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Was she really his lover? Had they had some sort of lover’s quarrel? If so, she was incredibly put out by him. He swiftly shoved aside the nagging doubt that began to worry him and continued to watch the couple. She had to be the Count’s lover. She couldn’t just be an innocent guest who had wandered into the room for few moments of peace, could she?
Whoever she is, she is angry with him, of that there could be no doubt.
Joe st
udied the woman’s lips and tried to read what she was saying but the meagre candlelight within the room made it impossible. Whatever was being said was intense, and made both parties look incredibly on edge and at odds with each other. It didn’t support the theory that this was a lovers’ tryst.
What’s going on then? Joe mused with a frown.
Struggling to understand what was truly happening, Joe turned his attention back to the Count, and studied the man from head to toe. Making a mental note of each of the man’s quite distinguishing features, he waited to see how all of this ended.
“Get away from me,” Marguerite snapped as she finally wrenched out of his arms. She put a small table, a chair, and the chaise between them and glared at him.
“Don’t you ever touch me again,” she snarled through gritted teeth. She almost cried when the Count sauntered casually toward her.
“Oh, come now dear. I know you are annoyed with me, but call it overzealousness,” the Count began, his voice teetering between cajoling and threatening. “I am not from your country and have little time for the silly English games of bowing and minding one’s manners.” His tone was as arrogantly mocking as the look in his eyes.
“Yes, I can see that,” Marguerite replied pointedly. “I am still not going to be forced into doing something I don’t want, whether it is marriage or, or-” she waved her arm ineffectually toward the spot they had been standing, “-that. So, I am afraid that both you and my father can think again and that is the end of the matter.”
This time, she spoke with such finality that even the Count seemed to realise he had pushed too hard. His entire demeanour swiftly turned remorseful.
“Please accept my apologies, my dear,” the man drawled. “I appear to have upset you.”
She knew from the gloating mirth in his eyes that he had not one ounce of apology within him.
“I am leaving,” she declared firmly.
“But you cannot leave so soon,” he declared pompously, as though it was positively unheard of for him to be thwarted in this way. “I won’t allow it.”
“It isn’t for you to allow me to do anything,” Marguerite reminded him with a contemptuous snort.
Once she reached the desk beside the door, she turned to glare at him to make sure he kept his distance this time. She didn’t relax, even when she saw he was still beside the fireplace, not least because she was well aware of how fast he could move if he had a mind to.
How could anybody be attracted to that? She mused when she looked over her shoulder at him. He looks like the Grim Reaper this evening. Give him a sickle and he would fit right in beside the Devil. He is the type of person only a mother could love.
“Before you go,” the Count sighed.
Marguerite looked longingly at the door and watched in horror as, like a huge bird swooping down on its unsuspecting prey, the Count flew across the room and planted himself solidly in front of the doorway, effectively blocking her exit once again.
“I haven’t finished what I was going to say,” the Count reasoned. “It is rude to abandon your guests.”
“I don’t have any guests,” she reminded him. “I am not the hostess here tonight.”
She wondered if he was being deliberately dense. Her annoyance at him, at this entire situation, began to ignite her temper. With that came her determination to get out of the room, and thwart the man, just to show him that she was not at his mercy. He would not decide when she could leave, and he would not get what he wanted. He just didn’t know it yet.
“Monique,” the Count murmured, a strange look that she suspected was intended to be an appeal in his eye.
“Marguerite,” she corrected, a little annoyed that he was pursuing her while he hadn’t even taken the time to learn her name.
“I demand that you understand that our connection is inevitable,” the Count declared loudly. “We must do this.”
“No, I won’t,” Marguerite argued. “I refuse. Go and find someone else.”
“But only you will do.”
“Why?” she cried.
“Your father owes me, and I intend to collect.”
