Parents considered him a prize catch, even though he was meant to be averse to marriage, but most girls were intimidated by him. Her friends had teased Marguerite when he had danced with her, while watching her a little enviously. The men admired or envied him for his casual elegance and sporting prowess, but were so awed by him that they did not look upon him as a friend. He was known for having few friends his own age, but never lacking for older and sophisticated women seeking his company and the luxuries he could offer.
* * *
Marguerite loved riding in the park with her friends, on the feisty grey mare her father had given her for her eighteenth birthday. The group moved like a flock of starlings, jostling each other and chattering, sometimes becoming elongated as a few enjoyed a brisk canter while the less proficient riders remained walking at the rear, accompanied by a couple of grooms—then re-grouping into a lively bunch. Marguerite, dressed in a becoming blue riding habit with frogging and gold buttons and a velvet hat with a small veil, was always at the forefront, followed by Charles and some of the other young men, and sometimes one or two girls. They stopped to talk to people strolling along, or riding in carriages—sometimes their parents, or their parents’ friends.
Lately they often came upon the Duke of Argyle, riding an impressive dark bay stallion, who arched his neck and snorted at the other horses. He would overtake them with a brief greeting, pausing a second to say to Marguerite, ‘Good day, Lady Marguerite.’
His face remained grave, and she would answer, also unsmiling, ‘Good day, Your Grace.’ He would touch his high-crowned hat and ride off, his black coat plain but tight-fitting, his top boots highly polished.
As soon as he was out of earshot, comments would fly about:
‘What a prime bit of blood.’
‘Yes, I heard he paid a fair price for him at Tattersalls.’
‘A most handsome animal! And the rider is as handsome.’ A feminine laugh.
‘But forbidding. He never smiles.’
‘How do you know him, Marguerite? I saw him dancing with you the other night.’
‘He is acquainted with my parents.’ In fact, it was a friend of theirs who had introduced him to her.
‘He must be difficult to talk to.’
‘He is.’
‘But a true Corinthian. Did you see the way he rides that brute?’ This from one of the young men.
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind if he danced with me.’ A giggle.
‘I would. I would be terrified.’
‘Do you think he will propose, Marguerite?’
Marguerite laughed. ‘Hardly! He has seldom said more than three words to me.’
Sometimes Argyle drove his curricle, drawn by a team of beautiful matched bays. He would pause and nod at Marguerite, then drive off at a rapid pace. This provoked more talk:
‘Did you notice how that curricle is sprung?’
‘And those bays…Wonderful high-steppers.’
‘Argyle’s cattle are always sweet-goers.’
‘Well, he is known for having an eye for a horse.’
‘And he’s a top sawyer, to boot.’
‘Yes, a first-rate whip. Did you see him overtake that barouche? The ladies in it were swooning.’
‘True, he drives to an inch.’
‘Has he ever taken you for a drive, Marguerite?’
‘No, he hasn’t. But I admit I wouldn’t mind driving those bays.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t. Not under his eagle eye.’
