‘I assure you he’s not. Either that, or he has a strange way of showing it. No, I am the new girl in town, and he feels the need to make other men jealous. Oh dear, that sounds very conceited of me, doesn’t it?’ She gave a short laugh.
‘No, it is the truth. But I don’t want you to keep away. He has to choose me for myself, otherwise I don’t want him.’
‘That is a very sensible way of looking at things. But it must be painful, to be in love.’
‘Aren’t you?’ Alice turned to look at her.
‘I…I don’t know. And that is painful, too.’
Charles came up to claim Alice for the next dance; and Marguerite, looking at the calm way Alice smiled at him, was envious of her self-control. She watched Charles smile back and vowed to be more concerned with her cousin’s wellbeing.
* **
One day her parents were out, and Marguerite was alone in the library when the butler announced the Duke of Argyle. She lifted her head from her book, not sure she had heard right, and saw him walk in. Her heart gave a lurch. She rose and said, ‘What are you doing here?’ She glared at the butler, who was hovering by the door, torn between disapproval and romantic speculation, and he went out, closing the door behind him.
Argyle bowed, his face grave. ‘Good afternoon, Marguerite.’
She coloured. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not mean to be rude. But you startled me.’
His voice was weary. ‘Thomas: we were agreed. Do not blame your butler, I told him you were expecting me. I came to see you, what else?’
‘Thomas, then. What do you want?’ Confusion made her abrupt.
He was silent for a minute, staring at her, then he said, ‘You are not making this easy for me, are you? I want to marry you.’ His face remained of stone and there was an edge of annoyance, or impatience, in his tone.
‘But—I have already refused.’ She did not even know why she was answering him thus. She thought him impossibly attractive in his immaculate coat of blue superfine, plain waistcoat and pristine white neckcloth—lately she found other men unbearably foppish. More than half of her wanted to throw herself on his chest and feel his arms close about her.
There was no warmth in his voice. ‘I am aware of it, but that was before we—knew each other better.’
Marguerite felt her cheeks flaming but was at a loss for words. She had not asked him to sit down and he had remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. She did not sit down either.
He said, his voice a little softened, ‘We did seem to be getting on perfectly well at Harwick, don’t you think?’
She said, frankly, ‘We did. But this will not last, will it? I am bound to annoy you by stating my opinions, or you will provoke me by sneering at my friends. Then every meal will be silent, while we both seethe—and coldness will set in. I have seen it happen, and it is unbearable.’
He was curious. ‘Is that what your life is like, at home?’ Having met her parents, he found it hard to believe.
‘Oh, no, no. My mother is sweet and adores my father. And Papa is the most genial man alive. He loves to laugh and is almost never cross. But I have seen it in other families—anger, or indifference.’
‘So, you are comparing me to your father, and find me wanting. Is that it?’
His words surprised her, but perhaps he was right. Why would she want to exchange the life she had, with someone who was her role model since she was tiny, who made her laugh and feel safe, for something probably not as pleasant? But then her father did not make her want to touch him or feel his skin against hers.
Seeing she was silent, he went on, his voice harsh again. ‘I notice you have been avoiding me—but I would like you to reconsider. I know I said my offer would remain open until you decide to marry another, but I find I cannot bear the waiting. Therefore I have decided to leave England.’
‘Oh.’ She paled. ‘Where will you go?’
‘I am not certain yet. Perhaps India, I hear there are good opportunities there. I will leave in a month or so, when I have made the proper arrangements. If you change your mind before then, you must tell me yourself. Otherwise, this is goodbye.’ His dark eyes were hard in a bleak, unsmiling face, his black brows drawn together above his nose.
‘I…I do not know what to say.’ Her heart was knocking in her chest, and she felt hot and cold at the same time.
He hesitated, and she imagined he was about to speak.Say you do not want me to leave—the words hung in the air, unspoken and unheard. Then his face hardened again. ‘There is no need to say anything—for now. But I will have a goodbye kiss.’ Before she could react, he took her in his arms and kissed her fiercely, holding her as in a vice, one hand on her throat. She could not help herself from responding.
When he left, without another word, she let herself fall into an armchair and tried to make sense of her feelings. What had she done? Why had she sent away a man who set her onfire every time he touched her? She was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, but she was terrified of getting burnt. Today, she would have given in if he had said he loved her, that he could not live without her—but he had not.
Instead, he had threatened her with his departure—implying it was she who would suffer. For one short minute, she thought he was about to say something more to her, but he had stopped himself. And then he kissed her, and must have felt her weakness, the way she had trembled and melted against him—but still he had put her from him and left without a word.
Could she live with his high-handed manner and self-regard her whole life? And his cruelty—he knew the effect his kisses had on her and used them as a weapon. For a minute she wondered if he might mellow under her influence, but then she remembered her French grandmother saying, ‘Les hommes ne changent pas.’ Deargrand-mère, she missed her so much.
