Chapter 11
Alone in her bedchamber, after she had sent her maid to bed, Marguerite felt restless; sleep eluded her, although she was tired.
Perhaps it was the wine she had drunk that had made her excitable—again, more than she was used to.
Argyle’s proximity, the touch of his leg against hers, his lack of conversation, had made her reach for her glass more often than usual.
She paced the room and slipped behind the heavy curtain to stand for a while gazing at the moonlit garden and thinking of the way he had smiled at her as he had never done before; and of the current flowing between them as they sat on the curricle seat, their shoulders touching; and of the kiss.
The kiss…it made her feel hot all over. Before that ball some time ago, she had not known you could kiss like that.
Argyle had run his tongue along the edges of her teeth…
and then—and then the curricle had moved, before she could try doing the same.
Next time…but there must not be a next time, there would not be a next time, because otherwise she would soon be a duchess, with a multitude of faceless footmen and an arrogant and aloof husband.
She would exchange her fun and her freedom for boring duties and constant disapproval.
Argyle was trying to win her over with smiles and kisses but, once he had her in his power, once she was his wife…
‘Wife’—even the word did not appeal, much less the prospect.
She did not want to be a wife—she wanted to be Marguerite, free and playful and a little rebellious.
Suddenly she felt cold and shook her head to rid herself of unwanted thoughts.
It was freezing behind the curtain, and she went back into her room.
The house was old and draughty, and the room was frigid, despite the fire a housemaid had built up.
She pulled her dressing gown tighter about her body and prepared to get back into bed, but she wished she had a book—her annoyance in the library had made her forget to choose one earlier.
Still, perhaps a little light reading would calm her and make her sleepy; she decided to go and fetch a novel or perhaps one of the magazines on offer.
She picked up a candle and opened the door.
The house was silent, since even the servants had all retired for the night. It was late. She crept down the stairs in her soft slippers and went along the passage and into the library.
There was a faint light coming from the small bookroom, and Marguerite thought someone must have left a candle there.
But when she came to the open door, she froze: Argyle was lounging in an armchair by the fire with a glass in his hand, his long legs stretched before him.
He was in his shirtsleeves, and his black hair was disordered, as if he had been dragging his hand through it.
A bottle stood on the table by his elbow and the embers in the grate gave off warmth and a soft red light.
He lifted his head and they looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then he said, his face grave, ‘Have you come looking for me?’
Marguerite drew herself up. ‘No, I had no idea you would be here. I could not sleep, so I came to get a book. And why are you here, pray?’
‘My room is freezing. I wonder why neither of us could sleep. I have been thinking of you. It is best if you go.’ He put his glass down on the table.
‘Why? Are you foxed?’ The bottle looked nearly empty, judging by its transparency—but it was hard to tell in the dim light. There was no sheen on his face, no tremor in his voice—his hand, putting down the glass, was steady.
‘Of course not. When have you ever seen me foxed? But I am in a dangerous mood, I warn you. You had better leave now.’
She lifted her chin. ‘I am not afraid of you.’
‘I know. But perhaps you should be.’
‘I still want my book.’ She came further into the room and, putting her candle down on a side table, went to the bookshelf.
Argyle uncoiled himself and sprang from the armchair in one fluid movement. He went to the door, saying, ‘I warned you.’
Marguerite’s voice was calm. ‘What are you doing?’ She picked out a book at random.
He was locking the door. ‘I am going to seduce you. Then you will have to marry me.’
‘We shall see about that.’
He came to stand close to her and she looked up at him: the harsh lines of his face were softened by the dim light, but his eyes were dark as the night. He smiled, a troubling smile, and said, ‘But you would like me to make love to you, I think.’
‘I do not know if I would like it, I have never done it before.’ Marguerite knew full well she should leave, but she found it impossible. She felt no fear, only a prickle of unbearable tension.
He bent and kissed her, sealing her fate. Then he released her and provoked her further. ‘Take off your gown. I want to see you naked.’ He took the book from her hand and stood back.
Her colour had risen, but she still looked him in the eye—as if of their own accord, her hands undid her belt and let her dressing gown drop to the floor in a rustle of silk. Underneath, she wore a lacy nightdress with a row of tiny buttons down the front. Her hands went to her throat to undo them.
He said, his voice low and warm, ‘You look beautiful with your hair down.’ He saw she had only got two buttons undone—an exclamation of impatience escaped his lips, he let the book drop to the floor and stepped up to her and his long, clever fingers set to work on the buttons.
It was slow work, and he said, ‘Damn, how do you do this every day?’
She said, ‘I have a maid.’ Her voice was steady and her body still. She had stopped thinking—only the moment mattered. She wanted to touch him—his shoulder, his face—but did not.
After another minute he muttered something under his breath. She asked, ‘What did you say?’
‘I said—God, but I want you.’ He had got to her waist, and he dragged the nightdress off her shoulders and pushed it down past her hips. He ran his hand over her naked skin softly, softly, sending a shiver down her spine. He bent to kiss her breast, a light touch; then he took a step back.
‘Let me look at you.’
She stood with her hands at her sides, unashamed of her nakedness, sure of the beauty of her body. Her hair hung down past her shoulders, glinting with gold streaks in the firelight. Soon she would touch him.
He gazed at her for a moment, taking in the graceful forms and creamy skin, then he swore under his breath and seized her in his arms. She raised her face until their mouths were only separated by a tiny strip of electrified air—then she put her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer.
Her tongue explored his mouth while he ran his hands down her bare back, from the nape of her neck to the curve of her buttocks.
He kissed her throat, and she took her fingers out of his hair and pushed up his shirt, pulling it out of his waistband, then pressing her breast against his chest, her body against his hard, flat stomach.
He said, as though the words were dragged from him, ‘Marguerite…what are you doing?’
She said, in a breathless rush, ‘I don’t know…seducing you, I think…’ and she kissed him again. She said, ‘You taste of port.’
‘And you taste of nectar.’ He released her and, taking a shawl from the back of an armchair, spread it on the sofa. He tore off his clothes, and it was her turn to look at him in the dim reddish light, taking in the details of his honed, muscular body.
He said, ‘Come,’ and she went into his arms, the shock of his skin against hers making her gasp. They lay down together on the sofa. He took her face in his hands. ‘You know I want to be inside you, don’t you?’
She breathed, ‘Yes.’
‘But not until you want it as much as I do.’ He bent to kiss her breast.