‘A paragon, then,’ remarked Marcus somewhat dryly. It was a little discouraging to learn that either his beauty was virtuous or that someone, rich, powerful and discreet, ran her. On the other hand, discretion of the sort which Madame was evidently practising was always to be commended.
‘Lives over the shop, does she?’
‘Well, even that’s unknown. That ass Sandiman apparently came the heavy with her one day at her salon, and the story goes that she gave him a bloody nose for his impudence—which could argue virtue—or the appearance of it.’
Marcus was fascinated. ‘She’s so tiny, how in the world did she tap his claret?’
‘With a poker, apparently. Poor fool wasn’t expecting it, it’s said. She led him on for a bit and then, when he was least expecting it, planted him a facer as good as the Game Chicken could have done—except that he don’t use a poker! I’d look out if I were you, Angmering, if you’ve any notion of furthering your own acquaintance with her. Don’t want your looks ruined for nothing!’
‘Well, thanks for the warning, Gronow. Always best to know what might by lying in wait for you, eh?’
‘All’s fair in love and war, they say.’
‘And no real notion of who might be running her? If anyone? Could the money she spent to set up her business have been some sort of a final pay-off for her, do you think?’
‘No idea, old fellow, none at all. If I hear anything I’ll be sure to let you know.’
A mystery woman indeed then, Madame Félice. And strong-minded, too. One might have guessed at her possessing a fiery temper with hair that colour—and such a determined little chin: he particularly admired the chin.
Marcus rode back to where his sister sat, talking to Sharnbrook—and there was a fellow worth knowing. He had to commend Sophia for her common-sense and good judgement in bringing him to heel.
Now, if he could only persuade Madame—if she were free that was—that he, Marcus, would be as good a bet as any to set up house with, then he could be as happy as Sophia without the shackles of marriage to trouble him. All that remained necessary for him was to find some means of promoting his friendship with her, and that was going to be difficult.
In the normal course of events there were a thousand ways in which he could contrive to meet a woman. If she were in society there was the park, or the ballrooms of mutual friends, or he could make a polite afternoon call. Likewise if she were in the demi-monde there were any number of recognised haunts where she might be found.
But Madame Félice was different. She belonged to neither one or the other of these two groups. She had her own legitimate business, and possibly also a circle of friends—but these would certainly not be the friends of Marcus, Lord Angmering, a member of high society, of the ton. Not that he associated much with the ton himself.
Come to think of it, he had become, except for his brief visits to London, a bit of a solitary. So he would have to devise some ploy, some trick, to further his acquaintance with Madame—which would itself serve to add a little spice to a life which he freely acknowledged had lately been rather dull.
So the afternoon found him sauntering along Bond Street trying to look innocent, although the good Lord alone could explain why he should, seeing that he was bent on seducing a woman who, for all he knew, was truly innocent. Except that in the world which Marcus inhabited, women in occupations like Madame’s were rarely so. Gronow had hesitated to pass any judgement on her which was, in itself, remarkable, but that proved nothing.
In his musings he had finally reached Madame’s salon with its little bow-window, a large hat on a cream-coloured shawl chastely displayed inside it—an indication of Madame’s character? He sincerely hoped not.
Now to go in—but what to say? He could scarcely ask her to make him a pretty little toilette. On the other hand, what about a shirt? Would it be beyond Madame’s talents to design a shirt for him? He could always claim that his present tailor was not sufficiently up to scratch for a man who hoped to make a good show at his sister’s wedding.
Yes, that was it.
It wasn’t a very convincing notion but it would have to do.
Marcus pushed the shop door open and walked in.
Louise had had a trying day. Her forewoman had contracted a light fever, and had consequently been unable to come in to work: her best cutter had thrown a fit of the tantrums on being asked to create something which she did not care for, so that Louise had been compelled to do it herself to prove that the design was not only feasible, but beautiful. This had finally brought obedience from the cutter, but having been proved wrong she had sulked for the rest of the day.
Now, to cap everything, the assistant who manned the shop counter had come in all of a fluster.
‘Madame, there’s a man outside who says he wants you to make him a shirt. I told him that you only design for ladies, but he won’t take no for an answer, won’t go away, and demands to speak to you.’
‘Does he, indeed? Does this man possess a name?’
‘Oh, I’m sure he does, but he hasn’t given it.’
Louise heaved a great sigh. Whatever next would turn up to ruin her day?
‘Very well, Charlotte. Remain here while I go and dispose of him.’
A man wanting her to make him a shirt! Whoever had heard of such a thing—and whoever could he be?
She walked determinedly into the shop—to stare at Marcus.
As seemed always to be the case, the mere sight of him was sufficient to deprive her of all common-sense.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said foolishly. And then, to recover herself a little, ‘I might have guessed.’
He smiled at her and, yes, he really did look rather splendid today—even more so than when she had first met him. Not that he was in the least bit conventionally handsome, his face was too strong for that—and his answer to her was almost what she would have expected from him.
‘Might you, indeed? Am I so eccentric?’ he asked her, his expression comically quizzical.
‘To want me to make you a shirt, yes. Surely you must have an excellent tailor.’
‘Quite so, but I wished to further my acquaintance with you, and this was the only way I could think of doing so, seeing that we are unlikely to meet socially, and I haven’t the slightest idea where you live—other than it might be over your salon. As a matter of interest could you possibly make me—or create, I believe is the ladies’ word—a shirt which would past muster in the best houses?’
Louise began to laugh. His expression was so charmingly impudent when he came out with this piece of flim-flam that it quite undid her determination to be severe with him. She would let him down as lightly as possible.
‘Now I know that you are funning. I suppose that I might be able to do what you have just suggested—but are you really informing me that this whole light-minded conversation with me and my assistant was solely for the purpose of getting to know me better? And, if so, to what end, m’lord? I cannot believe it to be an honest one, given the difference in our rank.’
Now this was plain speaking, was it not? And he should surely not have expected anything else from her, not with hair that colour, and with her determined little chin. He would match it with plain speaking of his own.
‘You cannot know, madame, what an extraordinary effect you have had on me. Or perhaps you can, because I find it difficult to believe that you have never attracted a man’s instant admiration before.’
Nor could he know, thought Louise a trifle sadly, that her experience of the ways of men, other than those of her late, brutal husband, was non-existent. She had barely spoken to anyone of the opposite sex since she had fled Steepwood Abbey. Which was, of course, why she had no notion whether it was usual for her to feel as she did every time she met him, which was a kind of wild exhilaration which seemed to take over her whole being.
She had told herself after escaping from her prison that she would never have anything more to do with a sex which could spawn such monsters as
Sywell, and here she was bandying words with one of them, and experiencing these strong frissons of excitement while she did so. What frightened her was the thought that if she were to encourage him she might find that he was no better than Sywell—or that he might even be worse.
Could she trust him?
Perhaps when he looked at her as though—
As though, what? She didn’t like to think.
‘Come, m’lord,’ she said, and her voice was sad, all her recent light banter missing from it, ‘you must know as well as I that your intentions to me cannot be honourable. A great gulf lies between us.’
Marcus bowed his head. He was not going to deny that. What he could do was reassure her that he would always treat her kindly, would never exploit her in the way in which many men exploited their mistresses, whether they were members of the ton, or of the demi-monde, that curious half-world in the shadows which lay between high society, respectable middle classes and the honest poor.
‘In terms of the society in which we live—’ and goodness, how pompous that sounded! ‘—you may be right, but as between the fact that I am a man and you are a woman who attracts me strongly that gulf cannot exist. In other words we are Adam and Eve, not Lord Adam and Miss Eve.’
Marcus could hardly credit what he had just said—it was so totally unlike his normal mode of speech—although to be fair he was being his usual downright, honest self with her, and no one could ever accuse him of being devious. Except, he thought ruefully, when he was pretending that he had entered her salon in order to have a shirt made—and if that wasn’t being devious, what was?
Louise must have been thinking so too, for she primmed her mouth a little comically, and said, ‘You will, however, agree, m’lord, that we have come a long way from the days when Adam and Eve walked the earth—and one thing is certain about Adam, he didn’t require a shirt to be made for him when he was in Paradise!’
‘True,’ said Marcus, bowing, and taking the opportunity to grasp her hand and plant a kiss on the palm of it for good measure. ‘But I am sure that you grasp the point which I was trying to make. I would like to see more of you, Madame Félice, much more, and the only problem about that is how I can manage to do so when we do not move in the same circles.’ The smile he gave her on coming out with this was a meaningful one.
‘My problem, m’lord,’ said Louise repressively, ‘is that I do not move in any circles at all. My life is a quiet one, and I would prefer it to remain that way.’
‘But think of the fun we could have,’ urged Marcus, still retaining her hand in his, ‘if you agreed to relax your principles a little, only a little. One thing you may be sure of, and that is that my word is known to be my bond and I would take good care never to betray or hurt you in any way.’
‘Except,’ said Louise hardily, ‘in the most fundamental way of all. For one thing is quite certain—any arrangement which you might wish to come to with me would not include marriage. I am not of the class of women whom m’lord Angmering, the Earl of Yardley’s heir, is likely to marry.’
‘Ah, but,’ said Marcus, kissing her hand again—it was encouraging to note that she was not attempting to remove it from his grasp—‘m’lord Angmering, the Earl of Yardley’s heir, does not wish to marry anyone of any order of women at all—either high or low—and he does not choose his belles amies lightly.’
Why was she continuing to bandy words with him when he had made it quite plain that his intentions towards her were dishonourable? Was it that she liked the cut and thrust of argument? Or was it because, despite all, he attracted her so powerfully that the mere sight of him excited her? Nevertheless she must not allow him to persuade her to behave foolishly, so her answer to him must be a measured one.
‘Ah,’ she said, sighing a little, ‘but you must admit that your belles amies are light, else they would not be your belles amies. No virtuous woman would agree to such an arrangement. Lowly I may be, but virtuous I intend to remain, even though it might mean that I never marry.’
‘What is virtue worth,’ asked Marcus, smiling seductively, ‘if it prevents us from finding happiness?’
‘I would not be happy if I were your mistress, m’lord, and I would deem it a favour if you released my hand. I did not give you permission to take it.’
‘Certainly, but not before favouring it with yet another kiss.’
‘You are impudent, sir.’
‘Always when pursuing beauty,’ and he kissed her hand again before slowly releasing it. ‘I would not displease you by refusing such a reasonable request.’
‘Then pray oblige me by agreeing to another reasonable request from me—that you leave.’
‘Without placing an order for a shirt?’ he asked her, his face comically sad.
Louise could not help herself. She began to laugh, recovering herself sufficiently to splutter, ‘Lord Angmering, you are the outside of enough. Please, take your noble self and your unseemly offer away at once. There, is that enough to persuade you that I am serious in refusing even to consider what you obviously think to be a great honour: that I become your latest barque of frailty?’
‘So, your answer is no?’
‘No, no, and no again—did you expect anything else, m’lord?’
‘I hoped—what did I hope?’ Marcus was asking himself that question, not Louise. Faint heart, he thought, never won fair lady, and Marcus Angmering prided himself that his heart was not a faint one.
He leaned forward to look down into her beautiful eyes and tried not to drown in them. ‘I must inform you,’ he murmured confidentially, ‘that I have a most inconvenient habit. I never take no for an answer. No, I think, challenges me more than yes.’
Louise repressed a desire to laugh again. She had hoped that her repeated refusal might persuade him to leave. She had deliberately not mounted a high horse by taking a loud moral line, since he had not attempted to attack her physically in any way, unlike Sandiman and some others she had heard of. Other than by taking her hand and stroking and kissing it gently, that was.
‘Do I understand, m’lord, that you prefer a challenge? If so, let me persuade you that I am not prepared to enter a verbal jousting match with you over whether or not I shall become your current ladybird. Had you offered me marriage my answer might still have been no, seeing that our acquaintance has been so short.’
She ended by pulling out her little fob watch and staring at it before saying, her bright eyes flashing fire, ‘I calculate that our two meetings, taken together, have not lasted so much as half an hour—which must constitute some sort of achievement, seeing that it has included one improper proposal and two proper refusals. That being so, and seeing that I have a great deal of work awaiting me, I must, again, ask you to leave—and, nobleman though you are—that you will be gentleman enough to obey me.’
Marcus bowed. ‘Splendid, madame. I do believe that between us we could write a Drury Lane farce which would rival Sheridan—were we not both so busy I might suggest a collaboration. That fact alone persuades me to go, bearing in mind that “he who fights and runs away, will live to fight another day!”’
Louise could not resist murmuring back at him as he bowed his way out, ‘Oh, is that what we have been doing, m’lord, fighting?’
He turned towards her before he left and shook a finger at her, ‘Address me as Angmering, if you please, not m’lord: I can see that you are not yet ready for Marcus. I shall be back, soon.’
Louise sank on to one of the chairs provided for customers, and put a hand to her hot face.
No, I am not ready for this, or for him, nor will I ever be—I think. I thought that being Sywell’s wife would have affected me as cowpox is supposed to affect smallpox, as an inoculation against men—but no such thing. And what is the most surprising fact of all is that he bears no resemblance whatsoever to the handsome hero whom I used to dream about when I was poor little Louise Hanslope. The hero who would come to rescue me from penury and misery. He’s certainly not handsome—but he’s
something better. He’s not a dandy either, simply a strong man who is full of confidence in himself.
But he shall not have me for his doxy unless I truly wish it, and I have no notion what my real feelings for him are—or might be.
But she was lying to herself, and knew it. The physical pull of him was so powerful that now he had gone she found herself shivering, and what did that tell her?
Something which she did not want to know.
Marcus could not truly read his own feelings either. He had not flattered himself that Madame Félice would succumb to him immediately, but he had been of the opinion that it might not be too difficult to win her.
He thought that no longer. There was steel there. By her appearance he might have thought her fragile. Fragile! Oh, she might look so, but she was actually as fragile as the Emperor Napoleon or one of his marshals. Send her to Spain, and Wellington would surely win his war there in short order!
On the other hand there was little pleasure in an easy conquest. His campaign to win her into his bed might be long, but it would be entertaining if this afternoon was anything to go by, and the prize he would gain at its end would be well worth winning.
To the victor the spoils—and now to return to his humdrum life again, to visit his old aunt, his mother’s sister, who had arrived in London for a short stay and had written to him to say that she particularly wished to see him.
What puzzled him was what she could possibly have to say to him. He remembered meeting her once, years before, and even then, when he was little more than a child, noticing that, unlike his mother, she was no beauty. He had heard that she was married to a Norfolk squire and had had a large family: his cousins, whom, for one reason or another, he had never met.
The Missing Marchioness (Mills & Boon Historical) Page 3
