MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS

by Margaret McPhee

  ‘On the bed. Now,’ she whispered.

  He peeled off his tailcoat, threw his waistcoat to follow and, pulling her into his arms, backed them both to the bed.

  ‘I am yours to command,’ he said as he gathered her skirts high and laid her gently down upon the covers. His gaze swept over her fair hair tumbling from its pins, at her kiss-swollen lips and the dark desire in her eyes, and the place between her legs that was so ready for him. He covered her body with his, their mouths clinging together, sharing lips and breath and tongues. But when he would have slid into her she inched her body just out of reach.

  He groaned and made to capture her, but she stayed him.

  ‘Not yet,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘I want to see you. I want to touch you. And taste you.’ She stared down into his eyes.

  Together they rolled on the bed so that she was on top and he beneath.

  She unfastened his cravat and it was gone. She pulled the shirt up high to expose his chest. He peeled it over his head and threw it away.

  ‘I want you naked,’ she said.

  ‘And I, you. I will take off the rest of my clothes only if you take off yours.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’ She smiled, teasing him in that familiar way she had always done.

  They stripped, and when he lay down on the bed again she came to him naked as the day she had been born, her straight pale-blonde hair freed from its pins to brush against her breasts, the pale rose tips nosing through its lengths. She straddled one of his thighs, kneeling there so that he could feel her warmth and moisture against him.

  His manhood stood high to attention. She leaned over him, her long hair and her nipples brushing against his chest as she reached her lips to touch his. She placed one gentle kiss against his mouth. One on his breast against his heart. Then slid lower, to place another on his navel, dipping her tongue within to taste him there. Her mouth slid lower, following the line of dark hair, to the turgid thick length of his manhood. She kissed the tip of him and he almost came. She licked the length of him and he gasped aloud. She took him in her mouth and worked him gently.

  ‘Have mercy, Alice, or I will not last any longer.’ His whisper trembled.

  She let him slide free. ‘With you there can be nothing of mercy.’ Words they had so often used in their play. ‘I must be cruel to be kind, Razeby,’ she said with the strangest expression on her face, but she did not take him in her mouth again. Instead, she kissed the other parts of him that made him a man. Stroked her hands slowly up the dark smattering of hair that dusted his belly, over his stomach, over his ribs and the length of his arms, from the tips of his fingers all the way up to his shoulders, as if she were trying to memorise every part of his body.

  She kissed the hollow of his throat. Each shoulder. His Adam’s apple. And then she looked into his eyes and watched him as she moved her legs to straddle him and lowered herself to take him into her body.

  They sighed together in the relief and ecstasy of their reunion, their breaths mingling to become as one. Their gazes stayed locked as they moved together, as they found the place that only they could reach. And afterwards he gathered her in his arms and he held her and felt their hearts race together. She stroked his face, traced the line of his eyebrow, kissed his eyelids, the tip of his nose, the cleft of his chin.

  There was such tenderness and love in her touch, in the way she looked at him, in her whisper of his name.

  ‘You are mine, Alice. And I am yours.’

  She smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes.

  He kissed the sadness away and held her as if he would never let her go. Come tomorrow he would save her heart, and his own, and lose his honour in doing so.

  * * *

  Alice lay in the bed long after Razeby had gone. Her body was contented from his loving, and when she slid her hand against the sheet that lined his side of the bed it was still warm from where he had lain. She loved him with every beat of her heart, with every breath in her lungs, with all that she was. But love wasn’t all sweetness and softness and pretty things. Sometimes for love you had to make the hardest decision and do the most difficult thing in the world.

  Alice had never loved before. She did not think she would ever love again. For her there was only, and would only ever be, Razeby. But he was the most determined man she knew. He had made up his mind and no amount of persuasion would turn him from it. To marry him was all she could ever have dreamed of. To be with him as his wife. To love him. And be loved by him. What more could there be in life? It was joy. It was happiness. If there could be heaven on earth, then to live like that with Razeby would be it.

  But it would destroy him—and what happiness could there be in that?

  So she would do the hardest thing in the world. To save the man that she loved she would sacrifice her own heart. And make him hate her for ever. It was as she had said, sometimes you really did have to be cruel to be kind.

  There was only one way Razeby was going to let her go. One tack she knew would work for certain. And her heart shivered to take it, and her skin grew cold and clammy at the thought and she was so afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her life, but she knew it was what she was going to have to do.

  She closed her eyes and remembered the way he had loved her, the tenderness in his eyes. He would never look at her like that again. Never. She pushed the thought away and rose from the bed. She had to be strong enough for the both of them.

  * * *

  Razeby arrived at Alice’s rented rooms at four o’clock the next afternoon, exactly when he had said he would—twenty-four hours after he had asked her to be his wife. She was dressed in the same yellow walking dress she had worn that day in Hyde Park and had wrapped a fawn cashmere shawl around her shoulders. There was a small fire burning on the hearth and the sun shone in through the windows, adding to the warmth of the room. But it did not matter how much coal she burned or how many layers of clothing she wore, she was frozen to the marrow and did not think she would ever feel warm again.

  He was smartly dressed, wearing a black Weston riding coat and a pair of fitted buckskin breeches. The leather on his riding boots gleamed in the sunlight, as did the mahogany of his hair. He bore himself well, a slight arrogance in his walk, a confidence in the way he held himself that stemmed from being raised to lead. Everything about him spoke so loudly that he was born to be a marquis that she knew she was doing the right thing.

  ‘So, Alice,’ he said softly. ‘I have come for your answer.’

  Her stomach was balled so tightly she felt sick and her throat was sticking together so badly that she could not swallow.

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  Her heart was thudding hard and fast in the base of her throat. She forced her chin up, clutched the shawl so tight that her hands went numb. ‘I’m afraid not. My answer is no.’

  He gave a small surprised laugh, as if he did not really believe her. ‘Do you think to save me from myself, Alice? Because if that is your game, I will brook no refusal.’ He stepped closer.

  Her heart missed a beat. ‘This is no game.’ She swallowed and took a step in retreat. ‘I’ll not marry you, Razeby.’

  ‘Why not?’ He cocked an eyebrow and his gaze bored into hers. ‘I know that you love me.’

  ‘No. You’re mistaken. I don’t love you. I’ve never loved you.’ She looked away to tell the lie.

  ‘I do not believe you. You cannot even look me in the eye to say it.’

  She curled her hands so that her nails dug into her palms, forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘I don’t love you, Razeby.’

  ‘And what happened between us yesterday?’

  ‘Was sex.’

  ‘It was a damn sight more than sex.’

  ‘I made you think that. It’s what whores are paid to do and I’m good at my job.’

  He grabbed hold of her arm, hauled her to him, staring mercilessly down into her face. ‘Never call yourself that word again. Do you understand?’

  She nodd
ed, afraid of the power and strength of what she saw in his face.

  Something of the tension in his grip relaxed. ‘Besides,’ he said softly, ‘I did not pay for yesterday, or the time in the theatre.’

  ‘Consider it a couple of goodbye liaisons, for the sake of our previous arrangement.’

  ‘I am prepared to give it all up for you and you tell me you will not have me?’ He gave a laugh of incredulity and stared at her as if he did not believe her.

  ‘Well, you see, that’s the problem, Razeby.’ She had thought so carefully all through the night of the words she must say—the words that would convince him. Rehearsed them in her head again and again. But now that it came to saying them they stuck sharp as fish bones in her throat. ‘I’m...’ She took a breath and forced them to her tongue. ‘I’m not interested in a man without money or title. A man who cannot keep me in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed. I don’t want to be a poor man’s wife. I don’t want to flee to another country. Or spend the rest of my life in a hovel, cooking and cleaning, with laundrymaid hands and scrabbling to make do and mend and put food on the table. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. I came to London to escape poverty and I’ll not go back to it to be your wife.’

  He stared at her in silence as if it took some time for the words to sink in. ‘So it is not me you want at all,’ he said slowly, ‘but my wealth, my title, my power?’

  She nodded, making sure she did not look away. Delivering every last piece of the lie while meeting his eyes.

  ‘If it was not about love, but only gain, why did you not take the dresses, the bracelet, the money?’

  ‘To pique your interest. It was all just a game to get you back.’

  ‘You made me believe that you loved me.’

  She swallowed and the air in her nostrils seemed chilled as ice and that in her lungs sharp as the prickle of pins. What was it he had said that day in the Exhibition Room? Clean and quick is the best way of severing something that one has no wish to let go. ‘I never said those words, Razeby.’ Her voice was quiet as she delivered the blow that would sever them for ever. ‘Not once.’

  She saw the words hit home. Saw the realisation in his eyes. It had worked, just as she had known it would.

  ‘Neither you did,’ he said softly. ‘How remiss of me not to notice.’

  The tension was stretched tight between them. She had not known that she could be so strong or so callous. To stand there second by second, minute by minute, and coldly, deliberately break his heart...and her own.

  She forced her lips to curve in the echo of a smile. ‘You’re a nice man, Razeby—kind-hearted, generous. Great in bed.’ She swallowed and the smile wavered before she forced it harder. It felt like there was something wrapped tight around her throat. ‘But you see, the reason I was attracted to you was because you were a marquis and rich and high up, and good-looking, too. I know what that makes me, but then I’ve never pretended to be anything else.’

  Razeby said nothing. He stared into her eyes, his face a mask of anger and darkness and disgust that she did not recognise. But better his contempt and loathing a hundred times over than let him destroy himself. If he thought her a selfish whore over whom he had made a mistake and had a lucky escape, then he would be glad to walk away and leave her. His wounds would heal in time. She did not think of her own. He would marry some rich, suitable woman. Breed his heirs upon her. Care for his people and his lands. Be the great man he had always been destined to be.

  She could feel the intensity of his anger, the barely leashed rage, the darkness of emotion. And against her face was the warmth of his breath—but not from passion, not from loving. The intensity in his eyes was searing. She did not know how much longer she could endure it. Part of her was so close to falling to her knees, to blurting all of the truth, to wrapping her arms around him and cradling him to her, and telling him that she loved him. And another part, the strong part that knew she would move heaven and earth to save him, stood there quiet and resolute.

  He did not say a word, not one word. Just took some coins from his purse. He put the purse away again and held out his hand, palm flat, offering her the two gold sovereigns that lay glinting upon it.

  She knew what they were. She understood what he was paying for—their loving of yesterday and in the theatre. She stared at the coins and could not move.

  ‘Take them,’ he said in a deadly quiet voice.

  The final test. The final sacrifice that must be made.

  She reached out her hand and took both sovereigns from where they lay.

  He curled his lip with disgust and gave a tiny disbelieving shake of his head. Then he turned, and without a glance back strode out of the bedchamber. She could hear the hurried, purposeful tread of his boots on the stairs, and across the hallway, the almighty slam of the front door that reverberated throughout and made the whole house tremble. And she did not move, just stood there, frozen in horror and shock and pain at what she had just done. Stood there, and stood there, while time ceased to be and somewhere around her was a whole world moving on.

  She did not know how much time had passed before she heard the girl’s voice. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ The youngest maid, Rosie, stood wide-eyed and timid outside the open bedchamber door.

  She nodded. ‘Go,’ she managed to whisper.

  But the maid just stared at her with horrified fascination and concern.

  ‘I said, leave me.’ Stronger this time.

  The girl bobbed a curtsy, shut the bedchamber door and the light footsteps hurried away.

  And still Alice stood there. Unmoving. Frozen. Staring at the floor, blind to the pale Turkish rug and the dark polished floor boards. Blind and deaf and dumb. Slowly she turned and walked to the bed, sat down on the edge of it. It felt like there was a great band of iron wrapped around her chest, crushing her, making it hard to breathe. She felt hollow where she had placed her hand within her chest and ripped out her own heart.

  Razeby was safe. But the cost had been herself. All of herself. All of her heart. Everything she was. Every one of those words of deceit had been a cut to her own soul. In hurting him she hurt herself a hundred times over. In freeing him she sentenced herself to a living death. She felt numb, shattered, disconnected. There was nothing she could do or say or think.

  She sat there, and the seconds stretched to minutes and the minutes to hours. She sat there and the sun moved away to set in the west and the daylight faded and the darkness came. And all the while her right hand was curled tight and hard.

  A knocking sounded. The older maid, Meg, opened the door a crack and peeped in. ‘Shall I bring you up a tray of dinner, ma’am?’

  ‘Go away,’ she said and her voice sounded like someone else’s.

  The door closed again.

  She leaned to the side. Lay down on the bed, her feet and legs still dangling over the edge. She lay there, eyes open, staring into the darkness. Until the sounds of the carriages and the passers-by faded to nothing and there was only silence. Until, eventually, the silver of the moon crept in through the window and moved its way, inch by inch, across the room to light the curled tight fist of her right hand lying on the counterpane, white and bloodless as a dead thing. She looked at it as if it were not a part of herself. Slowly, she loosened the fist, uncurling her fingers inch by tiny inch until they lay flat and stretched, her palm exposed in full. She stared at the two large coins that lay upon it. Gold painted Judas silver by the light of the moon.

  The pain hit her then, savage and merciless, and black beyond all despair. And all of the barriers crumbled, and the breaking was so sudden and swift and complete that there was nothing she could do to stop them. She wept, as she had not wept in all these weeks. She wept for the loss of the man that she loved and the loss of the woman she had been. She wept and she did not think that she would ever be able to stop.

  * * *

  Three days later Alice packed her travelling bag, and left her rooms in Mercer Street. She caught th
e mail to Southampton, boarded the first boat she could find and went home to Dublin.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There was silence in the drawing room of the Darrington town house in fashionable Upper Grosvenor Street.

  Miss Darrington took a tiny sip of her tea. Her golden hair was perfectly coiffured, her body robed in an expensive pink silk.

  ‘So what is your preference for the colours of flowers for the wedding breakfast table?’ Mrs Darrington enquired of him.

  ‘I am content to leave the decisions on such matters to yourself and Miss Darrington.’ Razeby said. ‘I am sure you will make an admirable selection.’

  Mrs Darrington smiled and nodded.

  ‘Such a pleasure that you have decided to ally yourself with our family. And with such eagerness for the nuptials.’

  ‘There is no point in delaying when the decision has been made,’ he said.

  ‘A man after my own heart, Lord Razeby,’ agreed Mr Darrington. ‘Seven weeks should be more than long enough. Although Mrs Darrington is already getting herself in quite the flutter over arranging so speedy a wedding.’

  Razeby forced a smile that could not touch his eyes. ‘Such is the prerogative of ladies.’

  Mrs Darrington gave a nervous giggle. ‘La, there is so much to be done!’

  ‘So much indeed,’ said Miss Darrington. ‘Perhaps seven weeks is not long enough. There is lace for my dress, the silk... Perhaps it would be better to defer the wedding until—’

  ‘Seven weeks will be more than enough time,’ Mr Darrington interrupted, fixing his daughter with a warning eye.

  ‘If Miss Darrington is in agreement?’ Razeby looked at her.

  Miss Darrington gave a nod.

  Seven weeks and he would stand before an altar and make Miss Darrington his wife. It would be done.

  ‘More tea, Lord Razeby?’ Mrs Darrington asked.

  ‘Thank you,’ he murmured and allowed her to fill his cup.

  The clock on the mantel ticked its slow steady rhythm in the background. The large bouquet of flowers that Razeby had brought sat beside it in a cream-and-blue glazed vase.