‘Well, if you want to see good sport, follow me.’ He pressed her ankle over the boot and saw her blush. She took up the reins, turned her mare away, and, by the time he had mounted his own horse, had joined Felix Crampton, who looked dashing in his top hat, stock tie and white-topped boots. They smiled at each other.
Argyle’s irritation grew. He knew he looked elegant himself—his coat fitted him like a glove, and Curtis had polished his boots to a high shine, using his special bootblack—but she obviously preferred a pretty face. He rode off, passing to the front, his face set, determined to enjoy the sport and ignore her.
The hounds set off, barking in unison, the Master blew his horn and for a while he was content to feel the power of his horse under him. However, Felix proved to be an indifferent rider and fell at the third fence. Marguerite, after pausing to make sure he had come to no harm, rode up close behind Argyle. He turned to glance at her and galloped on, and they jumped most fences neck to neck—her little mare managing to keep up with his long-striding bay hunter with ease. From time to time they looked at each other, flushed with the thrill of the chase.
The party returned at dusk, muddied and tired and satisfied. Marguerite and Argyle walked side by side, a little behind the rest of the field, their horses quickening their steps at the thought of their mangers, necks stretching on a loose rein. He said, ‘I confess you have impressed me. I was not sure a Parisian lady would hunt.’
‘My father is English, remember? He has a fondness for the sport and, as he has no sons, I accompanied him from an early age.’
‘So, as it happens, you would have been useless at slowing me down.’
She grinned at him. ‘I never agreed to! My mother thinks me reckless, but it is as a result of hearsay, because she does not even ride. She is a true Parisian.’
‘Your aunt does not hunt either, I assume.’ In fact, this well-endowed, amiable lady had hardly been seen since her arrival.
‘No, she does nothing much but play cards. She is obsessed by this…er…pastime, which suits my cousin and me very well. She is a kind woman, but a dreadful bore, I’m afraid. Oh dear, I should not have said that.’ She had a mischievous look on her face which enchanted him.
‘I heard nothing. But tell me, why are your parents not here?’
‘Although my father loves to hunt, my mother hates being left alone all day with people she doesn’t know well. My aunt is chaperoning me and my cousin—she is my father’s sister.’
‘Does she not have a husband?’
‘She does, but he is a scholar—he spends his time in his library, and abhors social gatherings, preferring academic circles.’ She looked at him with some suspicion, frowning a little. ‘Why are you so interested in my family, may I ask?’
He did not like to say,I am indifferent to them, I am only interested in you, so he shrugged. ‘I am just making conversation. Here, try this, and tell me what you think.’
He passed her his hip flask, and she took a sip, choking a little at the taste. ‘What is it?’
‘My own mixture. It keeps one warm, doesn’t it?’
She coughed. ‘I am warm already, with all the galloping we’ve done. But I think on a very cold day, it would do the job admirably.’
He took off his glove and, reaching out, touched her neck above her cravat, under the jawline. It was an intimate gesture, but she did not recoil. He said, ‘Yes, you are warm enough. You do not need my brandy.’ She gave him back his flask, looking him in the eyes. Her cheeks were flushed.
He said, annoyed that his heart was beating faster than usual, ‘Well, your Pink did not last very long, did he? I noticed he barely managed three fences.’ His lip curled in the familiar sneer.
Marguerite scowled at him. She said, ‘Why do you always have to spoil everything?’ She picked up her reins and, urging her mare into a trot, joined her cousin Alice, who was riding a little ahead of them. Argyle bit his lip.
Chapter 9
Lying in the warm bath Flossie had prepared for her, having fought other maids and valets for enough hot water, Marguerite became calmer. She was weary of her conflicting feelings. Why could things not be simpler? Men like Charles and Felix had everything to please a woman: they were good looking, pleasant, well-mannered. They were agreeable company, and neither lacked breeding. But their presence, their touch, did nothing to her emotions—they could hold her hand, kiss her fingers or her cheek, put their arms around her waist while dancing, and all she felt was affection and light-hearted gaiety. When Argyle had put his fingers on her neck, she was on fire—but why did he have to be so annoying and obnoxious? He lost no opportunity in putting her back up. It was unbearable. She admitted she was dying for him to kiss her again, and this frightened her, because half the time she only wanted to slap his face.
She decided she would avoid him in the morning, and go with Alice to view the animals in the menagerie. It was said there was a tiger, some camels and zebras, and a variety of exotic birdsin a large aviary. She thought how Betsy would have enjoyed this—but, of course, she had not been invited. Not noble enough for the Shales, who were vulgar themselves, with their ostentatious flaunting of their wealth—but of course they did not know it, and would have been horrified if they were told. Well, Betsy was as nice as most of the people here, and nicer than quite a few of them. Marguerite relished the thought of discussing all this with her father when she got back. He had an amusing and cynical opinion of society’s foibles that enchanted her, while irritating her mother a little.
She got out of the bath. Flossie wrapped her in a warm towel, and then helped her put on a gown of dark rose silk trimmed with satin ribbons, with long sleeves and a slim skirt, and cut low across the bosom. Sitting at the dressing table, she sprayed perfume on her throat, then fastened a simple necklace of pearls around her neck and slipped rings on her fingers. She looked at herself in the mirror while Flossie put her hair up in an elaborate knot; a few curled ringlets fell onto her white shoulders, left bare by the dress. She was pleased by what she saw, but she shivered a little, not sure if she was anxious or because her bedchamber was not very warm.
She went down the stairs and stopped for a moment at the drawing room door, looking curiously about her, taking in details she had missed the night before. The room was decorated in heavy-handed luxury: plush burgundy velvet curtains draped the tall windows, adorned with huge gold tassels, crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, gilded French furniture was arranged in groups. The walls were papered in a red and gold trellis and hung with oil paintings in heavy carved frames. Reflecting she preferred her own family’s simpler, more elegant taste, Marguerite walked in to join the guests who were already there.
Felix Crampton at once approached and bowed. ‘Allow me to say you look beautiful in that dress, Lady Marguerite.’
‘Thank you, sir. Are you all right?’ She put her hand on his sleeve.
He said, ‘Physically, yes. No harm done. But I do confess my ego has taken a hit.’ He grimaced.
‘Oh, fiddlesticks. Everyone has a fall occasionally.’
‘Well, it was bad timing. I so wanted to impress you.’
