Surrender to the Marquess Page 6

  Restless now, she put down the cup half-emptied and went to look out over the sea again. The tide was turning and the little fishing fleet was making its way out to sea, red and buff sails vivid on the blue water as they butted through the waves. ‘Sandbay is changing, developing. There is perhaps one more year when I can live my dual life and then I will be too much of an oddity.’

  Lucian came to join her at the rail, resting his hands on it as she was, their little fingers—his right, her left—just touching. A tingle like the spark from a cat’s fur in a thunderstorm shot up her arm. Did he feel it, too? His hand moved, covered hers, his thumb stroking slowly over the pulse in her wrist. Oh, yes, he feels it.

  ‘Sara. Last night you said you were curious. Are you still?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted and closed her eyes as the world narrowed down to the sensation of his caress on the tender skin, the awareness of his body next to hers, the brush of the breeze on her face. ‘But…’

  ‘Ah. The but.’

  ‘You should not allow your lover to associate with your young sister—and that is what we are talking about, isn’t it? Not just a kiss or two, but an affaire.’

  ‘That is what I desire, yes.’

  Looking out to sea, with only Lucian’s voice to judge by, undistracted by his expression, she could read the layers of meaning. Yes, he wanted her. Yes, an affaire was what he meant: this was most definitely not a proposal of any other kind. And, no, he would no more bring his lover into contact with his sister at the moment than he would his mother, had she lived.

  The silence hung there for the time it took a seagull’s scream to die away and then he said, ‘And you are quite correct, of course, about Marguerite. Her needs must be paramount.’

  He was going to kiss her, she felt him shift against her as his breath touched warmth to her wind-chilled lips, then she was in his arms, moulding herself into his blatantly aroused body. There was no pretext now that this was curiosity or flirtation taken a little too far. This was an exchange of desire and demands that they both knew would go no further.

  One of them had to stop and she supposed it had better be her. Sara rested her cheek on Lucian’s chest and listened to his heart beat and imagined it over hers as they lay in bed, then put the fantasy firmly away.

  His hands dropped from her shoulders and she opened her eyes to see him outlined against the sun dazzle on the sea, already moving towards the door. ‘We will be in all day if you call. Marguerite would be pleased to see you. Thank you…for the tea.’

  *

  Marguerite was occupied with her new sketchbook at the window of the private sitting room at the hotel when Sara called. It had taken an hour to regain some composure and to think about how to best approach the younger woman. Now she perched on the table next to her and admired the drawing of the cliffs which was lively, if amateurish. ‘How is the shell mirror frame coming along?’

  ‘It is drying over there. I need some more small shells for the rim around the glass. Have you seen Lucian today?’

  Was that a question with a hidden meaning, or simply a genuine enquiry? Sara bent over the mirror and spoke casually. ‘He dropped into the shop this morning to tell me you would be at home all day. Would you like to go out on the beach? I need to collect seaweed to make some pictures and it is lovely weather.’

  ‘I…yes, I would, I think, if it is safe. I can’t swim, you see, which makes the waves rather frightening. What should I wear?’ Marguerite looked dubiously at her very pretty morning dress with its frilled hem.

  ‘We won’t be doing anything more perilous than paddling, I promise. Wear something cotton, the kind of thing you would put on at home in the country to go into the garden to gather flowers. Something that doesn’t matter if you get salt splashes or sand on it. And no stockings, just some old, sensible leather shoes.’

  ‘No stockings?’ Marguerite looked mildly shocked.

  ‘It is far less immodest to walk across the road with no stockings on than it is to take them off on the beach. We will be getting our feet wet.’

  ‘Oh!’ She sounded dubious, then seemed to make up her mind. ‘I expect I have something. I won’t be long.’

  *

  The tide was ebbing as Sara led the way across the beach to the foot of the cliffs where the retreating sea exposed firm, flat sand. ‘If we go around the little headland then we are into Bell Bay, which is quite small and secluded. There is some talk in the town about creating a path over the headland and making that the ladies’ bathing beach with no men allowed until after noon on the sands or the part of the headland that overlooks it. It would mean room for some more bathing machines and the shyer ladies might feel more comfortable.’

  She kept talking, chatting casually about trivial town affairs until they were around the headland, then she perched on a low rock and pulled off her shoes. ‘You do the same and then we can leave them on top of the rock. There, isn’t that pleasant? And walking on the sand smooths the feet beautifully.’

  Marguerite grimaced at the feel of the cool, wet sand, then smiled, the first really wide, uninhibited, smile Sara had seen on her face. ‘It is lovely. Ooh—if I wriggle my toes I start to sink.’

  ‘There are no quicksands in this bay, we are quite safe. Now, if we walk across to those rocks over there we can explore the rock pools.’

  *

  It took no more than half an hour of splashing along the surf line and picking up shells and driftwood for Marguerite to relax. She finally came to rest on top of a smooth rock to catch her breath while Sara dipped glass jars into the rock pools under the cliff.

  ‘What does Sarisa mean?’ she asked after a while. ‘Is it Indian?’

  ‘It means charming.’ Sara straightened up and held out a jar to Marguerite. ‘See? A little crab. I’ll put him back in a moment. Papa said I was a perfect charmer, right from the beginning, so that is what they called me.’ She tipped the crab back into the pool and watched it scuttle under a fringe of weed. ‘Marguerite means daisy, doesn’t it?’

  There was silence, then a wrenching sob. Appalled, Sara dropped the jar into the water and took Marguerite in her arms. ‘I am so sorry, what did I say?’

  ‘That’s what he called me. Gregory called me his… Dai… Daisy.’

  Sara gave her a handkerchief, sat down on the rock beside her and held her until the storm subsided into sniffles. ‘Do you want to tell me about it? I guessed about the baby. And Gregory is the father?’

  ‘Oh!’ Wide, tear-drenched hazel eyes gazed into hers. ‘Did Lucian say anything? I think he believes it is better that I lost her, but he doesn’t say that, of course.’

  ‘I told him that I had guessed and asked if I could help you. I’m sure he would never wish that you had lost the baby, although probably he would prefer that she never existed in the first place.’

  ‘I am certain he does.’ Marguerite blew her nose defiantly and sat up. ‘I am sorry to be such a watering pot. I try to be brave, but I worry so.’

  ‘About Gregory, your lover?’

  ‘He was only my lover because Lucian wouldn’t let him marry me. I know he is still alive, I feel it in my bones. And I know he would never leave me, so something horrible must have happened to him and he is lying in a pauper hospital in France, or he has been press-ganged or something dreadful.’

  ‘Would it help to talk about him?’

  Chapter Six

  It seemed it would help Marguerite to talk. The story poured out, essentially the same as the account Lucian had given, but with one vital difference. ‘I seduced him,’ Marguerite said defiantly. ‘He wouldn’t do more than kiss me, he said we must wait until we were married. But when Lucian was so horrible and refused even a long engagement I went to Gregory’s room when he was asleep and got into bed with him with no nightgown on.’

  ‘Ah. I suppose matters were already out of hand before he was properly awake.’

  Poor man! So much for Lucian’s illusions about his innocent little sister. Doubtless she
had been untouched, but she knew exactly what she was about when she got between those sheets.

  ‘Yes. It was clever of me, I thought, because Lucian couldn’t blame Gregory. But Gregory was upset and he felt guilty anyway and he wouldn’t let me go and tell Lucian that I had seduced him.’

  Despite the seriousness of the story Sara had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She could just imagine poor Gregory, his masculine pride crushed as it was explained to the infuriated Marquess that he was the one who had been taken advantage of. No wonder he refused point-blank to allow Marguerite to tell her brother. Marguerite might know how to seduce a man, but she had no idea how their minds worked.

  ‘And then I discovered that I was pregnant.’

  That reminder chased away all inclination to smile. ‘Didn’t you think your brother would let you marry then, even if he disapproved?’

  ‘No.’ Marguerite shook her head vehemently. ‘He would have whisked me away to one of my horrible aunts in the country and I’d have had my baby and they would have taken her away from me and Lucian would have called Gregory out and killed him.’

  It was difficult to argue against that, Sara thought. It sounded exactly the kind of solution Lucian would have come up with, especially the calling-out. ‘So you decided to run away together?’

  ‘Yes, Gregory said we must marry as soon as possible. We thought if we went to the Continent then he might be able to find work as a secretary over there and there would be English clergy—but all the ones we found were so difficult because of my age. They could tell I wasn’t a servant or a tradesman’s daughter so they thought there would be a scandal and they would be in trouble if they helped us.’

  ‘Lucian thinks Gregory left you because of the baby and not having any money?’ Sara risked the question and was rewarded with an indignant denial.

  ‘No! Gregory was going to find work, any work at all, in Lyons. He would have dug ditches for me, but he had heard of a merchant who needed someone who could speak English because he wanted to export fans and small luxury items to England. Gregory was going to see him after he had spoken to the clergyman we had been told about. We hoped if we were married then the merchant might let us have a room in his house.’

  It all seemed perfectly reasonable to Sara. ‘Did you tell Lucian this?’

  ‘When he found me I was too ill and it was almost a week before I realised that Gregory had vanished. I thought Lucian had killed him at first, but he swore not and he wouldn’t listen when I told him about the clergyman and the merchant. He said Gregory had been hoping to extort money from him and I was just an innocent, gullible child who had fallen in love with a handsome face.’ She blew her nose again with a defiant, inelegant snort.

  ‘And so I did—I fell for a man who was as lovely inside as he was outside. Gregory wouldn’t have asked Lucian for money, he was far too honourable and proud. He explained to me before we ran away that we would have to live very modestly on what he could earn and that if I didn’t think I could bear that, then it was best to go and confess all to Lucian.’ She gave Sara a sideways look from under her lashes. ‘I suppose you think I am wicked and silly and gullible, too.’

  ‘No. I think you really did love Gregory and that he was worthy of your love.’ Marguerite was a mixture of innocence and feminine wisdom, but she was also intelligent and honest. If there had been a false note in her lover’s protestations she would have heard it. If the vicar’s son had managed to fool Lucian into giving him a position of trust and responsibility and then seduced Marguerite with such skill that she had believed him utterly, then he was a great loss to the English stage, or the best confidence trickster in the country.

  ‘Thank you.’ She scrubbed at her eyes as the tears welled again. ‘I wish I knew what to do. I can’t ask Lucian to find Gregory because I know what will happen if he does and I don’t know anyone else who could afford to send an enquiry agent to France and who would cross Lucian into the bargain.’

  No, but I do. If it came to it then she would write to Ashe and ask him to track down the handsome blond Englishman in Lyons. Her brother would know who to send and he would not ask endless infuriating questions if she told him it was important. ‘I will think about it,’ Sara promised. ‘There must be some way around this.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Marguerite’s chin was up now and her eyes, although red-rimmed, were dry. ‘Show me what is in the rock pools, please.’

  They splashed about, soaking the hems of their old cotton dresses, laughing as they chased shrimps that darted into crevices, grimacing as seaweed wrapped itself around their ankles.

  Sara collected several jars of brown and pink and black weed and some discarded crab shells and Marguerite’s handkerchief was stuffed with shells and sea glass in jewel colours, worn smooth by the waves. As they explored they chatted. Sara told stories about her family, their life in India, the dismay at realising that they must leave because her father had inherited the title and how strange England had seemed.

  Marguerite asked questions and, her guard completely down, dropped little nuggets of information about her romance, about her lover, that Sara stored away to brood about later.

  She kept an eye on the state of the tide and finally dragged Marguerite away. ‘See how it has come in? If we don’t go back now, we’ll have to walk back over the headland and there is no proper path. It is quite hard going and your brother will not thank me for exhausting you. Besides, it is time for luncheon.’

  ‘Lucian wants the best for me, I know. He just doesn’t understand.’

  ‘Men think about love differently from us.’

  ‘You mean because they can just have sex when they want to so it doesn’t mean much to them and then they get sex and love muddled up?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Gregory wasn’t like that.’

  ‘No, neither was my husband. And my parents and my brother made love matches. But Lucian is protective of you and he’s ambitious for you. He wants you to marry someone of your own class who can give you the life you should expect as the daughter of a marquess.’

  ‘Your father is a marquess and he let you marry a commoner.’ Marguerite was beginning to drag her feet through the sand like a tired child.

  Sara linked her arm through the girl’s and slowed her pace. ‘My parents are very unconventional and Ashe knew Michael really well by then. But it seems to me that most men are happy if they have a companionable wife who makes them a comfortable home, children—and, as you, say, there is the sex. The fact that they would be even happier if they loved their wives doesn’t appear to occur to most of them, although actually I think a lot of them do and just don’t recognise that is what they feel.’

  ‘It would be better to be the daughter of some shepherd on the Downs, I think sometimes.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. You would not want to live in a little hut and besides, even then your father would be on the lookout for a son-in-law with a prize ram or who was handy training sheepdogs or something.’

  That made Marguerite laugh and they were still making up the requirements for every kind of tradesman’s son-in-law by the time they reached an overturned boat by the low jetty and sat down to put on their shoes.

  ‘A butcher would want skill in getting all the meat off a carcass and his daughter would want a big chopper!’ They both doubled up in thoroughly unseemly laughter at the double entendre until a shadow fell across them.

  ‘I am not going to even ask what that was about.’ Lucian was on the jetty, hunkered down just above their heads.

  ‘Housekeeping,’ Marguerite said pertly.

  Sara was sitting on the upturned rowing boat, her legs stretched out in front of her, her skirts almost to her knees as she let the sunshine dry her skin so she could dust off the sand. She leaned back on her supporting hands and saw that Lucian was studying her bare legs. She straightened up slowly, refusing to be put out of countenance, as she let her skirts slide down and brushed the sand away. When he lifted his
head and met her gaze he had a heavy-lidded look of concentration that she had no trouble deciphering at all.

  She pulled on her shoes and stood up to find he was still crouched down, buckskin breeches stretched tight over strong horseman’s thighs, the tails of his coat brushing the cobbles, his hat in his hands. ‘You have been riding, sir?’

  ‘I was just going to, but I wanted to be certain Marguerite had luncheon and a rest before I left.’ He straightened up and began to stroll back along the jetty parallel with them as they made for the steps. ‘You look well, sweetheart. There is colour in your cheeks.’ Tactfully he made no mention of the signs of tears.

  ‘I liked it, Sara showed me so many things. But I am tired now. Thank you, Sara.’ She turned and kissed Sara’s cheek, gave her hand a little squeeze, then climbed the steps to her brother’s side.

  ‘Do you ride, Mrs Harcourt?’ he asked. ‘Would you join me?’

  ‘I do, Mr Dunton. But it will take me half an hour to get home, change and have my horse brought round from the livery stables.’

  ‘If you give me directions I will fetch it to you, which will save some time.’ The severe mouth curved into a sensual smile. ‘I find myself very eager for a good gallop.’

  Wretched man! A good gallop, indeed. I know exactly what he means and he knows perfectly well that neither of us is going to give way to whatever it is that makes him look like that and turns my knees to jelly. It is basic lust, I suppose, and we are both grown up enough to deal with it.

  *

  Her house, one of a row of neat, newly built, terraced villas with a desirable view of the bay, was a brisk five minutes’ walk uphill. Maude, her maid, scurried for the clothes press when Sara swept in, breathlessly calling for her riding habit.

  ‘The English one, my lady?’

  Sara hesitated. It was very tempting to see Lucian’s expression if she appeared in the Rajput clothing that she and her mother used for riding in the privacy of the family’s country estate, but she had to remember that in daylight she was still Mrs Harcourt and it was not good policy to upset the precarious balancing act that was her social standing in the town.