‘He is a true Nonpareil.’
When he saw Argyle approach, Charles always made sure he was riding next to Marguerite. Argyle never addressed him directly, only nodding in a general direction towards the whole group and riding off before Marguerite could introduce anyone. This annoyed her, but she decided against mentioning it to Charles, who also kept silent; although she could see he too was irked. However, these episodes were so short that they werequickly forgotten as the group was accosted by other people known to them.
* * *
There was one occasion on which Marguerite might have had reason to feel grateful towards His Grace: at a fashionable crush which they were both attending, one of her older admirers, a plump and pompous man of florid countenance and even more florid vocabulary, had cornered her in a secluded niche. He had been steadfastly pursuing her for a while, and she had been as steadfastly avoiding him. After refusing him a number of times, using a variety of excuses, she had no choice but to accept standing up in a set with him. He had somehow managed to manoeuvre her into this corner where he was now engaged in kissing her hand, which he had imprisoned in both of his, murmuring flowery compliments all the while.
‘Lady Marguerite, my dearest, dearest lady, I have always been your most fervent admirer. Your exquisite beauty…your charm…have enchanted me…’
Marguerite, appalled, was trying unsuccessfully to pull her hand away—she could feel his hot breath through her thin silk glove. His glistening lips and pudgy hands with their hairy knuckles and longish nails made her shudder; he wore a ring with a large ruby on one finger.
Just as she had decided that, however impolite it might be, she had no other choice than to give him a sharp kick in the shins and make good her escape, the Duke of Argyle’s tall figure loomed above them; his dark eyes veiled by lowered eyelids, his lips curled in a sneer. He drawled, ‘My dear fellow, pray stop being such a dead bore. You should be able to comprehend when your advances are not welcome.’
The man started, a belligerent exclamation escaping his lips—but when he looked up and met the duke’s forbidding expression, he straightened up and, flushing, retreated.
Marguerite, who had paled under his onslaught, now regained her colour, but did not acknowledge her debt to herrescuer. A flash of devilry replaced her relief, and she said, opening her eyes at him, ‘Shame on you, Your Grace. How inconsiderate of you to interrupt the only romantic interlude I have had this evening.’ She gave him a mischievous smile, a quick curtsy, and turned to go. Argyle watched her retreating back, his eyes fixed on her slim and graceful figure.
* * *
On another occasion, as Argyle stopped to greet Marguerite in the park, he saw she was not riding her grey mare, but a big, raw-boned chestnut gelding. He asked, ‘Is that a new horse?’
Marguerite smiled. ‘No, only my mare has knocked her fetlock and needs a rest, so I borrowed this one. He is rather large, isn’t he?’
Argyle was on the point of answering when Charles, no doubt annoyed that Marguerite was conversing with him, set off at a canter. He called, ‘Let us go. Come, Alice—come on, Marguerite.’
She gave him an apologetic glance and turned to go, and Argyle stood looking after her for a moment. She and Alice followed Charles, but soon Marguerite passed him at a gallop. Charles called, ‘Marguerite, slow down!’ and he heard her shout back, ‘I cannot!’ She was pulling on the reins, but the horse did not reduce his pace.
Alice, who had drawn close to Charles, cried, ‘He’s bolted with her!’
Argyle saw Charles urge his horse on. He kicked his own horse to a gallop, and the big stallion did not take long to overtake the others and reach Marguerite. He planned to catch hold of her rein and try to pull the horse to a halt, when he saw she had the situation under control.
Sitting upright and solid in her saddle, she pulled on her left rein only, aiming the horse at a wide expanse of grass to the left of the track. The horse veered and kept galloping, but in a circle, while she continued pulling on the inside rein and talking to him in a soothing voice, gradually managing to decrease the circle. Argyle saw she had no need of him—he pulled up his stallion andstood watching until the horse slowed to a canter then, after a few more turns, a trot and finally a walk.
Alice and Charles had caught up to her. Alice asked, her voice high with anxiety, ‘Are you all right, Marguerite?’
Marguerite’s cheeks were red and she was breathing hard, but she managed a laugh. ‘Yes. I will now take him back home at a sedate walk. Ihatebolters! I am never riding this horse again.’ Yet Argyle saw her lean forward and pat the animal on the neck. A lock of hair had come loose from her chignon and was trailing on her shoulder.
He said, ‘Well ridden, ma’am.’ She turned to smile at him, and he touched his top hat and rode off.
* * *
Argyle walked on towards the lake in the park, oblivious of his surroundings, barely acknowledging people greeting him as they passed by. His thoughts were consumed by images of Marguerite: teasing him when he had rescued her from the unwanted attentions of that boor; sitting calm and steady on the runaway horse until she brought it under control. She was turning out to be a lot more than the new, exotic beauty about town. Her Parisian elegance and poise concealed a brisk sense of humour and a lot of pluck. At first glance, she appeared to be an integral part of the fresh batch of debutantes of the season, giggling and flirting and dancing and preening about in their new gowns, ambitious mothers in tow—but there were other, unexpected sides to her.
Chapter 4
Anew girl had arrived in town for the season—on dits had it that she was the daughter of some kind of merchant, a Mr Swinton, who had inherited a baronetcy from a distant cousin, and was now become Sir Robert Swinton. He had made a fortune in trade and was looking to elevate himself in society, via his eldest daughter who possessed a considerable dowry.
Marguerite had heard the gossip, and the quips exchanged amongst her friends. At a dance one evening she saw the Swinton family come in, attired in their new finery—the father portly and sporting luxurious side whiskers, mother and daughter attired in over-elaborate gowns adorned with endless flounces, ribbons and furbelows. Their ample bosoms, ears and arms were laden with jewellery, their hair dressed and studded with pins and flowers.
They were introduced to a few people who talked with them briefly and then escaped to rejoin their acquaintances. The three sat down on some vacant chairs by the side of the dance floor. Nobody asked the girl to dance. However, she did not seem very put out by that, only watched the dancing with wide eyes and a smile on her face. Marguerite asked one of theladies she had seen talking to them to introduce her, curtsied to all three and sat down next to the girl. She said, ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Swinton—or may I call you Elisabeth? You are new in town?’
‘Oh, please do call me Betsy, ma’am—my family and friends all call me that. Yes, we arrived a few days ago—we have taken a house in Finsbury Square. We do not know many people yet.’ The girl, though not pretty, had a pleasant, open face and beautiful blue eyes.
‘Well, now you know me, Betsy—and please call me Marguerite. I too was a stranger but a short while ago, for I used to live in France.’
Betsy looked at her with interest. ‘I have never been to France—or to London, before. We live in Yorkshire, near York.’
‘I have never been there, but I have heard it is very beautiful.’
