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 thenight, 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.
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 sleepas 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 heralight, 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.
