Chapter 12
She was so attuned to his pleasure, so generous in the giving of herself, so responsive to his touch, that he forgot it was her first time, and allowed his passion free rein. When she cried out in pain, he paused, but she said, ‘Don’t stop. It’s all right.’
Argyle saw her head thrown back, her eyes shut, and knew he had felt no greater ecstasy in his life. He buried his face in her neck, scraping her white skin with the late-night stubble on his jaw, and she pulled him closer, her fingers tangled in his hair.
Afterwards, lying next to him on the sofa, Marguerite asked him, ‘If I had been unwilling, would you have forced me?’
‘Of course not.’ He was shocked. ‘I have never forced a woman in my life—why would I have needed to? I wanted to see if you would call my bluff.’
‘You did lock the door.’
‘I was daring you.’
‘How arrogant. I still find you détéstable.’ But her hand caressed his chest. ‘You are always asserting your position and power.’
‘Not my fatal charm?’ He smiled at her, his face close to hers.
‘Well, perhaps a little.’
‘So, will you marry me now?’
She hesitated. ‘Non. I still don’t think so.’
He could not believe how stubborn she could be. ‘You have to marry me. I have ruined you.’
‘Only if you tell everyone about this—and I think you won’t.’
‘Why do you say that? How can you know?’
‘Because at heart I know you are honourable—even though you do not like to admit it.’
He rolled on top of her, then grabbed her hands and pinned them above her head. ‘I will tell everyone if you do not marry me. I will tell your parents first.’
But she only laughed. He silenced her with his mouth, then lay by her side again and asked her: ‘But if you do not want to marry me, why did you do this?’
She thought about it. ‘I cannot resist you. But marriage is for life, Your Grace—and I am not sure I want to spend my whole life with you being obnoxious and overbearing and selfish. Charles is sweet, and cheerful, et il m’adore.’
He wanted to say he adored her, too, but couldn’t—he still felt the need to take control. ‘Has Charles kissed you yet?’
She laughed. ‘Yes. Like this.’ She raised herself on an elbow and pecked at his cheek with closed lips.
A stab of jealousy pierced him. ‘You will be tired of him in months. And then what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. What is this obsession you have with marriage suddenly? I thought you had been avoiding getting shackled.’
His voice was harsh. ‘You must be insane if you think I would take you as my mistress.’
‘What? Of course I did not mean that! But women have been lining up for you, should you care to have any of them.’
‘I don’t want any of them—I want you. I want to have you naked in my bed every night, damn you.’ His hand was on her stomach.
‘And then you will get tired of it—of me—in a few months. Then what?’
Again, he didn’t say, I won’t—because I love you. She was so unlike any woman he had ever known that he did not know how to deal with her. He only said, ‘So, tell me, did you like it?’
She considered. ‘Well, I’m not quite sure. Perhaps you could show me again?’
He gave a savage laugh and put his face in her neck.
* * *
Next morning at breakfast, Argyle watched her come into the room, dressed in a high-necked, dark yellow gown trimmed with braid, and with a matching bandeau in her hair.
He wondered for a moment, swallowing a silent, savage laugh, if the high neck of her dress was covering marks he had made on her skin—but it was a walking dress, so perhaps not.
She was completely composed, although her face was glowing. She looked around the room, said, “Good morning,” and her gaze passed over him indifferently. The night before they had dozed off in each other’s arms, and he had woken in the early hours to find her gone.
Someone said, “You look in fine form this morning, Marguerite.”
She answered, “Thank you. I slept very well—it is so peaceful at night, in the country.” She smiled at Felix Crampton who had fetched her a cup of coffee, and seamlessly joined the general chatter. An expedition had been planned to visit some Roman ruins nearby, with a picnic to follow.
How could she do it? He was burning up. This made him even more aloof and intolerant of others than usual. He left the table and went for a long ride in the woods alone; thinking of her naked body beneath his, on the bookroom sofa.
* * *
Marguerite, standing by the window with a cup of coffee in her hand, saw him trot off down the drive, and was troubled.
She felt strange—frozen outwardly but melting inside.
Elated and confused. The men were debating whether it was preferable to go hunting again, or to join the ladies on the outing—opinions differed, but a fair number decided to go on the expedition.
Some people were to ride, others drive in an assortment of carriages.
One of the girls said, ‘Will you be going in the duke’s curricle, Marguerite?’
She turned back from the window and put a smile on her face. ‘No, I do not think he’s coming with us. I have just seen him ride out on his horse.’
‘So, he won’t be hunting, either. He is so trying—he never joins in anything. But you must be disappointed.’ The girl threw her a meaningful look.
She shrugged. ‘Hardly. It would be too much to expect to be allowed to drive again. No, I do believe I will ride my mare.’ She was restless and could not bear the idea of being cooped up in a carriage with other people.
Felix said, ‘Then I think I will ride also.’
Marguerite bit her lip. She would have liked to have been riding out with Argyle, the two of them alone in the woods.
Or even better, the two of them alone in her bedchamber, with the door locked.
Of course this was not possible, but it could be made possible, if she married him.
If she did, he would probably always prefer to go off into the woods alone and avoid all her friends.
She pushed a strand of hair off her face, and said, ‘That will be very nice. Who else is riding? Alice?’
‘Most definitely. We can have a good gallop, clear out the cobwebs.’
* * *
That evening there was to be dancing. This was discussed at length by everyone during the picnic:
‘We knew the Shales are swimming in lard, but they have really laid on every possible extravagance.’
‘I thought the dance was to be in the Assembly rooms in the town, but no, they are opening the ballroom.’
‘I hear the chandeliers are enormous, they hold thousands of candles.’
Alice said, ‘Imagine what it must be like to clean the beeswax from the crystal, afterwards.’
‘The servants will spend weeks doing it after we leave.’
‘Probably fed on dry bread, too, to counterbalance the expense incurred this week.’
‘I cannot start to imagine what these few days have cost.’
‘Yes, the food and drink alone…’
A girl laughed and said, ‘My mother cannot stop calculating what it is costing her—and we are only guests.’
‘Yes, all the clothes—three changes per day, at least. And hiring the chaise to bring us.’
‘We have our own, thankfully.’
‘You are lucky. And the vails for all the servants.’
‘And bringing the horses for hunting—although some people used the Shales’s horses.’
‘And for tonight they have hired an orchestra. They have invited the whole neighbourhood, to fill the ballroom up.’
‘I have a new ballgown. I can’t wait.’
Marguerite’s mind was elsewhere during the whole day, although she strove to appear to be taking part in everything—she must have succeeded, because even Alice did not seem to suspect anything. Even though going around Roman ruins was the last thing that interested her that afternoon.
* * *
Marguerite also had a new gown, which Flossie was in raptures over.
It was a mint green silk with a tulle overdress, a low-cut bosom and a full skirt, embellished with embroidered pink rosebuds.
The toes of her rose-coloured kid slippers peeped from beneath the hem.
Flossie put a silver ribbon in her hair and fastened an emerald pendant round her neck. Marguerite pulled on long white gloves.
She came down the stairs alone to stand at the entrance to the ballroom, surveying the scene.
A glittering collection of people in their finery, with women’s jewellery glinting in the light from innumerable candles placed in the four enormous crystal chandeliers.
Everyone stood on the edges of the room, so as not to spoil—yet—the intricate design chalked on the floor, which included the Shale coat of arms. The air was thick with mingled perfumes.
The butler announced the people before her.
Argyle must have been watching out for her, for she saw him approach, looking elegant and menacing in his black coat and pantaloons, white brocade waistcoat and silk cravat; his tall figure erect, his shoulders squared, his hair a little wild as usual, his aquiline nose throwing a shadow over his lower face in the candlelight. She could not fathom his expression.
He came close to her and said, ‘Your dress suits you.’ But he did not smile.
She looked beyond his shoulder, and said, ‘Are you asking me to dance? Because I can see Felix Crampton approaching.’ The orchestra had struck up and she had to raise her voice.
He took her hand and almost dragged her into the set; a quadrille, so conversation was made in snatches.
He spoke in a low voice. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Her throat was dry, but her voice firm. ‘I do not know what you mean.’
He said, between clenched teeth, ‘You gave yourself to me last night, for God’s sake.’
She raised her chin. ‘Yes, I did. Willingly.’
‘Did it mean nothing to you? Is that how girls are raised in France?’
‘Of course it meant something…sir. It meant much.’ Her voice was low and weighed with emotion.
They were parted. When they came together again, his next words to her were, ‘My intentions towards you have always been, and are, honourable.’
‘I know. I would not have done it if I believed otherwise.’
‘But why still deny me, then?’ Was it hurt she saw in his eyes? But then they darkened, and he seemed almost murderous.
‘I am nineteen, Your Grace. Why must I be forced to decide the course of my entire life within a few weeks?’ She eyed him with hostility. ‘You are harassing me.’
‘I am trying to bring you to your senses. And please stop calling me Your Grace.’
She played her last card. ‘I mean to marry for love, Your Grace. I mean, Argyle.’
She threw him a look as sharp as a dagger and turned to grasp another’s hand. When they got back together at the end of the dance, she curtsied and he bowed, but said nothing, his mouth set in a thin line.
Marguerite was sure people must have been watching them, some even trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.
She knew she must not dance with him again, because she had not come to a decision yet—but there was no fear of that, since he had retired to the card room.
As was fast becoming her habit, she did not know whether to be relieved or sorry.
She danced twice with Felix, which was not the right thing to do, because it gave him false hope—she liked him but had no interest in him beyond that.
As time went on, she felt she was choking—the air had become thick with chalk dust and candle smoke, and now smelled of sweat as well as perfume.
But she kept her head high and a smile on her face.
At one in the morning, supper was served. She looked around for Argyle, but he was nowhere to be seen; she let Felix take her in, thinking Argyle must have gone to bed.
When she finally went up to her room, Flossie, who had been waiting for her and was half asleep, sat up and came to help her.
Marguerite was ashamed—as soon as the girl had helped with her gown and corset, she sent her off to bed and went to stand at the open window, wrenching the casement up with difficulty and taking in great gulps of the freezing air. Tears ran silently down her cheeks.
* * *
Argyle had not retired to the card room after his dance with Marguerite; he had stalked upstairs to his bedchamber, incandescent with rage, and flung himself onto his bed, fully clothed.
He had told his valet not to wait up, planning, or at least hoping, to have persuaded Marguerite into another tryst—or at worst to have danced with her at the ball late into the night, thus announcing their relationship to society, by deed if not by word.
He found it hard to believe he had, so dismally, failed—and could not reconcile her continued refusal of him with her ardour of the previous night.
She had been so willing, and in the throes of passion had called him Thomas more than once—she had been sweet, and mischievous, and surprisingly at ease with him.
He shivered and rose to throw some lumps of coal and a couple of small logs onto the fire; despite his instructions to his valet to keep it going all day, the room was still damp. He kicked off his shoes and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands over his face and hair.
He had suffered defeats in his life but, apart from the death of his parents, none that cut so deep as this.
To be led by the nose by a mere girl—and one, moreover, beneath him in wealth and rank—it could not be borne.
The night before, he had outstepped the bounds of propriety, of gentlemanly behaviour.
It could have been her undoing, her certain ruin—it had been a moment of insanity, and yet she had handled it much more calmly than he had. She had been brave, and unembarrassed.
His feelings were violent; yet, even as he thought of revenge, he could only remember the sweetness and lightness of their lovemaking.
Thomas—she had finally called him Thomas.
He recalled how he had woken up on the library sofa alone and found she had covered him with his coat so that he would not get cold.
He had dressed hurriedly and crept up to his room, elated and full of hope for the morrow; hope that had been cruelly dashed.
He knew his exasperation at her behaviour had made him aggressive at the ball—but still felt himself to be in the right.
After rehashing confused thoughts for some hours, he fell asleep, still fully clothed.
Later that day, everyone went back to London; by the time Argyle came down to breakfast, having slept late after tossing and turning for most of the night, he was told she had left with her aunt and cousin.