, could I? She could barely walk, and she was carrying the baby. I was in the hackney, it was perfectly safe. But I tell you, Argyle, the conditions these people have to live in are appalling. The open sewers, the refuse everywhere…I could not believe…something has got to be done.’
The mocking tone was back in his voice. ‘Do not tell me you mean to go into politics?’
‘We shall see about that.’ She eyed him speculatively. ‘But are you not obliged, or at least expected, to attend Parliament?’
‘I am. And I do.’ His voice was cold.
‘Well, perhaps you and your peers should be doing something about it.’ She rose and left him, stepping towards Barnfield who was coming towards her holding a glass of ratafia. Argyle remained seated for a moment, watching her with an inscrutable expression on his face.
* * *
After some weeks it became obvious he was not making any headway. This made him so short-tempered that even Curtis, his valet, a man of stolid disposition who was used to his master’s curtness, remarked upon it.
‘Is something amiss, Your Grace?’ he asked, after he had been sent four times to fetch a different coat. Usually his master, though availing himself of the services of a most excellent tailor, was almost indifferent to what he wore.
His grace stood in front of the mirror, swearing under his breath as he discarded yet another neckcloth. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, since he did not answer for a moment. Then he said, ‘What was that, Curtis?’
‘Nothing, Your Grace. I was only asking if you needed anything else.’
‘No, that will do, thank you.’ He tied the last cravat in the simplest of knots, passed a hand through his hair and went out without a backward glance.
Curtis decided, not unreasonably, that his master must be troubled by matters of the heart.
He picked up the discarded neckcloths to press them again.
Argyle, leaving the house, felt so frustrated that his strategy was not yielding better results that he decided to visit his aunt again. When he marched in and refused her offers of refreshment, the old lady asked, ‘Dear me, Argyle, what has put you in such a disagreeable temper?’
‘You were right. She won’t have me.’ He paced the room.
Lady Montgomery laughed. ‘It seems to me you have met your match.’
He stopped and faced her. ‘Well, wise old owl, tell me, what am I to do?’
In her lined face, her eyes continued to be narrowed in amusement. ‘Why, persevere, what else? You would not have come to talk to me about it if you had decided to forget about her. But you need to change your method.’
‘What? How?’
She raised her pale eyebrows at him. ‘How should I know? Whatever it is you’ve been doing, do something else. It obviously is not working.’
He frowned, black brows drawn like a bar across his face. ‘You sound like the Oracle of Delphi. Can’t you tell me something more concrete?’
She gave a short laugh. ‘Yes. I think this is doing you good. You are entirely too full of your own importance. It is time you realised you are not the centre of the world.’
His colour had risen, and he said harshly, ‘Oh, do you think so? Well, I am certainly of greater importance than her.’ Seeing his aunt was still smiling sardonically, he went on, knowing he sounded petulant as a child, ‘Why must you keep it so hot in here? I can feel my collar wilting as we speak.’ He went up to the fire and kicked at a log with his boot, sending sparks flying up the chimney.
‘I am old and I feel the cold, in case you have not noticed. Oh, do go away, Argyle, you are making me cross. It is not my fault you’ve made a mull of it.
’ Her thin lips stretched in another smile.
‘But do not give up—something tells me this girl is worth it. You must use your considerable brains to find a way forward.’
Argyle kissed her papery cheek and left, simultaneously frustrated, and heartened.
He started walking to St. James Street—he would visit one of his clubs in search of a game of chess, feeling too unsettled to go home and spend time alone.
Entering White’s he came upon Lord Lennox, sitting in an armchair with a newspaper.
His first instinct was to avoid him but, before he could turn away, Lord Lennox stood and waved the paper at him.
‘Ah, Duke, just the man I want to see. I need your advice upon this latest investment opportunity everyone raves about.’
Argyle approached him and they conversed for a short while. Afterward, Lord Lennox stated, ‘Thank you, you have set my mind at ease.’ He paused and then looked at him quizzically. ‘I hope you are not too put out about my daughter?’
Argyle was taken aback, never expecting him to mention the subject. He hesitated, then said, ‘Truth be told, without wanting to appear presumptuous, I assumed…’ He paused.
Lord Lennox said, ‘I’m afraid I am to blame.
I have raised my daughter to have strong opinions.
I would like her to be happy. And I do not think you would like to have a reluctant wife, either, I suppose.
’ Argyle did not answer immediately. ‘However, I am the last person to tell you that it is perseverance that achieves results. You are a living proof of that.’ He smiled at him and turned to greet an acquaintance who had hailed him.
Argyle walked to the library, intrigued by this conversation.
What other man of his acquaintance would put his daughter’s ‘happiness’ over her making a brilliant match?
However, Lord Lennox’s last words showed he would not be averse to the marriage—but he was easy about it, his manner open and friendly.
He would not push his daughter into something she did not want but, in his encouragement to persevere and implied approval of the union, Argyle got the impression it was himself he approved of, not his title or fortune.
This gave him an unexpected feeling of satisfaction—and a hint of hope.