Surrender to the Marquess Page 2

  Sara did not rise to the bait of his reference to Aphrodite’s birth. ‘Dot was a dipper. They need to be strong women to deal with nervous customers who have never been in the sea before. Some of them fall over and have to be dragged out of the surf and others become agitated when it comes to being dipped and so have to be held tight and ducked under even more firmly. She hurt her back and could no longer do such heavy work, so she came to help me. She was grateful for the opportunity and, quite unnecessarily, has set herself to guard me against…importunity.’

  That should suppress any inclination Mr Dunton might have to flirtation. Sara, who was not above enjoying the escort of a large, elegant gentleman—or the stimulating sensation of a well-muscled arm under her hand—allowed the silence to persist for the five minutes it took to reach the Royal Promenade Hotel at a gentle stroll.

  The hotel was a straggling edifice consisting of a number of adjoining buildings tacked together with linking doors and added passageways. All had been unified by a coat of cream colour wash over the entire façade, set off by royal blue trim and the hotel’s name in large gilt letters.

  Mr Dunton removed the basket from Tim’s grasp and stopped in front of the reception desk where the proprietor was speaking to the clerk. ‘Mr Winstanley, would you show Mrs Harcourt to our private sitting room while I fetch my sister to her?’

  Nicely done, sir, Sara thought as she, and her basket, were ushered upstairs and through to a pleasant room with a bay window overlooking the promenade. All very much above-board and using Mr Winstanley to establish his credentials as a respectable man who does, indeed, have a sister in residence. But there is still something not quite right about you, Mr Dunton.

  But whatever it was it did not affect the essential attractive masculinity of the man, even if something was making her antennae twitch with curiosity. He was very aware of her as a woman and she was equally as aware of him—the trick was going to be not showing that.

  She settled herself at the table, took the sketchbook and a pencil from the basket and began to draw the scene from the window, concentrating on a rapid and amusing vignette of two ladies who had stopped to chat by the flagpole. One was large, the other thin, and both had ridiculously small lapdogs on ribbon leashes. When the door opened Sara stood up and dropped the book quite casually, face-up, on the table.

  The young woman who came into the room with Mr Dunton at her back was obviously his sister, with the same brown hair and hazel eyes, but a straighter nose and less firmness to her chin. She was also very obviously young, had been unwell and was in a state of the sulks.

  ‘Marg—Mrs Harcourt, might I present my sister, Marguerite.’ Mr Dunton frowned at his own stumble and the girl sent him a sharp glance. ‘Marguerite, this is Mrs Harcourt whose shop I passed today. She has kindly brought down some things that might interest you.’

  Miss Dunton bobbed the sketchiest of curtsies and sat on the other side of the small round table set in the window bay.

  How very interesting. Dunton had begun to present her to his sister, which was correct if the girl was of higher rank. Then he had caught himself and presented the girl to her, the older, married woman. Which meant two things. Firstly he was treating her like a lady, not a shopkeeper, and secondly he and his sister actually ranked above a respectable married lady, even though he did not know to whom she had been married.

  If you are not in possession of a title, my fine gentleman, I will eat my expensive new bonnet, feathers and all.

  So what was he doing in Sandbay and what was wrong with his sister?

  Sara summoned up her professional smile and a brisk but friendly tone of voice. ‘Good morning, Miss Dunton. My shop provides everything in the way of rational entertainment for ladies.’ That was met with a blank look so she tried for something more direct. ‘I stock everything from hammers to hit fossils out of rocks to nets to explore rock pools with.’

  Finally she had managed to produce a blink of reaction from the young woman. ‘Hammers?’

  ‘And art materials and plain wooden boxes and mirror frames and so forth to decorate with paint or shells or scrollwork. Fabrics and embroidery floss, knitting wool, water trays for making seaweed pictures, patterns…books, journals.’ She nodded towards the basket. ‘Perhaps you would like to take a look. Would you excuse me while I just finish my sketch of those two ladies outside, they make such an amusing picture.’

  Behind her chair she gestured with her hand towards the doorway, hoping Mr Dunton would take the hint. After a moment, when she picked up the pad and pencil again, she heard the door open and close and bent her head over the sketch. To have the man out of the room was like releasing a pent-up breath and letting air into her lungs. He seemed to inhabit all the space, even when she could not see him.

  Sara steadied her breathing and her pencil. She was not here for Mr Dunton’s sake.

  Chapter Two

  From the corner of her eye Sara saw Marguerite hesitate, then begin to explore the basket. ‘Why would you want to hit rocks?’ She uncorked a bottle of little shells and let them run out into her palm. ‘And what is a fossil?’

  Sara sketched and explained about fossils, then mentioned, very casually, how liberating it was to scramble about at the foot of the cliffs, hitting things hard. ‘I really do not think that young ladies have the opportunity to hit things enough, do you?’

  ‘I often want to.’ Marguerite picked up the hammer and weighed it in her hand as though visualising a target. Despite her apparent fragility she managed it with little effort. ‘Aren’t rock pools full of slimy things?’

  ‘They are full of beautiful things, some of which are a trifle slimy. But the pleasure of taking off your shoes and stockings and paddling far outweighs the occasional slithery sensation.’

  ‘No stockings? In public?’ Finally, some animation.

  ‘On the beach only, of course. There, what do you think?’ She tipped the sketch up for Marguerite to see.

  ‘Oh, that is so amusing! The large lady with the little dog and the thin lady with the fat pug. How clever you are. I could never do anything like that.’

  ‘It really isn’t very good technically—I only sketch for my own amusement and rarely show anyone.’

  ‘I don’t know what I want to do.’ The girl’s shoulders slumped again, the moment of animation gone. It wasn’t boredom or petulance, more as though she was gazing at blankness, Sara thought. This went deeper than a lowness of spirits after the influenza or a fit of the sullens at being dragged off to the seaside by her brother. ‘I can’t draw as well as you. I do not like embroidery…’

  ‘Neither do I. Did your governess insist on you sewing tiresome samplers?’ Marguerite nodded, so, encouraged, Sara pressed on. ‘I hold afternoon teas at my shop where ladies bring their craft work or their writing and chat and plan new projects and eat wickedly rich cake. There is no need to socialise if you don’t want to—some ladies just read or browse.’

  ‘I suppose they gossip about their beaux.’ The pretty mouth set into a thin line.

  ‘Not at all.’ Interesting. Has she been disappointed in love, perhaps? ‘We do not meet to talk about men, but about what amuses us. And men, so often, are not at all amusing, are they?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’ Marguerite glanced towards the door, then stooped to rummage in the basket again and came up with a pamphlet. ‘What is this?’

  ‘How to make seaweed pictures. It is rather fun, only very messy and wet. I am holding a tea this afternoon at three, if you would like to come. It is six pence for refreshments and there is no obligation to buy anything.’

  ‘What did Lucian tell you about me?’ Marguerite asked suddenly.

  There are going to be tears in a moment, poor child. Whatever is wrong? Don’t lie to her—she will know. She isn’t stupid.

  ‘That you hadn’t been well, that you were here for your health, but were very bored, and he hoped I might have something that would entertain you. Do you wish you were back in London? If that i
s where you live?’

  ‘No… Yes, that is where our town house is, where my brother lives. I wish I were in France.’ The hazel eyes with their lids that seemed swollen from crying gazed out southwards over the sea. ‘I wish I was dead,’ Marguerite whispered so softly that Sara realised she could pretend she hadn’t heard that heart-rending murmur. What on earth could she reply that wasn’t simply a string of ill-informed platitudes?

  ‘I have never been to France. I was brought up in India.’

  ‘Is that why your skin is so golden? Oh, I do beg your pardon, it was rude of me to make a personal observation like that. Only you are so very striking.’

  ‘Not at all. I am one-quarter Indian on my mother’s side. Her mother was a Rajput princess.’

  That sent the threat of tears into full retreat. ‘A princess? And you own a shop?’

  ‘Because it amuses me. When my husband died I wanted to do something practical for a while, to get right away from everything that had been my life before. I found it helped.’ A little. It even keeps the nightmares at bay for most of the time.

  That would probably all get back to Mr Dunton, or whatever his name was, but her real identity was no secret in Sandbay. It would certainly serve to confuse the man, what with his assumptions about widows. Would he still flirt with a part-Indian descendant of royalty?

  She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘I must go now. Shall I look for you this afternoon?’ Sara kept the question indifferent, as though she did not much mind one way or another. This girl was being pushed to do things for her own good and her natural reaction was to push back, because that gave her some feeling of control. Sara reflected that she was all too familiar with that response herself. She began to gather up the scattered contents of the basket, pouring the seashells back into their jar.

  ‘Yes, I will, thank you. Must my brother come, too?’

  ‘Oh, no. We do not allow the gentlemen to join in. He may deliver you and collect you, of course.’

  And, finally, she had earned a smile. Small and fleeting, but a smile. What on earth was wrong with the child? And with her relationship with her brother, for that matter.

  They said their goodbyes, Sara deep in thought. The moment she closed the door behind her the basket was taken out of her hands.

  ‘What response did you get?’

  ‘Mr Dunton, I suggest you speak to your sister. I am not some sort of go-between for you and I am certainly not going to spy on her.’ Then she saw the rigid set of his jaw and the anxiety in his eyes and relented. ‘Miss Dunton would like to come to our tea this afternoon. Three o’clock, for ladies only.’

  ‘These are all respectable ladies—’ he began.

  ‘Either you trust me, Mr Dunton, or you do not. Good day to you. I hope to see your sister later.’ She did not stop to see if he reacted to the emphasis she put on his name. ‘Tim! Take the basket, if you please.’

  Respectable ladies, indeed. What does he take me for?

  *

  A fierce little beauty. Lucian was in half a mind to wrest the basket back from her tame urchin and walk Mrs Harcourt back up the hill. Then he recalled why he was here, which was not to flirt with shopkeepers, however well spoken. However beautiful. Mrs Harcourt was slender, except for a lush bosom, and she was blonde, grey-eyed and golden-skinned. She might have Italian blood, perhaps, although that imperious little nose did not look Italian. Very beautiful, very self-possessed and dressed in perfect, expensive, simplicity. This was not what he had expected to find when he had set out that morning to interview a shopkeeper.

  He nodded to the porter who opened the front door for him and strolled across the road to lean back against the rail that protected the drop to the beach. From there he could watch Mrs Harcourt stroll up the hill without appearing to stare. Even in motion she had a poise that argued a much more rigorous upbringing than a shopkeeper normally had. And when she was near there was a rumour of perfume in the air, a scent shockingly exotic in the salt-laden air of this little Dorset town. Sandalwood and something else, something peppery. Temptation, indeed. His body stirred at the memory.

  Her voice was not merely genteel and well modulated, it was unmistakably of the upper classes. What on earth was a lady, a respectable young widow, doing acting as shopkeeper in a seaside resort, guarded by her miniature police spy and her formidable assistant? Lucian was conscious that the puzzle was doing nothing to dampen his very definite arousal.

  How long had it been since he had been with a woman? Not since the beginning of this nightmare with Marguerite, he realised. Almost six months…a long time for him. Ever since he had been an adult he had been in a discreet relationship of some kind, sometimes simply brief affaires…more recently longer-term arrangements with a mistress. Lucian was naturally wary either of compromising his partners or of exposing himself to emotional entanglements. He was conscious of what was due to his name and his position and the reputation that his father had acquired as a womaniser did nothing to recommend a more flamboyant way of life to him. Finding himself responsible for a sister was an added incentive for discretion and the thought of next Season, when he had resolved to find himself a suitable young lady to court and marry, was another reason against setting up a new mistress. He had no intention of being an unfaithful husband.

  But six months… No wonder the thought of taking a mistress was appealing. And pretty widows were often game for a brief liaison, ideal for a situation where his stay here was inevitably limited. But not, it seemed, this widow, who gave him the uneasy feeling that she was a mind reader and had no intention of reaching the end of the chapter as far as he was concerned.

  Mrs Harcourt was almost out of sight now, still walking slowly, talking as she went to the lad beside her whose head was tipped to one side so he could look up at her. For some reason the slow pace seemed uncharacteristic—he could imagine her in rapid motion, swift, swirling, dangerous.

  Dangerous? He really needed to get a grip on his fantasies.

  *

  That man had come out of the hotel and was watching her, she could feel it, even though she did not make the mistake of looking back. Sara kept her pace slow: let him look, she was not going to scuttle away like a nervous maiden and reveal how much he unnerved her.

  ‘Just drop that at the shop, there’s a good boy, and ask Dot for tuppence,’ she said to Tim as he shifted the big basket from one hand to the other. She kept going past Aphrodite’s Seashell and went into the third establishment she came to, Makepeace’s Circulating Library and Emporium, the town’s only library.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Makepeace.’

  James Makepeace was sitting behind the counter, making up an order for one of the page boys at the hotel to take down for a visitor. He stood up, bowed from the neck and sat down again. ‘How may I assist you, Mrs Harcourt?’ He knew perfectly well who she really was, all the town did, but he kept her two identities, the shop and her social life, scrupulously separate like everyone else.

  ‘I wanted to consult the Peerage, if it is available, Mr Makepeace.’

  If the library had been empty, which rarely happened during opening hours, he would stammer out Sara and she would call him James and he would blush rather shyly, his ears turning red, and offer her a cup of tea, which was as far as his notions of courtship dared go.

  Sara did not encourage him beyond friendship, it would not be fair. She liked him very well, although not in any romantic sense. Besides, she had one marriage to a sweet, unworldly man behind her and she knew that it took a special kind of gentleman not to be dominated by her direct approach to life. The librarian was a friend, and always an amiable one, and that was quite enough for her.

  ‘It is on the usual shelf upstairs, Mrs Harcourt. Please let me know if I can be of further help.’

  She murmured her thanks and climbed the short flight of stairs to the reading room with its panoramic view of the bay, one of its main attractions for those who were not bookish. Several people were out on the balcony i
n the sunshine using the telescope, two elderly gentlemen were engaged in a politely vicious dispute over the possession of The Times newspaper and a pair of young ladies came through from the lending section clutching a pile of what looked suspiciously like sensation novels.

  Sara found the familiar thick red volume of the Peerage and settled down at a table. She had been out for less than a year before she married and she and Michael had moved immediately to Cambridge for him to take up his new post at one of the colleges. It was perfectly possible that she had missed seeing any number of members of the ton, including Mr Dunton, especially as her family had come to England from India only shortly before the Season began.

  If I were going to take a false name I would keep it as close to my real one as possible so I would react to it without hesitation, she thought. Mr Dunton was about twenty-eight or nine, she guessed. His card gave his initials only, L. J., but Marguerite had called him Lucian quite naturally, so that was a start. She would begin with the Marquesses and work down the hierarchy because she was certain she knew all the dukes, at least by sight.

  There was always the possibility that he was the heir to a title, which would slow the search down, but she was certain he was not a younger son. That gentleman had been born with a silver spoon, if not an entire table setting, firmly stuck in his mouth. Two pages…she turned the third and struck gold. There it was.

  Lucian John Dunton Avery, third Marquess of Cannock, born 1790. Only sibling Marguerite

  Antonia, born 1800. Seat, Cullington Park, Hampshire.

  She closed the book with a satisfied thump of the thick pages which made the elderly gentlemen look over and glower. She smiled sweetly at them and they went back to their newspapers.

  So why was the Marquess staying at the hotel incognito? There was nothing unfashionable or shocking about taking a seaside holiday in the summer and a good half of the ton did just that, although this was a quiet resort and not a magnet for society’s high-fliers like Brighton to the east or Weymouth, for the more sedate of the ton, to the west.