She was thrown into confusion. ‘What do you mean? What business is it of yours?’ She saw his dark eyes were inscrutable.
‘I want to know if you are in love with that young man you are always flirting with.’
‘I—I…’ She found she could not answer, so she repeated, a little abruptly, ‘I still do not see how that is your concern, sir.’
He said, ‘Damn, we must speak alone. Come.’ They happened to be close to a curtain, which was a little parted—he pushed it aside and steered her through it, and they came out through the open French window onto a small balcony overlooking the formal gardens. A few couples were strolling along the paths, which were lit with flickering torches; but there was no moon, and in the weak starlight nobody could see them. The music reached them faintly from behind the heavy curtain.
Before she could react, Argyle turned to face her—he grasped her arms, his fingers digging into the bare flesh above her long silk gloves. He said, ‘I still have designs upon your person, Marguerite. You must know that.’
She pulled herself out of his grasp and her eyes flashed in the dim light. ‘And you must know that I do not care, Your Grace.’
His voice was a growl. ‘Thomas. You must care—you will care. My offer remains open until you resolve to marry another.’
They stared at each other for a moment without speaking. Marguerite bit her lip, and slowly he reached out and drew his thumb across it to free it from her teeth. She saw his saturnine face close to hers—his eyes very dark, his lips parted on a hint of white teeth.
He kept his thumb on the corner of her mouth, his large hand cupping her cheek. ‘Perhaps this will help you decide.’ He put his mouth to hers and she felt a bolt of lightning strike her very core. Her lips parted and his tongue touched hers—but instead of feeling shock or revulsion she found herself responding with all her being. For an endless moment she lost herself: her body abandoned against his, his arm like a steel bar across her back, her hand on his chest. Then there were voices, quite close, and they drew apart.
She said, breathing hard and trying to sound angry, ‘Somebody could have come in.’
He gave a brief laugh, deep in his throat. ‘Nobody came in.’ He brushed a strand of hair off her face and said, with a change of tone that surprised her, ‘All right, my dove, I have made my point. Let us resume our dance.’
He parted the curtain and, looking out quickly, led her through and took her in his arms again. They joined the dancers stepping and turning—the ballroom was very crowded.
Marguerite kept her back straight and her eyes on his cravat, breathing deeply, trying to get her heartbeat to slow down, hoping that no one had noticed them emerging from behind the curtain; but conscious of his face close to hers, and the warmth of his hand on her back—her dress was cut quite low, and his thumb brushed the bare skin above it. When the dance ended she curtsied, not looking at him, and went to find her mother, praying she would not have noticed her absence from the ballroom.
Happily, Lady Lennox had gone off to play cards, and Marguerite joined a group of her friends, who were so busy laughing and joking that they obviously had observed nothing. Except for Alice, who looked at her arm, and said, ‘What have you done to yourself?’
Peering at it, she noticed a red mark on the flesh just above her glove. She said, as offhand as she could manage, ‘Oh, I’ve no idea,’ and pulled her glove higher to cover it. She felt Alice look at her strangely, and hoped her cheeks were not too red—but her cousin said nothing.
Marguerite kept away from Argyle for the rest of the night—it was not difficult in the crush of people. She felt she was suffocating in the overheated atmosphere, the air thick with mingled perfumes, cigar smoke, and perspiring bodies. Thankfully, her mother had a headache and wanted to leave soon after. Her father escorted them out, and all three stopped at the top of the steps leading down to the street and breathed in the fresh night air.
Lord Lennox said, ‘I have no idea why we subject ourselves to these unbearable conditions.’
Marguerite said, ‘So that I can dance—and find myself a husband?’
Her father laughed. ‘The cost is high. We will go to the country, and you will find a husband on the hunting field.’ He gave them an arm each and they walked down the steps.
Marguerite said, ‘A country squire. Hmm…I might like that. More even-tempered than a duke, hopefully.’
In the carriage, her mother remarked, ‘Argyle does not seem offended by your refusal of his offer, does he? I thought it was most polite of him to ask you to dance.’
Marguerite shrugged, hoping it was too dark in the carriage for her parents to see her blush. She said, ‘He is too full of his own importance to care.’ Her voice sounded strange to her ears.
Lord Lennox said, ‘Perhaps he has decided to persevere.’ He winked at his daughter, who pretended not to see.
Later, in the safe darkness of her bedchamber, Marguerite could think of nothing but that kiss. Everything about Argylewas hard—his face, his eyes, his arm against her back—and yet his lips were soft, and he had brushed the hair off her cheek in a gesture that was almost tender.
Over the next few days, the kiss haunted her. She knew she wanted more, but she was afraid—what of, she did not know. So she did her best to avoid him and was as cold and distant as she could bring herself to be during their brief exchanges, although she often felt his eyes on her. These days, he seemed to be everywhere she went.
Chapter 7
Argyle also was haunted by the kiss. Marguerite’s reaction had startled him. From the little he knew of her character, he had not expected prudishness—but he would not have been surprised to have been met with fury, even a slap on the cheek. He had been so disconcerted by her response, that he had deepened the kiss more than he had intended—he had only meant to press his lips briefly against hers. The taste of her mouth, the feel of her soft, warm body, her totally unexpected ardour had sharpened his hunting instincts—by Jove, this was a prize worth capturing. He would be ruthless in his pursuit, but he was shrewd enough to know he had to step carefully—this girl was no kitten, and if she definitely decided against him, there would be no having her. And now, more than ever, he knew he had to have her.
The situation, however, was becoming complicated—since he was going everywhere he was invited, people were starting to talk, to gossip that he was at last looking for a wife; someone told him it was being circulated that he had broken with his latest mistress; mothers redoubled their efforts tointerest him in their daughters. All this annoyed him—at the same time he saw Marguerite avoiding him, and, although he contrived to be in her path as often as possible, he too kept their exchanges brief and noncommittal. He did not want her to become an object of gossip, and he had noticed her cousin looking at him with suspicion.
Thinking about all this, alone in his library with a book open on his lap, he saw his place in society had evolved in a strange way. He had lost his parents at an early age—his father had been killed in a hunting accident, and his mother, heartbroken, had followed soon after. Her health had always been uncertain, and she had a few miscarriages; Thomas was her only surviving child. He had been very close to his mother, and her passing had left him with a great sense of absence. He inherited his father’s title, and found his position changed overnight: starting from the family solicitor down to the youngest housemaid, everyone treated him with deference, some almost fawning. He suddenly even felt unwelcome in the kitchen, where he used to spend much time being coddled by the old cook who had been with them for years, had known him since he was in short trousers and delighted in spoiling him with all his favourite foods.
Now it was alwaysYour Grace, women bobbing curtsies and men bowing before him. Being by nature a loner, he had no close friends, and his outings into society, although he was only nineteen, also became fraught with embarrassment: mothers started surrounding him, trying to interest him in their daughters, and the girls all but flung themselves at him. Not wanting to give an impression of interest where he felt none, he found it hard to be friendly, and retreated into his shell. At home he wandered the empty rooms, which the servants kept spotless but which he scarcely noticed, changing nothing over the years: the wallpaper becoming faded, the furniture and paintings gradually darkening. He vented his energy in sport; and for amusement, he spent time with rakes and light-skirts, who expected nothing from him, except perhaps money.
