‘But always right.’ He pushed her back on the bed.
* * *
Marguerite was not wrong in her suspicions. After dinner some days later, Curtis and Flossie came into the parlour together. Curtis, at his most wooden, said, ‘Your Graces, there is something we would like to talk to you about.’
‘I hope you have not decided to resign,’ Argyle said, half-jokingly.
But Marguerite had noticed Flossie was blushing. She said, ‘I suspect congratulations are in order.’
Curtis said, ‘Of course we are not resigning, Your Grace. We have decided to get married.’
Marguerite embraced Flossie. ‘Oh, Flossie, I wish you both the greatest happiness.’
Argyle shook his valet’s hand. ‘Well done, Curtis, you have got yourself a real gem.’
Curtis permitted himself a genuine smile. ‘Thank you, Your Grace, I know it.’
There was a short, slightly awkward silence, and then Argyle said, ‘Without presuming to interfere in your plans, I have a suggestion to make. You should go off now to get married and have a short honeymoon to rest and sort out your affairs before you return to your duties. Her Grace and I are very comfortablehere—we are informal, and Mr and Mrs Mowatt can provide for our needs.’
Flossie beamed, and Marguerite said, ‘It is a very good plan. Then Flossie can help me settle into my new home when she gets back.’
Curtis said to his master, ‘It is very kind of you, Your Grace. As long as you are sure you can get on without me.’
Argyle laughed. ‘I almost hesitate to say yes, in case you should be offended, Curtis. But here I spend my days in shirtsleeves—I am sure I can manage that.’
Curtis said darkly, ‘At least I can rest easy knowing you will not be using your boots. I would not like anyone else to get their hands on them—some thumb marks can never be erased.’
Argyle laughed and said, ‘Go and enjoy your honeymoon, Curtis. You deserve it.’
Curtis and Flossie, bowing and smiling, went out, and Marguerite turned to her husband. ‘I do not recognise you,mon coeur.Are you feeling quite well?’
‘You seem to have put me on a righteous path. Be careful, I shall be doing good works next, and my aunt would certainly not approve of that.’ He had a wicked glint in his eyes; then he remembered something. ‘Oh, no! I have just had a thought which terrifies me—I hope you do not mean us to be reforming the slums?’
‘We shall see about that. But you said,us! I will reformyouyet, Your Grace.’
THE END
COMING NEXT:
Book Two in the Dances by Candlelight series:
ISABEL
When Isabel’s father dies, leaving his family in serious debt, she faces a stark choice: marry the wealthy Earl of Bengrove, who is in need of an heir, or earn a living as a governess. The earl is aloof and coldly practical, but he offers security, luxury and salvation for her family. Isabel finds her indulgent new life overwhelming and lonely, yet beneath her husband’s reserve she discovers kindness and unexpected passion. Falling in love with him was never part of her plans, and there is also the shadow of the beautiful Mrs Morrell—his longtimemistress—hovering over their marriage.
Here is a short sample:
Chapter 1
In the plush interior of the carriage conveying them to their honeymoon, the newlyweds sat facing each other, neither touching nor speaking. They both looked out of the window, lost in their own thoughts.
Miss Isabel Taynton, newly the Countess of Bengrove, was satisfied she had done her duty as it behoved her, but she was not in the best of spirits. She was tired, and uncomfortable in her finery. Her gown, of ivory silk with a gold lace overdress, worn over excruciatingly tight stays, was adorned with rosettes and ribbons and more ornate than she was used to. Her hair had been dressed in such a complicated way that her scalp was itchy and painful. Her new satin slippers pinched her toes, and she was weighed down by her earrings and the rings on her fingers: her prospective husband had plied her with gifts of jewellery, and her mother—despite their strained circumstances—had insisted her wedding attire had to conform to the demands of his wealth and rank. She was sad about leaving her home and siblings for the first time in her life, and she was dreading the night ahead.
She stole a look at her new husband, Francis Edward Augustus Horton, the Earl of Bengrove— ‘husband’ seemed an odd word to use, all at once, about someone she hardly knew. He was a man of some thirty years of age, tall and of pleasing countenance, but with an air of boredom conveyed by a pair of hooded eyes, and lips that could easily curl in disdain; a man whose wealth and consequence had led him to hold himself in high esteem. His strong, lean face was grave, his eyebrows drawn a little together—perhaps he had as many misgivings as herself? She had to admit he looked handsome in a black coat of exceptional fit and waistcoat embroidered in silver thread. He had performed his part in the ceremonies with grace and ease, but with that undefinable air of ennui which characterised him.
She glanced at his hands, loosely clasped upon his knee. They were shapely hands, with long fingers and well-kept nails. She imagined them touching her and was relieved the thought did not disgust her. That was something at least.
As if feeling her gaze upon him, her husband turned to look at her and cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’m glad that is over, are you not?’
