MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS

by Margaret McPhee

  Again he did not deny it.

  She gave an ironic laugh and shook her head.

  His eyes were dark and serious.

  The tide of emotion threatened to engulf her. She turned her face away, barely able to conceal her anger and incredulity, and the splintering unbelievable hurt. How could she have been so blind? Six months of thinking that everything was happy and good and wonderful. And believing that he had felt the same. She could barely take it in that he was telling her it was over.

  ‘You can stay here as long it takes to find other lodgings. There is no rush to leave.’

  ‘How kind of you.’

  He ignored the irony. ‘I will, of course, make a settlement of money on you.’

  ‘I don’t want your money, Razeby.’

  ‘It is part of our contract.’

  ‘Oh, so it is.’ She thought of the piece of paper with its fancy black writing, secure and tied neat within its green ribbon. ‘How could I have forgotten?’

  The silence seemed to pulsate between them. There were so many thoughts running through her head, so many words crowding for release upon her tongue. She closed her mouth firmly to prevent their escape.

  Climbing from the bed, she grabbed an old dressing gown from where it hung over the back of a chair, pulling it on and tying the belt around her waist as she walked to stand by the window and stare down on to the lamp-lit street below. In the continuing silence she watched the occasional group walking along the pavements. Theatre goers who had gone elsewhere after a late show. Women who, despite the quality of their dress, were ladies of the night, plying their trade; Alice could pick them out with an expert eye—like could always recognise like. A carriage passed and then a gentleman on a horse.

  She heard him move and glanced round to see him get to his feet, all six feet of him, with his tight dark breeches and his naked chest, and that ruggedly handsome face. And, despite what he had just told her, her traitorous body reacted with the usual rush of desire for him.

  ‘Arrangements like ours are not meant to last, Alice.’

  ‘They’re not,’ she agreed.

  ‘I have to do my duty, Alice.’ His mouth, which had always been so warm and smiling, was unhappy and determined, the expression in his eyes unreadable.

  Her heart was beating harder than a horse at full gallop. ‘Maybe you should have considered your duty six months ago.’ When he had pursued her while the play in which she and Venetia had starred together took London by storm. When he had wooed her and swept her off her feet and made her his mistress within weeks of their meeting.

  ‘Maybe I should have,’ he said.

  His quiet admission stripped her raw.

  They stared at one another. He was grim-faced, serious in a way she had never seen him before.

  ‘For what it is worth, I really am sorry, Alice.’

  ‘So you said.’

  He swallowed. ‘Thank you for everything.’ His eyes clung to hers. He took a step towards her, reached a hand as if he meant to touch her.

  Alice recoiled, sweeping her eyes over his extended hand with its long manly fingers and its lightly tanned skin. It was a hand that had caressed her lips and stroked against her naked skin, a hand that had touched her in the most intimate of places. It was all she could do to stop herself from striking it away with every ounce of strength in her body.

  She raised her gaze to meet his with fierceness.

  He swallowed, glanced away, let his hand drop to rest by his side. ‘If there is anything more you need—’

  ‘There isn’t. You should go now,’ she said with feigned calmness before turning away again to the window. Clutching her dressing gown all the tighter around her, she stared down at the gas-lit street, seeing nothing of it, waiting only for him to leave.

  But he did not leave.

  She heard him come up behind her. He did not touch her, but she could feel the heat of his proximity scorch the length of her spine.

  ‘Alice...’ there was a straining pause ‘...I hope I have not...hurt you.’

  She turned to him, held her head up to look him defiantly in the face. ‘Hurt me? Don’t flatter yourself, Razeby. It was nice while it lasted, but...’ She gave a shrug as if she did not care and bit hard at her bottom lip to stop the threat of the betraying tremor.

  She saw the bob of his Adam’s apple in his throat, the way his dark eyes studied hers.

  ‘That at least is something.’ He gave a nod. ‘Goodbye, Alice.’

  ‘Goodbye, Razeby.’ The words were tight. She forced a smile and turned away to the window again as if she were more interested in the dark view.

  He turned and walked away, but she could see the reflection of his leaving in the glass of the window pane and her own face watching, pale and haunting as a ghost.

  The bedchamber door closed with a quiet click that seemed louder than an almighty slam.

  She stood there and listened to the stride of his booted footsteps along the corridor and down the stairs. Her breath caught in ragged gasps, but she caught her hand to her mouth to silence them. Five minutes later the front door shut. Only then did she let herself sag back to lean against the wall and allow the sob to escape.

  * * *

  For what remained of that night Alice sat in the little blue armchair by the fireplace and stared into the flames. They licked high around the fresh coal she had thrown on to it, devouring the black rocks with a ferocity that matched the force of emotion whirling and tumbling through her. It did not matter how much heat they threw out, it did not warm the chill from her bones. Nor did the dressing gown or the woollen shawl clutched tight around her shoulders. It was the shock, she thought to herself. And the anger. And that feeling that she had drunk ten cups of coffee and that it did not matter if she lay on the bed and closed her eyes; her thoughts were running so wild she would never sleep again.

  Don’t you dare shed a single tear for him!

  But her eyes were swimming and she felt she could have wept a waterfall. She swallowed down the lump in her throat, but no amount of swallowing could shift the boulder from her chest that felt like it was crushing her.

  It was just sex. It had always been just sex. And the way she was feeling now, so scraped and raw and bleeding, was down to the shock of it; that was all. Razeby’s words had come out of nowhere, catching her with her guard down.

  She breathed, calmed herself. Stared into the flames. She had survived worse things than this. She thought of her family back in Ireland, of her coming to London to find a job that she might help them, of the hunger and the desperation. She thought of playing the role of the masked Miss Rouge in Mrs Silver’s high-class brothel, her identity hidden from the world. So few people knew. But Razeby did. God only knew why she had told him. She was regretting that now.

  Her eyes glanced across at the bed with its sheets still rumpled from their lovemaking. Amidst them she could see the sparkle of the diamond bracelet, so brilliant and beautiful and expensive. She gave a shaky laugh and shook her head at what a fool she had been.

  Never let them see how much they hurt you. Her mother’s words, drummed into her across a lifetime, played in her head. The bastards can’t take your pride away from you unless you let them. Look life straight in the face, Alice, and always, always keep smiling.

  Alice was not clever. She was not smart. But she was practical and hard-working and determined. And she still had her pride, every damn inch of it.

  She turned her face away from the bed and, staring into the low golden flickers amongst the red glowing coals, made her plans.

  Chapter Four

  Within the hallowed grounds of Almack’s ballroom, the chandeliers sparkled beneath the flames of a thousand candles. The walls were painted a soft cream and outlined in antique gold. The ceiling had recently been reworked in an array of white plasterwork. In its centre was a line of three elaborate roses, from each of which hung an enormous crystal chandelier. There was a three-piece matching peering glass set above the fireplac
e, with candles fitted to the fronts and a series of matching mirrored wall sconces positioned at regular intervals around the room. Small chairs and tables were seeded around the periphery. The musicians played from the balcony above, the music floating sweet and melodic to fill the ballroom and haunt Razeby.

  ‘I was not sure they were going to let you in,’ he said to Linwood standing by his side.

  ‘I did have to call in a few favours.’

  ‘I am glad you did,’ he admitted.

  There was a small silence as the two men let their eyes wander to the other side of the dance floor and the crowd of white-dressed débutantes there that posed and giggled and chattered amongst themselves while their stern-faced turban-wearing chaperones looked on.

  ‘Does Alice know you are here?’ Linwood asked.

  ‘It is over between me and Alice.’ Razeby felt the weight of Linwood’s gaze, but he did not shift his own, just kept his face impassive and remained staring straight ahead so that nothing of his feelings showed.

  ‘I am sorry about that.’

  ‘So am I.’

  There was the music and the droning hum of surrounding conversations and the tinkle of women’s laughter.

  ‘You could have kept her on at least until you found—’

  ‘No.’ Razeby did not let him finish. ‘A clean severance is for the best.’ He met his friend’s eyes.

  Linwood raised an eyebrow. ‘I was under the impression that you and she dealt very well together.’

  ‘We do.’ He glanced away and corrected himself. ‘We did.’ He swallowed to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. ‘But she was my mistress, Linwood. And now it is time to find myself a wife.’

  Linwood looked at him with that too-perceptive gaze of his, as if he could see the way that Razeby’s stomach clenched at just the mention of her name. He was doing the right thing, the thing that had to be done. The thing he should have been doing six months ago, before Alice Sweetly came into his life and changed his best-laid plan. Six months and he could regret not one day of it. Six months and... He changed the subject, pretending something of his usual lightness of spirit when what he felt was anything but.

  ‘See what you missed out on by not playing the marriage mart?’

  Linwood smiled, which was a sight that was a deal more common since his recent marriage. ‘I would rather be tried for murder and catch a wife in the process,’ he said, referring to exactly what he had done just a few months ago. ‘Scandalous and dangerous—but more than satisfying in its end result.’ He smiled again and there was a softening of his expression so that Razeby could tell he was thinking of his wife, the former star of the Covent Garden stage, Venetia Fox. Venetia, who was Alice’s best friend.

  A vision of Alice swam in his mind. Alice, with her mischief and her heart and her laughter. Alice standing in their bedchamber looking at him with that expression of shock in her eyes as he told her it was over. Something churned in Razeby’s stomach. He forced that last image away and turned his gaze to the hordes of white-frocked débutantes across the floor, one of whom by the end of the Season would be his wife, in his bed and carrying his child. He felt numb at the thought, but it had to be this way. He had had his fun and Alice had been more than he had ever anticipated, but now it was time to bite the bullet and do his duty...before it was too late. He turned his mind from all other distractions and summoned a cold determination.

  ‘So which lucky débutante are you going to ask to dance?’ asked Linwood.

  ‘The first one I come to,’ replied Razeby with a smile that did not touch his eyes and, setting his champagne glass down on the silver salver of a passing footman, he made his way across the room.

  * * *

  The day had been a long one, following a night in which she had not slept, but Alice was not tired.

  It had been a mammoth effort and one which had seen her travel round half of London. But it had been worth it.

  The large travelling bag lay open at her feet.

  ‘Shall I help you, ma’am?’ The maid hovered awkwardly in the doorway as if afraid to enter the bedchamber. The girl’s cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, her manner awkward. Alice saw the way her eyes dropped to take in the travelling bag before meeting her face.

  All of the servants knew, even though she was sure that Razeby would have told them nothing of it. Alice had two sisters in service in Dublin. She knew that servants always knew these things.

  ‘No, thank you, Mary. I’ll see to myself. But if you could have Heston see that a hackney carriage is summoned for me.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ The girl bobbed a curtsy and hurried off to update the rest of the staff.

  Alice went through the wardrobe, pulling out a minimal selection of clothes, all of which she had brought with her when she had come to this house, and ignoring the expensive silk dresses and accessories that Razeby had paid for.

  She made short work of gathering up the rest of her possessions. There were not many. Alice travelled light. She preferred it that way.

  It was when she moved to close the wardrobe doors that she stopped, her eyes drawn, as if not of their own volition, to the dress hanging on its own at the very end of the row. She hesitated, bit her lip, knowing that she should shut the door upon it just like all the rest, but unable to do so. Before she could think better of it, she slipped the emerald-silk evening dress from the hanger and folded it into her bag.

  Of all the gifts that Razeby had given her, she took only one, opening the lid of the long thin cherrywood box just long enough to check that the engraved silver pen was inside. But she did not look at it. She did not touch it, just snapped the lid shut and stuffed it into the travelling bag with a tortoiseshell comb and the rest of her toiletries before buckling the bag closed. Then she swept the black-velvet cloak over her shoulders and lifted the travelling bag.

  One final glance around the bedchamber, at the dressing table and its peering glass, at the wardrobe and the armchairs and the pretty little table with its ivory vase of deep-pink roses that had had their day. The heads were blown, the petals starting to fall. But their perfume was still sweet and lingering in the room. She moved her gaze to the bed, which she and Razeby had shared, let her eyes rest there for only a moment. Then, with her bag in hand, she walked away, down the stairs and out into the waiting hackney carriage.

  The driver flicked the reins and the carriage drove off into the sunset. Alice kept her focus on the glorious rosy-streaked sky. She clutched her hands tight around the travelling bag and kept her mouth set firm with determination.

  And not once did she look back at the house.

  * * *

  Razeby lost track of the number of women he danced with. They all seemed much the same. He made conversation. He went through the motions. But all the while he could not get last night’s scene with Alice out of his head.

  She knew more than most how the games between men and women played out. She had been under no illusions. Neither of them had. And yet...

  I don’t want your money, Razeby.

  The words whispered again in his ear. It was that one phrase more than any other that worried him.

  Last night had been about a clean, quick break. It was the only way. The best way for them both. Just as he had told Linwood. The theory of it had been easy, the practice anything but. He had handled it badly. More than badly. He wondered if he could have handled it worse.

  Alice had been good to him, good for him. She was like no one he had ever known. It explained the gnawing feeling he had felt since telling her. Guilt. He should make sure she was all right, now and for the future. He should up the sum of her severance payment from that which his lawyer had specified in the contract, regardless of what she said.

  He delivered Miss Thomson back to her mother. And bowed.

  Hurt me? Don’t flatter yourself, Razeby. He was not sure he believed her. The thought niggled him. He felt the guilt gnaw harder, even though he had spoken the truth to her. Arrangements like thei
rs were not meant to last. But he could not stop wondering how she was.

  ‘Leaving so early?’ Linwood raised an eyebrow. ‘The night is still young, Razeby.’

  ‘Breaking myself in gently, Linwood,’ he lied. ‘There are only so many débutantes a man can endure in one evening.’

  ‘Do you want to go to White’s to recover?’

  ‘Another night,’ said Razeby.

  * * *

  The lights glowed through the blind-shuttered windows. The house in Hart Street looked as welcoming as ever it had done. He wondered if he had made a mistake in coming here. But he needed to reassure himself that she was all right.

  ‘What do you mean she is gone?’ It had been the early hours of this morning when he had left her here alone. Not even twenty-four hours had elapsed since that botched confrontation.

  He saw the awkwardness of the butler’s expression before the man remembered his professional decorum and schooled his face to the usual attentive impassivity.

  ‘Miss Sweetly was out all day, my lord, returning earlier this evening to pack a travelling bag.’

  Something twisted in his chest. ‘Did she leave a note?’

  ‘There is no note, my lord.’ There was something in the way the old man’s eyes looked at him that made him feel even more of a bastard. He paused before adding, ‘She gave instructions that she would not be returning.’

  ‘And did Miss Sweetly say where she was going? Or leave a forwarding direction?’ Razeby knew in his heart what the answer to those questions would be, but he asked them in the hope that he was wrong.

  ‘No, my lord, she did not.’

  ‘But she must have given a direction to John Coachman?’

  ‘Miss Sweetly did not travel by your lordship’s coach when she left.’

  He understood the significance of that very clearly. She did not want him to find her, and, in truth, he could not blame her.

  Razeby dismissed the butler and climbed the stairs to the bedchamber they had shared. Everything looked just the same as it always did, as if last night had been just some bad dream. The wall sconces on either side of the fireplace were lit, the flames of their candles reflecting soft and subdued in their adjoining looking glasses. The roses he had brought her not a week ago were still in their vase. A small fire burned on the hearth, making the room cosy and warm. The scent of her was in the air, the sense of her entwined in the very fibres of the place.