Argyle, leaving the house, felt so frustrated that his strategy was not yielding better results that he decided to visit his aunt again. When he marched in and refused her offers of refreshment, the old lady asked, ‘Dear me, Argyle, what has put you in such a disagreeable temper?’
‘You were right. She won’t have me.’ He paced the room.
Lady Montgomery laughed. ‘It seems to me you have met your match.’
He stopped and faced her. ‘Well, wise old owl, tell me, what am I to do?’
In her lined face, her eyes continued to be narrowed in amusement. ‘Why, persevere, what else? You would not have come to talk to me about it if you had decided to forget about her. But you need to change your method.’
‘What? How?’
She raised her pale eyebrows at him. ‘How should I know? Whatever it is you’ve been doing, do something else. It obviously is not working.’
He frowned, black brows drawn like a bar across his face. ‘You sound like the Oracle of Delphi. Can’t you tell me something more concrete?’
She gave a short laugh. ‘Yes. I think this is doing you good. You are entirely too full of your own importance. It is time you realised you are not the centre of the world.’
His colour had risen, and he said harshly, ‘Oh, do you think so? Well, I am certainly of greater importance than her.’ Seeing his aunt was still smiling sardonically, he went on, knowing he sounded petulant as a child, ‘Why must you keep it so hot in here? I can feel my collar wilting as we speak.’ He went up to the fire and kicked at a log with his boot, sending sparks flying up the chimney.
‘I am old and I feel the cold, in case you have not noticed. Oh, do go away, Argyle, you are making me cross. It is not my fault you’ve made a mull of it.’ Her thin lips stretched in another smile. ‘But do not give up—something tells me this girl is worth it. You must use your considerable brains to find a way forward.’
Argyle kissed her papery cheek and left, simultaneously frustrated, and heartened. He started walking to St. James Street—he would visit one of his clubs in search of a game of chess, feeling too unsettled to go home and spend time alone. Entering White’s he came upon Lord Lennox, sitting in an armchair with a newspaper. His first instinct was to avoid him but, before he could turn away, Lord Lennox stood and waved the paper at him.
‘Ah, Duke, just the man I want to see. I need your advice upon this latest investment opportunity everyone raves about.’
Argyle approached him and they conversed for a short while. Afterward, Lord Lennox stated, ‘Thank you, you have set my mind at ease.’ He paused and then looked at him quizzically. ‘I hope you are not too put out about my daughter?’
Argyle was taken aback, never expecting him to mention the subject. He hesitated, then said, ‘Truth be told, without wanting to appear presumptuous, I assumed…’ He paused.
Lord Lennox said, ‘I’m afraid I am to blame. I have raised my daughter to have strong opinions. I would like her to be happy. And I do not think you would like to have a reluctant wife, either, I suppose.’ Argyle did not answer immediately. ‘However, I am the last person to tell you that it is perseverance that achieves results. You are a living proof of that.’ He smiled at him and turned to greet an acquaintance who had hailed him.
Argyle walked to the library, intrigued by this conversation. What other man of his acquaintance would put his daughter’s ‘happiness’ over her making a brilliant match? However, Lord Lennox’s last words showed he would not be averse to the marriage—but he was easy about it, his manner open and friendly. He would not push his daughter into something she did not want but, in his encouragement to persevere and implied approval of the union, Argyle got the impression it was himself he approved of, not his title or fortune. This gave him an unexpected feeling of satisfaction—and a hint of hope.
Chapter 6
Marguerite was enjoying London. She did not miss the sophistication and formality of Parisian society, because she had found, in her new friends, a sense of humour to match that of her British father, which she had always so much enjoyed. She found it fun to flirt in a playful and ironic manner, and be part of a group where banter and laughter were the order of the day. She knew that at some point she would have to think of her future; but her parents, ever indulgent, were not pressing her yet, and she was determined to make the most of her freedom.
When she first became aware of the Duke of Argyle’s attention upon her, she was indifferent—there were other men circling about her, but she was as yet uninterested in anything serious. She knew he was considered a great catch, but he was so stern and unsmiling, so haughty in his manner towards everyone, that she could not like him. An eagle’s profile and piercing eyes, pupils dark as patent leather. Dancing with her he was stiff and monosyllabic.
His intervention in the street, when he had paid off the hackney, she had almost not noticed, so concerned was she bythe plight of the girl; and she had not given it a second thought afterwards. His proposal of marriage had taken her entirely by surprise—she had refused on impulse, without reservation, because why would she consider spending her life with someone so uncongenial?
However, in the weeks that followed, he had started to make her feel unsettled. She often felt his eyes upon her, which surprised her, because she had expected that being rejected would cause him to cut her dead, conceited as he was. But he had not—he had sought her out, and brought her lemonade, and talked to her more than he had ever done so far—and insisted on dancing with her, holding her closer while waltzing than Charles had ever dared to do. What was he trying to prove? She did not like it, and hated to admit to herself that the proximity of his tall body during the waltz had troubled her.
* * *
One evening, at one of the most fashionable crushes of the season, Marguerite noticed Argyle watching her as she danced with Charles—she was at ease with him, and she had reached up and kissed him on the cheek when he had complimented her on her gown, a soft teal blue that suited her fair complexion.
He said, frowning a little, ‘I am not the only man to think you look lovely, my dear. Argyle has his eye on you. I confess I do not like it.’
Marguerite said, ‘There is nothing in it, I assure you,’ but the remark made her consider her relationship with Charles.
He took it upon himself to comment on his purported rival, but he had not declared himself, or made her an offer; therefore he could not pretend a hold on her. Lately he was often laughing and sharing private jokes with her cousin Alice. Their own intimacy never went further than the odd peck, the hand drawn through his arm, the usual light-hearted banter. Did she want him to declare his feelings? Marguerite was not sure about that—it did not make her jealous that he was paying attention to Alice.
Charles was saying, ‘I am glad to hear it. I should think he is a dead bore, always so glum and high in the instep. I doubt he would come up to scratch anyway, he is meant to be quite a rake—and averse to marriage.’
Little do you know, Marguerite thought, curtsying as he bowed, then following his lead in the set. She caught Argyle’s eye as she turned and immediately looked away—it was true his face was quite harsh. But Charles’s presumption in giving her advice annoyed her—he was so sure of himself, of his handsome countenance and his charm—she was not about to make him her mentor.
She sat with her mother when Argyle came later to ask her to dance. She could not politely refuse unless she wanted to avoid dancing altogether—but she loved to dance, and this was a waltz, her favourite. Argyle greeted her mother graciously, and Marguerite knew she was expected to accept—so she did, and gave herself up to the music, keeping in step and trying to ignore the slight unease his proximity induced in her. Argyle was taller than her, so she did not notice he had his eyes fixed on her face until he said, ‘Are you in love, Marguerite?’
