The Marquis Who Hated Women (Bantam Series No. 62)

by Barbara Cartland

  “You know I did not mean that,” Shikara said. “You have been very kind and I am looking forward to having a new gown more than I can possibly tell you. I am heartily sick already of those I have with me.”

  “That is a very feminine emotion,” the Marquis said.

  But she refused to be drawn into an argument and merely laughed at him.

  The Marquis took her to what was obviously a very good dressmaker and she was sure would be very expensive.

  There were quite a number of gowns to choose from and the Marquis was helping her decide, when a woman coming from one of the fitting-rooms glanced at him casually, then gave a cry of unmistakable delight.

  “Osborne! It is Osborne, not his ghost?” she asked in a fascinating broken accent. “How could I imagine that I would see you of all people in Lisbon?”

  The Marquis rose to his feet.

  “Madalena!” he exclaimed. “This is a pleasure I did not anticipate. When I last heard you were conquering Paris.”

  “I was a triumphant success there, but after six months I needed a holiday and so I came home!”

  The Marquis kissed her hand, then he said:

  “You are even more beautiful than I remember.” That she was beautiful was certainly true, Shikara thought. She had never imagined a woman could be so glamorous and at the same time have such a fascinating, alluring face.

  As if he suddenly remembered her presence the Marquis said:

  “May I introduce my Ward—Miss Shikara Bartlett?”

  As Shikara curtseyed he added:

  “Senhora Madalena Monteiro is, in case you do not know, the most famous and the most exquisite dancer in all Europe.”

  “You flatter me, Osborne,” the Senhora said, looking up at him with dark, sparkling eyes which echoed the silky black of her hair.

  “You are quite unrivalled,” the Marquis insisted, “and you know I am not exaggerating.”

  “I want to believe you,” the Senhora smiled. “But tell me, how long are you here? When can I see you?”

  “I am afraid we are leaving tomorrow,” the Marquis answered, “and that is why you must dine with me tonight, Madalena. I want you to see my yacht. It is new, and like you has no rivals.”

  “I shall be delighted.”

  “Will you want to bring any friends?” the Marquis asked.

  “You know I want to see you alone,” the Senhora replied, “so why do you not call for me before dinner so that we can have a tête à tête? Afterwards we can dine on your yacht and I have dozens of friends who would wish to accompany me and meet the most handsome and attractive Englishman I have ever known.”

  There was something caressing in the way she spoke and the manner in which her hands fluttered towards the Marquis to touch his arm or his chest as she talked.

  It made Shikara think that she was like a butterfly, colourful and exotic, fluttering round a flower.

  ‘She is fascinating,’ she thought, ‘and undoubtedly as overwhelmingly feminine as the Marquis would wish.’

  The Senhora gave the Marquis her address, and as he kissed her hand she said:

  “I shall be counting the hours until tonight, Osborne. It is far too long since we have been together. I shall never forget what a happy time we had in Rome.”

  “How could I ever forget it?” the Marquis answered. “And you are quite unchanged, Madalena, except that you have grown more beautiful.”

  The Senhora pursed her red lips into the shape of a kiss, then she said softly:

  “Until tonight—au revoir, mon ami.”

  She did not even glance at Shikara as she swept away, the silk of her gown rustling seductively, and the exotic perfume she was wearing lingering on the air after she was gone.

  The Marquis returned to the task of helping Shikara choose some gowns.

  But she fancied, although it might have been her imagination, that he was no longer so interested and that his thoughts were elsewhere.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Marquis was late for dinner.

  Shikara, going into the Saloon dressed in one of the new gowns she had bought in the Baixa, found two good-looking elegant Portuguese gentlemen waiting there.

  Both of them had high-sounding titles and both immediately started to pay her extravagant compliments, looking at her with large, liquid dark eyes which made her think to herself that they looked like amorous dolphins.

  She was rather pleased with the phrase and decided to repeat it to the Marquis when they were alone.

  Then as time passed she realised that it was long after the dinner-hour, which had been arranged for half after nine o’clock.

  She had been surprised when on their return to the yacht the Marquis told her what time they would dine.

  "The Portuguese, like the Spanish, always eat late,” he answered. "One has to get used to the difference, although sometimes one’s stomach rebels loudly!”

  “I know that in Spain luncheon and dinner are very late,” Shikara answered. "But I was quite young when we went there and was always sent to bed long before my father and mother had dinner.”

  “Portugal is much the same,” the Marquis told her, “and I have therefore ordered dinner for what to my guests will be an acceptable time.”

  It was however about seven o’clock when Shikara saw him leave the yacht for the shore.

  She had been sitting on deck and without his being aware of it she watched him go down the gangway and get into the boat below.

  She thought that in his evening-clothes, with a satin cloak slung over his shoulders, he looked magnificent and unmistakably English.

  ‘Any woman would be proud to be seen with him,’ she thought to herself, and wished they were dining alone rather than with a party.

  Now she talked with the two Portuguese gentlemen and realised that the time was ticking by without a sign of the Marquis and the Senhora.

  She wondered if anything untoward had happened to delay them.

  Suppose there had been an accident? Suppose that for some unknown reason the Marquis had been detained by the Police or the Military?

  As if without words her fear communicated itself to the two guests, one of the Portuguese said:

  “Do not be perturbed, Miss Bartlett, I am sure your Chef will realise that we as a nation, and particularly the Senhora Madalena, are always late.”

  “Sometimes with very good reason, especially where Madalena is concerned!” the other gentlemen remarked.

  There was a note in his voice which said all too clearly there was an ulterior meaning behind his words.

  Shikara looked at him in slight surprise.

  Then she realised that the two men had glanced at each other in a manner which made her think they were laughing, if not at her then at some joke she did not understand.

  Finally, when it was nearly ten o’clock, there was the sound of activity on deck and Shikara knew the Marquis and his guest had arrived.

  The Senhora swept into the cabin looking alluring and breathtakingly glamorous.

  Shikara found herself gasping at the amount of jewellery she wore and the almost outrageous cut of her gown.

  It was very low, very revealing in front, and at the same time it added to the grace with which the Senhora walked and the provocative swing of her hips.

  Round her neck and on her arms there was a profusion of emeralds and rubies which few women would have dared to wear.

  Ear-rings of the same stones hung from her ears and there was a glitter of them in her dark hair.

  She held out her hand imperiously to the two Portuguese gentlemen, who kissed it and went into an ecstasy of praise at her appearance.

  Neither she nor the Marquis made any apology for being late, and Shikara, looking at the latter, thought that he seemed to have a more cynical smile on his lips than usual.

  At the same time, she thought, a little despondently that he hardly noticed her or her new gown.

  The steward appeared to pour out glasses of champagne and the three m
en toasted the Senhora, who smiled beguilingly at all of them.

  But she seemed, Shikara thought, to have a specially intimate exchange of words and glances with the Marquis, which appeared to set them both apart from everyone else.

  “To your happiness!” the Marquis said, raising his glass.

  The Senhora looked at him, her dark eyes slanting mysteriously. Then she said very softly:

  “It is you who make me happy—as you well know.”

  Shikara thought that the Senhora must be declaring her love for the Marquis, then suddenly the truth struck her forcibly, almost like a blow.

  How stupid she had been, how obtuse!

  Of course the reason why the Marquis and the Senhora were late was that they had been “making love”!

  Shikara was not quite certain what this entailed, for despite the fact that she had travelled to many parts of the world she was very innocent.

  But she knew that a man could make love to a woman without wishing to marry her, and find her desirable without his heart being involved.

  That was what had happened! That was why the Marquis having left the yacht at seven o’clock had been away so long, and why the Senhora was looking like a cat that had been given an extra dish of cream.

  ‘I should be shocked ... I am shocked!’ she thought.

  Then she thought that perhaps the Portuguese thought that her position alone on the yacht with the Marquis was in fact open to question.

  He had said quite firmly that she was his Ward, but Shikara questioned whether gentlemen of the Marquis’s age travelled alone in their yachts or elsewhere with a girl of eighteen.

  She had been alone for over three quarters of an hour with the Portuguese and it had never struck her until this second that their compliments might have been more effusive than was suitable to a debutante or that there were innuendos in their conversation that she had not noticed until now.

  She felt suddenly embarrassed!

  Then she told herself almost bitterly that they certainly need not be concerned about her when it was quite obvious where the Marquis’s interests lay and how eagerly his feelings were reciprocated by the Senhora.

  All through dinner she flirted with him in a manner which Shikara felt would have horrified her mother. Undoubtedly her Uncle would have ordered such a “scarlet woman” out of his house!

  At the same time she had to admit that the Senhora was fascinating in a way that she had never before realised a woman could be.

  Every word she said, every movement she made, seemed to be a calculated enticement to excite a man and to arouse his desires.

  And there was no doubt, Shikara thought, watching, that the three men at the table hung upon her words and seemed to be almost mesmerised by her.

  “A magnificent theatrical performance!” she told herself, and wondered if in fact the Senhora was really enamoured with the Marquis.

  Because he was concentrating on someone other than herself and in fact seldom gave her a glance or addressed a word to her, she felt quite unjustifiably piqued.

  ‘He did not invite me to come with him on this voyage, and I have no right to complain,’ she thought.

  Yet she knew that she felt neglected, although watching the Senhora she knew how inadequate she must seem by comparison and was not surprised that the Marquis did not desire her company.

  Everyone talked and laughed until the early hours.

  Although Shikara would have liked to leave them to go to bed, she felt it would cause a commotion if she rose to her feet.

  In fact one of the Portuguese insisted on talking to her in a soft and intimate manner which made it difficult for her to detach herself from him.

  She realised he was trying to flirt with her, but it was difficult to listen to him when all the time she was listening to what the Marquis was saying.

  Finally, when Shikara felt they would never go, the good-byes were begun and she and the Marquis went up on deck to see the guests safely into the boat which was to carry them ashore.

  One of the Portuguese gentlemen went first so that he could help the Senhora, then before she disembarked she looked up at the Marquis and Shikara heard her say:

  “Must you really leave tomorrow?”

  “I am afraid I must,” the Marquis replied.

  “I cannot bear to lose you again, Osborne,” she said. “It has been so wonderful being with you, just like old times.”

  “As you say, like old times,” the Marquis repeated.

  “Except that you are handsomer, more attractive, and perhaps even more irresistible than you were in the past.”

  He would have raised her hand to his lips but instead she put her arms round his neck and pulled his head down to hers.

  “You will leave a gap in my life which no-one else can fill,” she said.

  Then her lips met his and the Marquis’s arms went round her.

  They stood for a moment locked together, and Shikara, watching them wide-eyed, felt a strange sensation within her that was almost like a pain.

  She thought it was disgust. Never had she imagined that any woman could have behave so brazenly in public and conduct herself so immodestly.

  Then before she could understand her own feelings the Senhora and her friends were being rowed away towards the brilliantly lighted shore.

  The Marquis turned and walked back to the Saloon and Shikara followed him.

  ‘It is very late,” he remarked. “Doubtless we shall both be tired in the morning, having kept the most respectable hours until now.”

  “Yes ... perhaps we ... will,” Shikara answered.

  She found it difficult to speak ordinarily but the Marquis seemed not to notice and after a moment he said:

  “Good-night, Shikara, I hope you enjoyed this evening. It was a welcome change after the extremities of the storm.”

  “Good-night ... My Lord.”

  She curtseyed from the doorway and went to her own cabin.

  Only when she was there did she sit down at the dressing-table to stare at her reflection. But all she could see was the attractive, fascinating face of the Senhora.

  “That is the sort of woman he likes!” she told herself.

  The pain in her chest was still there when she thought of how the Marquis had kissed the Senhora’s lips.

  “She is crude and common,” Shikara tried to convince herself.

  But she knew that in fact the Senhora was neither of those things but was a stage personality living in a world of which Shikara had no knowledge.

  ‘What have I to offer the Marquis?’ she asked.

  She was suddenly appalled at the implication behind the question.

  Why should she want to offer him anything? She had told him, as she had told herself so often, that she hated men and wished to have nothing to do with them.

  Why then should it matter to her what the Marquis thought or felt about her?

  The pain was an agony in her breast, and now because Shikara was honest with herself, as with everyone else, she knew what it was.

  It was an emotion she had never experienced before in her whole life, one which she had never dreamt she would ever experience in relation to a man ... it was jealousy!

  She was jealous of the Senhora, and because she was afraid of asking herself other questions where the Marquis was concerned, she sprang up from the dressing-table and started to undress almost feverishly.

  Only when she got into bed and the cabin was in darkness did the picture of the Marquis kissing the Senhora come back to haunt her.

  There had been a grace and almost a beauty in the manner in which they were linked together, their bodies close against each other’s, his head bent towards hers, the line of her long neck as she lifted her mouth to his silhouetted against his evening-clothes.

  They looked like the hero and heroine of a romantic opera and Shikara admitted to herself that it was a part she herself wanted to play.

  The heroine who was admired, feted, and pursued by men, the heroine who wa
s finally united with the hero and kissed as the Senhora had been.

  Then, horrified by her own thoughts, Shikara sat up in bed.

  Surely she could not be thinking such things? And yet it was not only her thoughts which had got out of control: her body was filled with sensations which she had never before known existed.

  It was soft and yielding in a way it had never been before and her lips trembled because she wanted to be kissed.

  “I must be going mad!” Shikara cried.

  When she lay down again, all she could see was the Marquis, the cynical smile on his lips and the look in his eyes that had been there when he talked with the Senhora.

  ‘He has never looked at me like that,’ Shikara thought despairingly.

  Then she buried her head in her pillow, saying to herself over and over again:

  “What I am feeling cannot be ... cannot be ... love!”

  The yacht began to move out of Port of Tejo at dawn the next morning. When Shikara heard the engines start up she knew with a feeling of intense satisfaction that they were leaving Lisbon and the Senhora behind.

  She had passed a night of almost intolerable agony, fighting with herself, with her feelings, and inevitably with her mind against what seemed to her to be a new danger.

  It was worse than anything she had encountered before.

  How could she possibly be in love with a man who hated women? How could she of all people fall in love?

  And yet it had happened, and she thought that if the Senhora had not been there to make her feel jealous, she might never have been aware of it.

  Now she was pulsatingly conscious that the Marquis was sleeping near her and that they were alone in his yacht as they had been before.

  The question was, for how long?

  ‘I cannot leave him ... I cannot!’ Shikara thought.

  Then she knew she would rather die than let him become aware of what she felt about him.

  Now that she was seeing him as an attractive man, she realised that there must have been hundreds of women who had loved him hopelessly but in whom he had no interest.

  He had made it very clear that he was not the least concerned with her, and she thought that after all she had said and the way they had argued about her feelings, it would be a tremendous score for him if he realised she was in love.