Surrender To The Marquess

Sara sketched and explained about fossils, then mentioned, very casually, how liberating it was to scramble about at the foot of the cliffs, hitting things hard. ‘I really do not think that young ladies have the opportunity to hit things enough, do you?’

‘I often want to.’ Marguerite picked up the hammer and weighed it in her hand as though visualising a target. Despite her apparent fragility she managed it with little effort. ‘Aren’t rock pools full of slimy things?’

‘They are full of beautiful things, some of which are a trifle slimy. But the pleasure of taking off your shoes and stockings and paddling far outweighs the occasional slithery sensation.’

‘No stockings? In public?’ Finally, some animation.

‘On the beach only, of course. There, what do you think?’ She tipped the sketch up for Marguerite to see.

‘Oh, that is so amusing! The large lady with the little dog and the thin lady with the fat pug. How clever you are. I could never do anything like that.’

‘It really isn’t very good technically—I only sketch for my own amusement and rarely show anyone.’

‘I don’t know what I want to do.’ The girl’s shoulders slumped again, the moment of animation gone. It wasn’t boredom or petulance, more as though she was gazing at blankness, Sara thought. This went deeper than a lowness of spirits after the influenza or a fit of the sullens at being dragged off to the seaside by her brother. ‘I can’t draw as well as you. I do not like embroidery...’

‘Neither do I. Did your governess insist on you sewing tiresome samplers?’ Marguerite nodded, so, encouraged, Sara pressed on. ‘I hold afternoon teas at my shop where ladies bring their craft work or their writing and chat and plan new projects and eat wickedly rich cake. There is no need to socialise if you don’t want to—some ladies just read or browse.’

‘I suppose they gossip about their beaux.’ The pretty mouth set into a thin line.

‘Not at all.’ Interesting. Has she been disappointed in love, perhaps? ‘We do not meet to talk about men, but about what amuses us. And men, so often, are not at all amusing, are they?’

‘No. Not at all.’ Marguerite glanced towards the door, then stooped to rummage in the basket again and came up with a pamphlet. ‘What is this?’

‘How to make seaweed pictures. It is rather fun, only very messy and wet. I am holding a tea this afternoon at three, if you would like to come. It is six pence for refreshments and there is no obligation to buy anything.’

‘What did Lucian tell you about me?’ Marguerite asked suddenly.

There are going to be tears in a moment, poor child. Whatever is wrong? Don’t lie to her—she will know. She isn’t stupid.

‘That you hadn’t been well, that you were here for your health, but were very bored, and he hoped I might have something that would entertain you. Do you wish you were back in London? If that is where you live?’

‘No... Yes, that is where our town house is, where my brother lives. I wish I were in France.’ The hazel eyes with their lids that seemed swollen from crying gazed out southwards over the sea. ‘I wish I was dead,’ Marguerite whispered so softly that Sara realised she could pretend she hadn’t heard that heart-rending murmur. What on earth could she reply that wasn’t simply a string of ill-informed platitudes?

‘I have never been to France. I was brought up in India.’

‘Is that why your skin is so golden? Oh, I do beg your pardon, it was rude of me to make a personal observation like that. Only you are so very striking.’

‘Not at all. I am one-quarter Indian on my mother’s side. Her mother was a Rajput princess.’

That sent the threat of tears into full retreat. ‘A princess? And you own a shop?’

‘Because it amuses me. When my husband died I wanted to do something practical for a while, to get right away from everything that had been my life before. I found it helped.’ A little. It even keeps the nightmares at bay for most of the time.

That would probably all get back to Mr Dunton, or whatever his name was, but her real identity was no secret in Sandbay. It would certainly serve to confuse the man, what with his assumptions about widows. Would he still flirt with a part-Indian descendant of royalty?

She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘I must go now. Shall I look for you this afternoon?’ Sara kept the question indifferent, as though she did not much mind one way or another. This girl was being pushed to do things for her own good and her natural reaction was to push back, because that gave her some feeling of control. Sara reflected that she was all too familiar with that response herself. She began to gather up the scattered contents of the basket, pouring the seashells back into their jar.

‘Yes, I will, thank you. Must my brother come, too?’

‘Oh, no. We do not allow the gentlemen to join in. He may deliver you and collect you, of course.’

And, finally, she had earned a smile. Small and fleeting, but a smile. What on earth was wrong with the child? And with her relationship with her brother, for that matter.

They said their goodbyes, Sara deep in thought. The moment she closed the door behind her the basket was taken out of her hands.

‘What response did you get?’

‘Mr Dunton, I suggest you speak to your sister. I am not some sort of go-between for you and I am certainly not going to spy on her.’ Then she saw the rigid set of his jaw and the anxiety in his eyes and relented. ‘Miss Dunton would like to come to our tea this afternoon. Three o’clock, for ladies only.’

‘These are all respectable ladies—’ he began.

‘Either you trust me, Mr Dunton, or you do not. Good day to you. I hope to see your sister later.’ She did not stop to see if he reacted to the emphasis she put on his name. ‘Tim! Take the basket, if you please.’

Respectable ladies, indeed. What does he take me for?

* * *

A fierce little beauty. Lucian was in half a mind to wrest the basket back from her tame urchin and walk Mrs Harcourt back up the hill. Then he recalled why he was here, which was not to flirt with shopkeepers, however well spoken. However beautiful. Mrs Harcourt was slender, except for a lush bosom, and she was blonde, grey-eyed and golden-skinned. She might have Italian blood, perhaps, although that imperious little nose did not look Italian. Very beautiful, very self-possessed and dressed in perfect, expensive, simplicity. This was not what he had expected to find when he had set out that morning to interview a shopkeeper.

He nodded to the porter who opened the front door for him and strolled across the road to lean back against the rail that protected the drop to the beach. From there he could watch Mrs Harcourt stroll up the hill without appearing to stare. Even in motion she had a poise that argued a much more rigorous upbringing than a shopkeeper normally had. And when she was near there was a rumour of perfume in the air, a scent shockingly exotic in the salt-laden air of this little Dorset town. Sandalwood and something else, something peppery. Temptation, indeed. His body stirred at the memory.

Her voice was not merely genteel and well modulated, it was unmistakably of the upper classes. What on earth was a lady, a respectable young widow, doing acting as shopkeeper in a seaside resort, guarded by her miniature police spy and her formidable assistant? Lucian was conscious that the puzzle was doing nothing to dampen his very definite arousal.

How long had it been since he had been with a woman? Not since the beginning of this nightmare with Marguerite, he realised. Almost six months...a long time for him. Ever since he had been an adult he had been in a discreet relationship of some kind, sometimes simply brief affaires...more recently longer-term arrangements with a mistress. Lucian was naturally wary either of compromising his partners or of exposing himself to emotional entanglements. He was conscious of what was due to his name and his position and the reputation that his father had acquired as a womaniser did nothing to recommend a more flamboyant way of life to him. Finding himself responsible for a sister was an added incentive for discretion and the thought of next Season, when he had resolved to find himself a suitable young lady to court and marry, was another reason against setting up a new mistress. He had no intention of being an unfaithful husband.

But six months... No wonder the thought of taking a mistress was appealing. And pretty widows were often game for a brief liaison, ideal for a situation where his stay here was inevitably limited. But not, it seemed, this widow, who gave him the uneasy feeling that she was a mind reader and had no intention of reaching the end of the chapter as far as he was concerned.

Mrs Harcourt was almost out of sight now, still walking slowly, talking as she went to the lad beside her whose head was tipped to one side so he could look up at her. For some reason the slow pace seemed uncharacteristic—he could imagine her in rapid motion, swift, swirling, dangerous.

Dangerous? He really needed to get a grip on his fantasies.

* * *

That man had come out of the hotel and was watching her, she could feel it, even though she did not make the mistake of looking back. Sara kept her pace slow: let him look, she was not going to scuttle away like a nervous maiden and reveal how much he unnerved her.

‘Just drop that at the shop, there’s a good boy, and ask Dot for tuppence,’ she said to Tim as he shifted the big basket from one hand to the other. She kept going past Aphrodite’s Seashell and went into the third establishment she came to, Makepeace’s Circulating Library and Emporium, the town’s only library.

‘Good morning, Mr Makepeace.’

James Makepeace was sitting behind the counter, making up an order for one of the page boys at the hotel to take down for a visitor. He stood up, bowed from the neck and sat down again. ‘How may I assist you, Mrs Harcourt?’ He knew perfectly well who she really was, all the town did, but he kept her two identities, the shop and her social life, scrupulously separate like everyone else.

‘I wanted to consult the Peerage, if it is available, Mr Makepeace.’

If the library had been empty, which rarely happened during opening hours, he would stammer out Sara and she would call him James and he would blush rather shyly, his ears turning red, and offer her a cup of tea, which was as far as his notions of courtship dared go.

Sara did not encourage him beyond friendship, it would not be fair. She liked him very well, although not in any romantic sense. Besides, she had one marriage to a sweet, unworldly man behind her and she knew that it took a special kind of gentleman not to be dominated by her direct approach to life. The librarian was a friend, and always an amiable one, and that was quite enough for her.

‘It is on the usual shelf upstairs, Mrs Harcourt. Please let me know if I can be of further help.’

She murmured her thanks and climbed the short flight of stairs to the reading room with its panoramic view of the bay, one of its main attractions for those who were not bookish. Several people were out on the balcony in the sunshine using the telescope, two elderly gentlemen were engaged in a politely vicious dispute over the possession of The Times newspaper and a pair of young ladies came through from the lending section clutching a pile of what looked suspiciously like sensation novels.

Sara found the familiar thick red volume of the Peerage and settled down at a table. She had been out for less than a year before she married and she and Michael had moved immediately to Cambridge for him to take up his new post at one of the colleges. It was perfectly possible that she had missed seeing any number of members of the ton, including Mr Dunton, especially as her family had come to England from India only shortly before the Season began.

If I were going to take a false name I would keep it as close to my real one as possible so I would react to it without hesitation, she thought. Mr Dunton was about twenty-eight or nine, she guessed. His card gave his initials only, L. J., but Marguerite had called him Lucian quite naturally, so that was a start. She would begin with the Marquesses and work down the hierarchy because she was certain she knew all the dukes, at least by sight.

There was always the possibility that he was the heir to a title, which would slow the search down, but she was certain he was not a younger son. That gentleman had been born with a silver spoon, if not an entire table setting, firmly stuck in his mouth. Two pages...she turned the third and struck gold. There it was.

Lucian John Dunton Avery, third Marquess of Cannock, born 1790. Only sibling Marguerite

Antonia, born 1800. Seat, Cullington Park, Hampshire.

She closed the book with a satisfied thump of the thick pages which made the elderly gentlemen look over and glower. She smiled sweetly at them and they went back to their newspapers.

So why was the Marquess staying at the hotel incognito? There was nothing unfashionable or shocking about taking a seaside holiday in the summer and a good half of the ton did just that, although this was a quiet resort and not a magnet for society’s high-fliers like Brighton to the east or Weymouth, for the more sedate of the ton, to the west.

He was hardly outrunning his creditors and if there had been a great scandal involving him she must have noticed it in the papers, however little interest she took in society gossip. Or her mother would have written about it in the fat weekly letters that covered everything from the latest crim. con. scandals to the more obscure lectures at the Royal Society.

So the anonymity must be because of his sister and, as there was no shame in being unwell and a large proportion of the visitors were invalids or convalescent, there must be a scandal to be hidden, poor girl. She would need handling with even more sensitivity if that were the case.

Sara slid the Peerage back in its place on the shelf and went downstairs.

‘You found what you wanted, Mrs Harcourt?’

She was so preoccupied that James’s question made her jump. ‘Hmm? Oh, yes, thank you.’

‘Will you be at the Rooms tonight? It is a ball night.’ Despite being shy James Makepeace loved to dance and the Assembly Rooms’ programme always included two ball nights every week during the summer season. When she nodded he asked, ‘Will you save me a set, Mrs Harcourt?’

‘Of course. The very first.’ Even with the Assembly Rooms’ rather limited orchestra it was a pleasure to dance. She had missed that almost more than anything during her long year of mourning. At least the very serious and straight-faced Marquess-in-disguise was unlikely to indulge in anything quite so frivolous as a seaside assembly dance.

* * *

Lucian was in half a mind to order a sedan chair for Marguerite to take her up the hill to Aphrodite’s Seashell, amused to see that the resort still provided them. But when he suggested it she laughed, actually laughed, and he was so delighted that he could not bear to put a frown back on her face by insisting.

She had been so bitterly sad and angry—with him, of course. This was all his fault, according to Marguerite. Not that bas—All the spirit, all the restless enthusiasm that was Marguerite, had been knocked out of her, replaced by a listless apathy in which he could not make the smallest crack. Even the anger had faded away, which was what had truly frightened him.

Marguerite was his only sibling and he was well aware that the difference in their age and sex had kept them apart. His childhood had been far stricter than hers—tutors, riding and fencing masters, carefully selected playmates from suitable local families had filled his days and provided his company. He could never forget that he was heir to an ancient title, great responsibilities, with a duty to the past and to the future. Marguerite had been spoiled and rather vaguely educated by a doting governess—it was no wonder that she had been hit so hard by what had happened.

‘As though I want to be carted through the streets like an ageing dowager,’ she said, pulling him back from his brooding, and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, just like she used to do in the days before she ran away.

‘Well, take it slowly,’ he chided, not wanting to let his delight show. ‘It is a hill.’

‘I have to learn to climb hills again some time, otherwise everything would be abominably flat,’ Marguerite observed as she unfurled her parasol.

Had that been a mild joke, a pun even? Perhaps this flight to the seaside had not been such a bad idea after all and he had been too impatient for results. She managed the climb well, without needing to pause for breath, and studied the shop windows as they passed with something like interest.

Lucian took her into Aphrodite’s Seashell and let his gaze wander with seeming casualness over the women already gathered around the long table. Some were sitting with craftwork spread out in front of them, others stood chatting. Everyone looked up as he and Marguerite entered and then the ladies went back to what they had been doing without any vulgar staring. They all seemed perfectly respectable, well dressed and spoke in educated accents. Their ages ranged from about twenty to sixty, he estimated.

Mrs Harcourt was standing at the shelves, a number of books in her hands, talking to a tall, earnest-looking woman. ‘You could either write the journal directly into a book that is already bound and do your sketches on blank pages, or do the entire thing loose-leaf and then have it bound up, which might be safer—then if there are any small corrections you want to make that page can easily be replaced. But see what you think of these, at any rate, Mrs Prentice.’

She excused herself and came over to greet them. ‘Miss Dunton, Mr Dunton.’ She looked at him and Lucian found himself staring back into those intelligent grey eyes that, surely, held a gleam of mischief. What was there to amuse her? It did not seem to be malicious, more, almost, as though they shared a secret. And once more that inconvenient sense of attraction, of arousal, stirred. It should not have surprised him, he thought. This was a lovely woman with an intriguing mixture of assured sophistication and youth.

He wanted to touch her, badly, and that made him abrupt. ‘I understand there is a small charge for refreshments?’

‘Six pence, if you please, Mr Dunton.’

Lucian took off his glove to retrieve the loose change from his pocket book and held out the small coin, rather than put it on the counter. She extended her own hand, palm up, and his bare fingertips brushed her skin as he laid the silver on it. He suspected she knew exactly what he was about, but she was perfectly composed as she broke the contact and placed the coin on the counter. Her hand had been warm and soft to his fleeting touch and Lucian had a startling mental picture of it, pale gold on his bare skin.

‘Thank you, sir. At what time will you be returning to collect your sister? There is an excellent library just up the street on this side, if you choose to wait.’

So much for any thought of waiting in the shop to observe proceedings. ‘Thank you, I will investigate it,’ he said with a deliberately cheerful, open smile when he suspected she was anticipating something more laden with meaning, an invitation to flirt, perhaps. ‘Half past four, Marguerite?’

‘Mmm? Oh, yes, thank you.’ His sister was already investigating the books and pamphlets. As he watched her a woman in late middle age smiled and indicated a book with a murmured comment. Marguerite took it down from the shelf and Lucian nodded to Mrs Harcourt, resumed his hat and left the shop.

Most definitely surplus to requirements, he thought, turning to continue up the hill in search of the library. It was a surprisingly good feeling to see Marguerite confident and engrossed. He couldn’t even be annoyed that Mrs Harcourt was proving so resistant to his hints. She was a respectable lady with a position in the town to defend, no doubt, and, as a gentleman he had no intention of ruffling those feathers without a clear signal to proceed. Still, it was a pity, he enjoyed the unspoken conversation they seemed to be having. Or perhaps it was a duel.

Chapter Three

Two hours later Sara watched Mr Dunton—the Mysterious Marquess, as she was beginning to think of him—finally extract his sister from the shop, his arms full of parcels. She had suggested that Marguerite leave her purchases, and the shell-work project she had just begun work on, and she would have Tim bring them down to the hotel. But nothing would content her other than heaping them into her brother’s arms, despite the fact that no gentleman—let alone a marquess—should be walking around town laden like a footman.

To judge by his expression, any number of parcels was worth the animation on the girl’s face, the colour in her cheeks. Sara knew she ought to dislike him, or, at least, be completely indifferent to him, for he was exactly the kind of man she was living her life to avoid, but she admired his care for Marguerite.

She was still musing on the brother and sister—rather more on the brother, if she were to be truthful—as she locked the door, drew down the blind and began to deal with the contents of the cash drawer while Dot cleared away the tea things and washed up. The day’s takings had been good, she saw with satisfaction, entering them in her ledger before locking the money bag away in the safe. She must make a trip to the bank tomorrow, which was very gratifying.

It was not that she needed the money, exactly, but profitability was her main measure of success in a business and Sara did not like to fail at anything she put her hand to.

‘There you are, ducks.’ Dot emerged from the scullery, flapping a drying cloth before hanging it on the rail. ‘All done and dusted. Busy today, wasn’t it? I liked that little scrap of a lass, the new one. Pretty manners and no side to her. Looks as though she’s been having a difficult time of it though, bless her. It’s a hard thing to lose a baby.’

‘What?’ Sara stood up from the safe so sharply that she hit her head on the shelf above. ‘Ouch! What do you mean about a baby?’

‘She’s grieving and sad and she’s thin—but not in her bubbies. And Mrs Pike knocked against her when she passed the scones and she flinched and made a little sound like it hurt. I reckon they’re still sore, poor lamb, just like mine were when I lost our second.’

‘But she’s so young, only eighteen, I think. Oh, Dot, how awful.’ No wonder her brother was so anxious and so protective and they were here under a false name. ‘We must look after her, because I don’t think she has her mother or a companion with her, no woman to talk to, only her brother—and her maid, I suppose. And I would wager this shop he’s thinking most of the time about how to kill the man who fathered her child and not about how it has affected her.’

That was what men of breeding did, guarded the honour of their womenfolk whether the women wanted it or not. And people got killed as a result and the women in question were tied about with rules and restrictions because their menfolk cared so much and honour meant everything. Their honour, she told herself angrily. That helped stifle her own guilty conscience. A little.

The demands of honour had killed her husband, the man she had thought was above those antiquated notions about women and their lack of right to govern themselves and it had driven her here, a safe distance from the loving tyranny of father and brother. She could not turn away from Marguerite.

‘We’ll do our best for her, that’s for sure.’ The older woman threw her shawl around her shoulders and picked up her basket. ‘I’m off home to make supper, then we’re going down to the Dog and Mackerel, Farwell and me. What’ll you be doing, ducks?’

‘Dancing at the Assembly Rooms. I have promised Mr Makepeace a set.’

‘He’s sweet on you, you know, and he’ll never say, a’cos of who you really are.’

‘I know. I don’t encourage him, Dot. I just want to be friends. It isn’t because of who I am—it’s because I don’t think of him in any other way.’