Surrender to the Marquess Read online

  Had that parting shot been meant for him? Lucian wondered if Sara had found time to tell her mother more about Marguerite than her letter could convey and whether Lady Eldonstone guessed at his own feelings of guilt. Probably she had—he was half-convinced the woman was a mind-reader.

  Lucian stopped by Sara’s table and she smiled up at him, a perfectly friendly smile that she might have given any of the male guests. Yet deep in those grey eyes there was another secret smile just for him. Was he mad to think of marriage and this woman? He had been raised to regard a wife as a responsibility to be guarded, protected, shielded from the slightest puff of cold air, yet Sara wanted none of that, seemed to regard his protective instincts as some kind of patronising patriarchal domination. Did she share her mother’s view that those unmarried girls were simply birds in gilded cages? Did she regard marriage as yet another cage?

  Her husband’s death had been a tragedy, but he could not but see it as an inevitable risk. As a gentleman, Harcourt had had no choice when his wife was insulted. He himself had no choice but to forbid the match when Marguerite had fallen for an unsuitable man when she was far too young. He could accept that he had handled the situation badly, but that did not negate the principle. Nor could he blame Eldonstone and Clere for their hostility to himself, even as he resented it.

  Sara would expect him to let her fight her own battles and she would be constantly fearful that he would meet his death on a field at dawn for some slight. For himself, he would be always on edge, convinced that she was hiding things from him that might trigger that imperative to protect.

  ‘Impossible,’ he said and only realised he had spoken out loud when both Sara and Farnsworth stared at him.

  ‘My lord?’ Farnsworth got to his feet. ‘I apologise, I have lingered here far too long. I should be working.’

  ‘Nonsense. I mean, you have not lingered too long. All I meant was that it is impossible to relax and enjoy myself when there is such a press of work. If you have finished and Lady Sara will excuse us, we can discuss priorities in the garden.’

  The last thing he wanted was company, but he could hardly justify bringing his secretary to a house party unless he showed some evidence of needing him to work.

  ‘I will fetch my notebook, my lord, and will be back directly.’ Farnsworth excused himself and went out.

  ‘Sit with me while you wait for him,’ Sara said.

  Reluctantly Lucian took Farnsworth’s chair. He did not want to be with Sara, not until he could work out what he wanted to be to her—lover or husband. Somehow there did not seem to be any other options.

  Around them the room was emptying. Some guests were drifting out to the terrace to enjoy the afternoon warmth, others were talking of resting, letter-writing, a visit to the gunroom with their host.

  Lucian leaned back, distancing himself from her to prevent any impression of intimacy. ‘A delightful meal. Your mother has the knack of entertaining, I think.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And wait until she has one of her picnics,’ Sara said.

  Lucian repressed a start as her foot nudged his and then rose to slide up his leg until her extended toes just brushed the inside of his thigh.

  ‘It really is not fair to tease me with delightful possibilities, Lady Sara.’

  Icicles, cold porridge, Latin verbs…

  Sara’s teeth closed on her lower lip as she hid her smile. ‘Oh, a picnic is not merely a possibility, the weather is set to remain fair, I believe. Or was there some other activity you were thinking of? Something delightful…’

  ‘I might think all I wish, but I am under your parents’ roof,’ he said, low-voiced. ‘And you agreed with me that discretion was necessary.’

  ‘I know.’ That provoking toe-tip continued its exploration. ‘But they do not own the sky and, as I said, the weather is set fair.’

  ‘I am their guest,’ he said firmly as he reached under the table, seized her foot and set about establishing whether Sara was ticklish. ‘Misbehaving in the grounds is not acceptable either.’

  ‘We could explore the gardens together without committing the slightest improper—oh, stop it!’ she gasped as he slid one finger into her kid shoe and caressed her instep. ‘That is so unfair. Let me go!’

  ‘If you promise to behave.’ When she nodded, lips compressed on her giggles, he released the foot and Sara sat up very straight.

  ‘Gardens? Surely you can give Gregory some work to be getting on with and then be free for me to show you the lily pond and the rose garden and the herbery.’

  ‘You want to torture me, in other words.’

  ‘A medieval knight would regard it as a test of his devotion to his lady to put himself constantly in her way and yet resist the temptation to steal so much as a touch.’

  ‘More fool him.’ It sounded like a recipe for a permanent state of frustrated arousal to Lucian.

  ‘It was romantic.’ She regarded him, head on one side. ‘You are not at all romantic, are you, Lucian?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’ Romance got a man into foolish entanglements and led to imprudent marriages. To his relief, because he could not tell whether he was being teased or had gravely disappointed Sara, Farnsworth came back into the dining room, deserted now except for the two of them at the table and the servants clearing the buffet.

  ‘I am ready, my lord. Lady Marguerite is playing battledore with the other young ladies and some of the gentlemen on the front lawn.’

  ‘Thank you. We will stroll to the lily pond, I think, if Lady Sara would be good enough to direct us. I do not expect it will take long, unless you have some knotty problems in the correspondence folder.’

  ‘Just the one about boundaries on the shooting-lodge lands, my lord.’

  ‘Walk straight across the terrace, down the steps, turn left and follow the slope of the lawn down,’ Sara directed them. ‘Do enjoy the dragonflies.’

  *

  So, her lover was not at all romantic. Sara sighed as she stood in the window, watching the two men strolling down the grassy slope to the hidden valley. Out of sight of the house the stream had been dammed to make a lily pond before making its way out over an artificial waterfall to join the main lake.

  Michael had been romantic, given to quoting Shakespearean sonnets in the moonlight, or laying single roses on her pillow. He would come home, apparently preoccupied with his current problem in a Greek translation and surprise her with one perfect peach or a pretty silk handkerchief that he had seen in a shop window and thought she would like.

  And in turn she would like to surprise him with little gifts tucked into his papers or by greeting him wearing nothing but a scandalous negligee when he got home and luring him upstairs.

  Lucian was passionate and tender and exciting in bed, but he probably thought that romance was for foolish youngsters like Marguerite and Gregory and had nothing to do with the real world.

  He was quite right to resist her teasing about making love out of doors. She would not misbehave here, inside or out, but a little flirtation, a few stolen kisses, were hardly outrageous and a week of frustration could only give their eventual lovemaking a passionate urgency.

  How long to give the two men for their discussion? Surely the trickiest of boundary problems would not take more than half an hour. She would wander round to see how the battledore match was progressing and then go and admire the dragonflies herself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marguerite was sitting on a rug watching when Sara arrived. ‘Running around after a shuttlecock is rather tiring,’ she explained. ‘I thought I had best stop when I became breathless, because it will be no good for our plan if I am laid up in bed again.’

  ‘Very sensible. But no doubt the young men will want to take you for a stroll through the grounds soon. It might be best not to venture out of sight—the maze and the shrubbery are best explored in a group.’

  ‘Oh, quite.’ Marguerite laughed. ‘It is very flattering that they want to talk and flirt, but the young ones are
so very young and the older ones are not a patch on my Gregory, so you need not worry that I might do anything imprudent.’

  ‘Of course not. Still, a little very mild flirtation will help divert suspicion when you and Gregory suddenly fall in love.’

  ‘It is lovely, isn’t it?’ Marguerite gave a happy little shiver and wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘Being in love. And I am so happy about you and Lucian.’

  ‘About…? Marguerite, I am not in love with your brother. I did explain about not getting married.’ What a disaster that would be! The moment they got out of bed they would be disagreeing about something and when those shutters came down behind his eyes she felt as though she was on the other side of a pane of glass, a moth fluttering helplessly against a barrier she could not see and did not understand.

  ‘Oh.’ The younger woman rested her cheek on her crossed arms and looked at Sara. ‘I am sorry. I know what you said, but every time I see you together I think that you and he are falling in love.’

  ‘There is desire,’ Sara said cautiously. ‘But not love.’

  ‘So you really aren’t going to marry him, then?’

  ‘No. I am sorry if that shocks you.’

  ‘Not shocks.’ Marguerite lifted her head and watched the flight of the shuttlecock, pursued by two laughing young women. ‘I am disappointed. I had hoped for a sister.’

  ‘That would have been lovely. We could have formed an alliance against older brothers,’ Sara said, trying for a lightness she did not feel. She was very fond of Marguerite and the thought of her as a sister made her eyes swim with sudden, unexpected tears. ‘But I have been married once, very happily, and I do not think that Lucian and I would suit.’

  ‘He watches you, you know. All the time when he thinks you aren’t noticing. You watch him, too.’

  ‘Goodness.’ I watch him? I suppose I do. But he watches me, too? She should be worried, but the thought was dangerously welcome. ‘I do hope we are not as obvious as that.’

  ‘It is only noticeable to someone who loves you both. Oh, they have finished the game. It looks as though they are going down to the lake, so I will join them. I feel quite rested now.’

  Sara remained on the rug as the group of young people wandered away. There were several of the married ladies down by the lakeside sketching, quite adequate for chaperonage, so she felt no compulsion to stir and certainly none to join Lucian with his sister’s words still reverberating in her head. Thought you were falling in love…he watches you, you know…

  It was desire, surely? That was why she looked at him, because he was very easy to look at, very desirable to daydream about. That was all. That was not love. Love was wanting to spend your life with someone.

  She looked up to see Gregory Farnsworth walking back to the house, his head bent over his notebook. He was no doubt laden with notes and instructions to write memoranda or draft letters. Poor man, stuck inside when his love was down by the lake, laughing in the sunshine.

  Lucian had not followed him. She got to her feet and shook the wrinkles out of her muslin skirts, then made her way down the lawn towards the secret dell with its circle of still water.

  Sara found him sitting on a rustic bench, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands. He smiled when he saw her, but did not move his position and she felt strangely warmed by the fact that he was so easy with her that he neglected the gesture of immediately getting to his feet.

  ‘The boundaries are all sorted out?’ she asked as she sat beside him and leaned in so their shoulders touched companionably.

  ‘I need more information on that. I have given Farnsworth just enough work to make Marguerite’s complaints that I am a slave driver convincing.’

  ‘She is very happy, you know. It means a lot to her that you are finally reconciled to this.’

  ‘It isn’t what I wanted for her, this match, but I must settle for her being safe and happy.’ Lucian spoke briskly, setting the subject firmly aside, she assumed. ‘Look, there’s a dragonfly, a monster.’

  Sara followed his pointing finger and exclaimed over the insect, but she could feel the tension in him, just from that small point of contact where her shoulder touched his. Marguerite was never going to be the wife of a high-ranking man of fashion, never be as rich as her brother’s ambitions for her. She might be happy, but he was going to have to learn to forgive himself for allowing the relationship in the first place and then for driving the young couple to near-tragedy. She sighed a little and let her head rest on his shoulder, relaxing at the contact, even with his body so tense. She knew all about guilt, about the difficulty of self-forgiveness.

  ‘Tell me about your husband,’ Lucian said abruptly.

  ‘I did tell you.’ This was too close to her thoughts, as though he had divined her anxieties that she had not been a good wife.

  ‘Tell me about how you met, how you fell in love, what it was about Harcourt.’

  ‘I did not enjoy my first Season very much,’ she confessed, feeling that this was almost a Once Upon a Time story. ‘That makes me sound shy, or perhaps bored or difficult to please, I suppose. Oh, the gowns were lovely and I went to so many truly wonderful balls and receptions and theatrical performances. It was all new and strange and interesting, such a change from India. And yet, somehow I never felt I was really a part of that world.’

  Lucian made a sound, an encouraging one, so she pressed on, wondering if he could possibly understand. The London ton was his world, the one he was born and bred to, and she was an outsider. ‘We caused rather a sensation—Papa having been out of the country for so long and Mama, of course, so beautiful and so exotic. Some high-sticklers were cold because of Mama’s parentage, but she simply dealt with them without turning a hair. And Ashe is very good looking and he had led a very adventurous life in India, at my uncle’s court, so he was accepted by all the gentlemen, and the ladies all flirted, and he met Phyllida and settled right in.’

  ‘And you are not good looking? Not beautiful?’ Lucian’s tone was teasing.

  ‘I am…different. I was a young lady and young ladies, just out, are expected to conform. My skin is never going to be milk white with roses in my cheeks, nor have I the dark hair and eyes that might make me look glamorously Italian or Spanish. I just looked wrong in white muslin and pastels.’

  ‘I can see that. Jewel colours suit you best.’ He shifted against the bench until he was sitting in the angle made by the back and the arm, with one foot on the seat. ‘Come here.’ He pulled her gently back until she was sitting with her shoulders against his chest, his arm steadying her.

  Sara let her head fall back against his shoulder and wriggled until she was comfortable. ‘And I had been brought up to be as well educated as my brother, to have my opinion listened to, to take part in discussions, to read what I liked.’

  ‘And to do a man damage with a sharp knife.’

  ‘Yes, that, too.’ She felt his chuckle and smiled. ‘And suddenly I must have no opinions, I must pretend to be ignorant and sweet and demure. I must pretend to know nothing about the relations between the sexes. I had to learn to be a ninny.’

  ‘Surely your parents did not want that?’

  ‘No, but they also wanted me to fit in. My father was the Marquess and we had no choice but to live here, to live within this society. They wanted me to be happy, but it was obvious that somewhere compromises would have to be made, either by me or in society’s expectations of me.’

  ‘You had no beaux? Surely you were courted.’

  ‘Oh, yes. But you see because I was exotic many of the men thought I was also…loose. And I was a virgin and I did not want to behave in the way they expected. So I spent a lot of time snubbing gentlemen or sticking hatpins in them. It was all very tiring.’

  ‘And your father and brother did not do anything?’ Lucian sounded outraged.

  ‘I made very sure they did not know. Can you imagine the trail of challenges and duels if those two had guessed?’

  ‘It would
only have taken one for the point to be taken.’

  ‘At what risk? Anyway, I soon became good at repelling advances, but I did not see anyone I could feel the slightest tendre for. They all seemed so alien.’

  ‘Do I seem alien?’

  ‘Of course.’ She dropped her hand to his thigh and squeezed it in apology for her words. ‘And then, one night at Lady Lanchester’s ball, I slipped into an alcove shielded by palms to sit out a dance in peace and found there was someone already there. He was reading a book.’

  ‘Michael Harcourt.’

  ‘Dr Michael Harcourt, if you please. Spectacles on the end of his nose, totally engrossed. So I sat down and pretended to ignore him and he must have reached the end of a chapter because he looked up and saw me and shot to his feet, sending the book flying. By the time we had rescued it from under a chair and found three scattered bookmarks and flattened the bumped corners we were firm friends.’

  ‘And he was at Cambridge? A don?’

  ‘Yes. Classical languages and philology. I knew enough Latin and a little Greek to understand what he was talking about and I speak several Indic languages, which interested him. And he listened to me and he would argue things out with me. It was so refreshing. Before long we were firm friends and then, gradually, more. He had come to London to keep his mother from fretting at him about finding a wife and settling down, but he wasn’t enjoying the Season much either.’

  ‘Was he good looking?’

  Was that a slight overtone of masculine rivalry there? Sara smiled and closed her eyes, strangely comfortable with this intimate confession as she half-lay against Lucian’s broad chest. ‘No. He was not ugly, you understand, or even plain. He was almost as tall as you, but of a more slender build. His hair was mousy and his eyes grey and his nose not particularly distinguished, but his chin was firm. His face was a little too long for good looks and his ears stuck out, just a little, but perhaps that was because he was always jamming pens behind them. It was a kind face and an intelligent face and… Michael’s face.’ She found that tears were running down her cheeks. Tears of recollection and regret, but not desperate tears. She let them flow, strangely comforted by them.