Chapter 13
In London things went back to the way they were—to all appearances, it was as if their night together had never been.
When Marguerite had woken up on the sofa, Argyle’s bare arm heavy across her body, her first reaction had been panic.
Blind panic. What had she done? She must have been insane.
How had put herself in such a situation, how had she allowed herself to doze off?
She was shivering and saw the fire had died down.
She slid from under his arm and dressed hurriedly—not doing up the buttons on her nightdress, only pulling her dressing gown closed, tight around her body.
She bent to put on her slippers and, seeing his coat thrown over the back of a chair, spread it carefully over him, praying he would not wake.
He did not stir. Thankfully her candle was still burning on the table where she set it—she took it and crept to the door, her heart thumping in her mouth.
The key would not turn in the lock, and her panic increased.
She forced herself to calm down and at last managed to get the door open quietly.
She listened for a minute and, hearing nothing, she took a last quick look at his recumbent form in the faint light still coming from the hearth—his lithe body, his face young and smooth in sleep, dark lashes fanning on his cheeks, a black curl fallen on his brow—then crept to her room.
She took off her nightgown because she could not bear doing up all the buttons he had undone, one by one, washed hurriedly at the washstand, shivering at the coldness of the water, slipped on her chemise and flung herself on the bed, drawing the covers up to her chin—despite her trepidation, she fell into a restless sleep.
In the morning, she rose before Flossie’s arrival, and stood at the window, trying to get her thoughts in order. Flossie wondered at finding her already in her chemise, and said, ‘Is everything all right, my lady? Why are you up so early?’
‘I am fine, Flossie. I just slept badly.’
Her maid helped her dress, saying, ‘Oh! You have a red mark on your neck.’
Marguerite said, ‘Where?’ and craned her neck to look in the mirror. ‘Oh, I remember my neck itching during the night—probably that wool blanket. I must have scratched it in my sleep. Never mind, it won’t show under my walking dress.’
Flossie wrung out a cloth in cold water and gave it to her. ‘It will show tonight, all your gowns are low-cut. Hold the cloth against it for a few minutes, it will bring the redness down.’
Marguerite sat holding the cold cloth against her neck and thinking of Argyle’s rough kisses.
Then she did her collar up, straightened her spine and went down with her head held high.
She spent the day trying to appear normal, while roiling inside—between longing to be with him and wanting to avoid him because she could not trust herself near him.
By the evening when she had dressed for the ball, the red mark had almost faded, and a little powder concealed it completely.
* * *
In the carriage home, the day after the ball, sitting squashed on the seat next to Alice and feeling bone-tired from lack of sleep as well as from her turbulent emotions, Marguerite had to endure her aunt’s questioning.
‘So, my dear, how was your drive with the duke? I forgot to ask you.’ Her small round eyes sparkled with curiosity.
She kept her voice steady. ‘Very nice, Aunt, he was kind enough to let me drive. His horses are absolute perfection.’
Her aunt raised thin, arched eyebrows. ‘I am sure that was lovely, my sweet, but I hope his intentions are honourable. You know he is considered a heart breaker. It would not do to ruin your reputation.’
Alice cut in. ‘Oh, Mama, do not be so prudish. On the contrary, being seen with him puts Marguerite in fashion, it makes other men take notice. Felix Crampton is smitten. He danced twice with her last night.’
Her aunt bent a beady eye upon her but allowed herself to be drawn into a discussion of Felix Crampton’s looks, manners, and fortune.
Marguerite felt guilty about Crampton—she had been leading him on, with no intention of pursuing the relationship—and grateful to her cousin.
She could see Alice was dying for a private conversation, but to her relief the carriage stopped at her own house first, making this impossible.
She would not have known what to tell her.
As she was climbing down from the carriage, she could hear her aunt going on and on about the need for both girls to acquire suitable husbands rapidly. She was sorry for poor Alice, but she felt relieved when the footman closed the door and they drove away.
* * *
In the following days she again found herself avoiding Argyle, although she thought about him constantly: his mouth and his hands and his hard, virile body.
She wanted him, but she was frightened of the next step.
Where Charles was easy-going, ever cheerful, full of fun, Argyle (she still could not think of him as Thomas) was fire and ice.
His touch set her alight, made her lose control of her senses—but she had often watched him being distant, and silent, and cold.
She thought him terribly arrogant, always ready to sneer and mock.
She could not imagine him being affectionate.
She was afraid of what their life together would be when physical attraction waned, as it inevitably would—and she was afraid of the physical attraction itself, the force of his magnetism, and the violence of his desire for her.
She was scared such excessive emotions would annihilate her personality.
She realised neither man had told her he loved her—perhaps they did not think she was worthy of love. She only provoked lust in the one; and provided amusing companionship to the other. The thought gave her pause: for the first time in her life, she was uncertain of a course to follow.
It was true that Argyle proposed marriage; but, as her father had said, he was aware of the need to acquire an heir, and why not with a woman for whom he felt desire—it did not guarantee his behaviour in years that might stretch endlessly ahead, devoid of affection and joy.
She was French enough to make the distinction between desire and love.
A loveless marriage, such as many she observed around her—no, she wanted a union like her parents’, full of laughter and complicity.
After her return from Harwick, her parents scolded her for driving alone with the duke—her aunt had told them about it. Lady Lennox said, ‘You must be careful of your reputation, ma chérie. You know how people talk.’
Marguerite felt her cheeks flame. ‘I thought his tiger would be with us, Maman. But it was only a short drive.’
Her father looked at her quizzically. ‘You should have said something. I have not known you to be so reticent before. You refused his offer of marriage without a second thought—I wonder, why drive out with him in the first place? I thought you didn’t like him.’
Marguerite reddened more. ‘Charles was not there and most of the other guests were boring.’
Her parents exchanged a glance. Her mother said, ‘I hear you had another prétendant, a most handsome and pleasant young man.’
She forced a smile. ‘Yes, Mr Crampton. He was nice—and very polite. Still, it was a claustrophobic environment. I felt in need of fresh air. And there was no hunting that day.’
Her father raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely some of you could have gone riding in a group. I am disappointed in your aunt. She should have been chaperoning you better—however, I also thought I could trust you to make better decisions. It was most injudicious to drive alone with someone of such high rank, and whom you have already refused.’
Marguerite cast her eyes down. ‘I’m sorry, Papa.’
‘So you should be. I expect better judgement from you in the future. I would not like to think I have been too lax in your upbringing.’
‘No, Papa.’
Her father looked at her shrewdly. ‘Are you regretting your refusal, perhaps?’
Marguerite was at a loss. ‘I…’
Luckily at that moment the butler came to announce an unexpected visitor, and she made good her escape, running up to her room with her face still aflame. She flinched thinking of the look in her parents’ eyes: her father stern and disapproving, her mother disappointed and a little sad.
And had they known of the night in the library…Belatedly it had occurred to her there might be consequences from that night, and she had experienced another bout of panic, but luckily her courses arrived soon after—she breathed a sigh of relief, and pushed the thought away.
Deep down she knew Argyle would have liked consequences, because it would have forced her hand.
She kept wondering what it was that had made her give herself to him that night—curiosity, irresistible attraction—or perhaps it had been the need to exorcise him.
To satisfy the attraction once, and be done with it.
The thought her action might have a different consequence, wedding night complications when she decided to marry someone else—this thought never entered her mind.
She was not marrying anyone else—at least for now.
Marguerite felt in need of advice, but it was not easy to confide in her mother, whose ideas so differed from her own.
As for her father, she had often found herself on the verge of asking his opinion, but kept putting it off.
He would expect the truth, as he always did—and how could she ever explain the night in the library?
And now, after this last conversation, it all seemed more impossible than ever.
* * *
Waiting for a decision to come to her, she distracted herself with frivolous activities: rides in the park, picnics, and balls with her usual group of friends—girls she did not confide in, men who flirted lightly. All these pursuits felt pointless.