The Marquis' Kiss Page 3

  She blinked, collecting herself with obvious difficulty. “I'd be delighted, my lord,” she murmured with a deeply respectful, and quite graceful, curtsy. He held out his arm, and she allowed him to lead her onto the floor. He cast a backward glare at Pinstin, but the fellow clasped both hands over his head in a sign of victory and grinned. Thomas wished him to perdition and took his place in the line across from Margaret.

  It was a more sprightly dance than Thomas generally allowed himself. He usually did not appreciate the weaving in and out and the promenading from one end of the line of twenty couples to the other. Most of his other partners made it into an endless amount of tramping, all the while casting covert and covetous glances at him over the tops of their ivory and lace fans. Margaret Munroe, however, had obviously come to dance. After an initial hesitancy at being partnered with him, she quickly recovered. Her blue eyes twinkled, she grinned at him whenever she took his hands for the promenade, and when another in their set swung her particularly well, she left forth one of her marvelously unique laughs as if she simply could not contain her joy. Several of the other men around her smiled along with Thomas. Several of the women scowled.

  It was not until they stood out at the end of the line for a round that he could really study her in detail. As soon as Reggie had accosted her, he had remembered her. He had been introduced to her at a ball while he was courting Allison. Then, he had paid her little heed, thinking himself already settled in an engagement to her cousin. He had to own, looking at her now, that he would probably have paid her little heed even if he had been free then. She would never have been his first choice in a bride.

  While he did not insist on a particular look or coloring for his marchioness, he did have a vague notion of what she would be like. She would be lovely, cultured, calm, composed. She would carry herself like a woman of good taste and breeding. She would be able to command servants and entertain princes with only a lifting of her eyebrow. Margaret Munroe fit that image not in the slightest.

  For one thing, she was entirely too animated. Allison's vivaciousness had been one of her most endearing traits. Margaret's boundless energy, on the other hand, made him more than a little uncomfortable. He disliked being made a spectacle. Just being with the woman made him the target of inquisitive glances. He had wondered whether his sister might be considered colorless. Next to Margaret Munroe, he was the bland one.

  For another thing, she was taller than any woman he had ever met. He had never been one to delight in the diminutive dolls who barely reached his chest. Neither did he feel particularly comfortable having a lady look him directly in the eye as Margaret was able to do, and rather appraisingly at that. Allison's eyes had been blue, if he remembered correctly, and he would be hard-pressed to forget Lady Janice's emerald gaze. Margaret's eyes, he saw, were a clear, pale blue that could sparkle like fine crystal in sunlight or cut through him like the blue steel of a rapier. The former look was present throughout most of the dance. The latter had been reserved for Pinstin, and he found himself hoping he was never the recipient.

  For another matter, she was rather fierce looking. Her nose was formidable, her lips generous. On the other hand, her figure was nothing short of impressive, and when all of it was in motion, as it had been when she was dancing, he found it hard not to appreciate the generous curves and graceful limbs. Perhaps her most striking feature, however, was her hair. It was thick and coarse, pulled up in a haphazard knot at the top of her head. What made it unusual was that at her young age the dusky black was already shot with gray, the color running through her tresses like veining in marble.

  "Do you like the view?” she asked suddenly, and he jumped. “Yes, the gray is natural; the tendency runs in my family. No, I do not pad my chest. Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

  Her comment should have been shocking, yet he found himself licking his lips and managing a smile, feeling ill-mannered for the first time in his life. He could not doubt that she had uttered the comment solely for the purpose of making him feel foolish; but he found he could not bear her any ill will. That saucy grin was entirely too self-deprecating.

  "Forgive my staring, Miss Munroe,” he answered with a bow. “It has been a while since we last saw each other."

  "At Lord Rillson's dinner party, last week, when you escorted Lady Janice Willstencraft,” she replied readily, and now her eyes were definitely probing. “How is her ladyship by the way? Am I going to be called out for stealing you from her side?"

  It was only the second time someone had asked him about the woman, but he felt himself stiffen. He told himself sternly he would have to get used to that sort of question. He had made his intentions toward Lady Janice abundantly clear. It was no wonder that people questioned when she did not appear on his arm. “Lady Janice Willstencraft is in no position to request my attentions,” he told her, “now or in the future. She has chosen to pursue other entertainments."

  "She was stupid enough to turn you down?” She frowned. “My opinion of the lady's intelligence has been significantly reduced."

  He ought to protest, but the veiled compliment was balm to his wounded pride. In fact, as everyone assumed the ladies who had refused him were the idiots, he ought to feel entirely vindicated. Unfortunately, after a moment's thought, he only felt worse. All the denizens of the ton assumed he was as perfect as he appeared. Only the two ladies who had refused him knew otherwise. He was thankful that the dance required their attentions then, and he was spared having to respond to her.

  It would have been easy to brood on his failures if it had not been for Miss Munroe's enthusiasm. Even if he did try not to look too often at her delightful limbs, that laugh was impossible to ignore. If he was too slow in responding to the next movement, she captured his hands and pulled him along. If he lingered too long over his bow to the other lady in their set, she held out her hands imploringly, blue eyes crackling with mischievous light. He hadn't thought he was capable of smiling that evening, but by the dance ended his mouth seemed to be permanently fixed in that position. He bowed low to her.

  "Miss Munroe, a delight. I don't know when I have enjoyed a dance more."

  Instead of curtsying, she smiled and nodded. “You are a tolerable dancer, my lord. I suspect if you would relax a little, you would be a wonderful dancer."

  He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or amused. “Thank you, I think."

  Her smile widened. “You're welcome, I'm quite sure. Are you willing to try another?"

  If any other woman of his acquaintance had asked him, he would have thought her forward. Coming from Margaret Munroe, it seemed perfectly natural. However, two dances would have made a statement he was not prepared to make. It was well known he had been courting Lady Janice until this very evening. To have switched his allegiance so swiftly to Miss Munroe, as dancing with her twice in a row would indicate, would surely set tongues wagging. They would wag enough once they knew he had been rejected.

  He bowed again. “I regret that I have a previous engagement. Another time perhaps."

  This time she did curtsy, but not before he saw disappointment cut across her lovely eyes, like a cloud over a vibrant summer sky. “You are too kind, my lord,” she murmured. Something in the tone made him go cold. It was as if she knew he was placating her. She knew he had been forced to dance with her. It must appear to her that he was making his escape as quickly as possible. He felt like a worm.

  Rising, she offered him a parting smile, but this time it could only be called sad. “Do not look so troubled, my lord. You have not said or done anything that will cause the gossips to cackle. You're always the gentleman."

  There was nothing in her tone that suggested a challenge, but he heard one nonetheless. Besides his failures in love, he had a single besetting sin. He simply could not ignore a challenge. The urge to excel had driven him into races that had nearly cost him his favorite horse. It had caused him to make a scene at a public assembly last year, a fact he wasn't sure he could ever forgive. It h
ad also driven him to take on Allison's country squire in a bare knuckles brawl last autumn.

  "Do you not appreciate gentlemen, Miss Munroe?” he asked, trying to still the familiar heating of his blood.

  She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Certainly, my lord. But I must admit that I prefer gentlemen who allow themselves to enjoy the moment."

  "Ah, but one moment leads to the next,” he chided her. “If we do not consider carefully, we may make decisions that will affect the rest of our lives."

  She laughed her marvelous laugh. “Yes, and the ceiling may fall in the next minute and end our lives altogether. All there is is now, my lord. If you cannot find pleasure in it, you are not alive at all."

  The philosophy was so foreign to him that he stood frowning at her. The idea seemed entirely too simplistic. How could one possibly enjoy the moment when there were estates to be managed, sisters to be married off, a country to run? Was it truly possible to focus all one's energies, for a single moment, on a single person or activity? The thought repelled and intrigued him. However, thirty-two years of polished restraint were simply not broken in one moment's consideration. The couples moved around them. At the top of the room, the musicians tuned up for a waltz. Behind him, Margaret scowled suddenly.

  "And here is my moment,” she proclaimed. “And I shall have to be content to watch. They're playing a waltz, and I haven't a partner."

  He stiffened. He could not waltz; he'd never learned. Frankly when the dance had begun to become popular last Season, he had thought it improper in the extreme. Such closeness was best reserved for private moments. He had been surprised to hear that the visiting Russian Czar had recently gone so far as to dance it at Almack's, that infamous ladies club. He had never waltzed with Allison or Lady Janice. Now he had a sudden image of Miss Munroe's curves in his arms as he swirled her about the dance floor and felt as if his face were flaming. It must have been Lady Janice's refusal that made him think such wild thoughts. He should take himself home before he made a fool of himself.

  He bowed to her again. “I regret, Miss Munroe that I do not waltz. Though if I did, I cannot imagine a more delightful partner."

  Her smile was dazzling. “But I would be happy to teach you, my lord, if you're willing to try with such an audience."

  He wasn't willing in the slightest. He shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I'd better retire while I still can.” He started to turn, and suddenly it seemed as if everyone in the ballroom had frozen. Across the dance floor, Lady Janice had returned. His gaze met hers. That those emerald eyes were red-rimmed, as if she had just finished a prolonged bout of crying, should have made him feel better. All he felt was guilt. He glanced quickly at Miss Munroe, then back at Lady Janice, whose eyes had narrowed, making her look decidedly feline.

  "You can't leave now,” Margaret said quietly beside him. “She'll think you're running away."

  Thomas frowned. “I have never run from anything in my life."

  "Then don't start now,” she advised. “If you won't waltz, perhaps a promenade? Standing there glaring at her will not help matters, you know."

  "I do not glare,” he said, glaring at her. She smiled sweetly, and he felt his anger melting. He chuckled, offering her his arm. “Very well, Miss Munroe. A few more minutes will not matter. Let us promenade."

  They walked up and down the narrow room for a time, neither saying anything. Thomas took several deep breaths and forced his mind to clear. While he had found Lady Janice composed and queenly, in truth he had never felt an undying passion for her. Certainly he had never been as fond of her as he had been of Allison. Thinking on it now, he realized that it had been the attack, which had so mirrored the heart failure that had taken his father, that had driven him to find another candidate for his bride so quickly and not some fascination with Lady Janice's charms. He had no reason to be uncomfortable near her.

  No reason except the fact that she knew he had failed.

  "You could probably apologize,” Margaret murmured beside him. “Or get her to. If you love each other, that is."

  Again she was being impertinent. His feelings toward Lady Janice, or lack thereof, were his own business. Yet she offered the suggestion as from one good friend to another. Even if she hadn't, he would have judged the advice sound.

  "Thank you for your concern, my dear,” he replied, “but I think it safe to say that both Lady Janice and I are agreed to the end of our courtship."

  "It's not like you to give up without a fight,” she protested. “You were passionate in your defense of Wellington's budget and the proper provisioning of our troops in France. You tried valiantly to turn the tide of sentiment against Leigh Hunt when he was on trial for using the press to report on the reprehensible doings of the Prince."

  He frowned, gazing at her. “How do you know that?"

  She colored, the red in her cheeks clashing with the fluffy pink dress. “It was in The Times,” she murmured defensively.

  He added a healthy interest in politics to her growing list of admirable qualities. Pinstin's words struck him again. Could it be that he had been letting a pretty face and a composed manner dictate his choice of bride?

  "Then I cannot convince you to reconcile?” she pressed him.

  And selfless as well, Thomas thought, wondering how many other young ladies of the ton would have thought of his happiness rather than their chances of taking Lady Janice's place in his affections. Her unlooked for devotion was so kind, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. The redoubtable Miss Munroe stumbled, and he had to help her back onto her feet.

  "Sorry,” she mumbled, swallowing convulsively. “Must have been a bump in the floor.” Thomas looked away to give her a moment to compose herself, marveling that so small a matter as a kiss on the hand could be so disturbing. He had used the gesture any number of times with other ladies to show appreciation. Certainly his other kisses did not engender such a response. He pushed the painful thought away. That's when he noticed the number of people staring at them. Across the room, Pinstin grinned conspiratorially at him.

  Thomas frowned. Even without a second dance it seemed the ton thought he had shifted his affections. The rumors would do his reputation, and Miss Munroe's, little good.

  She must have seen the stares as well for she gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Do not let them trouble you, my lord. None of them would seriously believe you are courting me. I'm an Original. You have much more refined taste than to hook yourself up to one of those."

  Refined taste he might have, but it had not gotten him his marchioness. The young lady on his arm had already showed herself to have more appreciation and understanding than either of the young ladies he had previously courted. He wasn't ready for another courtship, but he could not allow the gossips to say he had been using Miss Munroe, as would undoubtedly happen if he did not further their acquaintance. He stopped their walk and bowed to her.

  "You underestimate yourself, madam,” he told her truthfully. “I find myself intrigued. Are you free next Friday, around three?"

  She was staring again, but this time she appeared to be in shock. “Yes, certainly, what, whatever time is convenient,” she stammered.

  "Until then,” he replied with a bow. As he turned to leave, he told himself he ought to be depressed. He'd been turned down again and had precipitously decided to investigate a woman who could only be called unique. Yet he felt absurdly pleased with himself. Perhaps there was something to be said for this business of living in the moment.

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  Chapter Four

  "The Marquis DeGuis!” her stepmother cried, staring at Reggie as if he'd lost his mind. “The Marquis DeGuis is coming to call? On Margaret?"

  "You're teasing us, boy,” Margaret's father maintained. “Everyone knows he's set his cap for the Willstencraft girl."

  Margaret glared at her cousin's gloating face as he sat across from them in the family sitting room of their London town house. She had fully int
ended to keep the matter quiet as long as possible, but here it was only the day after the ball, and Reggie, who couldn't bother to pay attention to her for most of the evening, could scarcely contain himself now.

  "I assure you, she is the talk of the ton!” he declared, fanning himself as if the stories were simply too heated to bear. “She has eclipsed even the tales of the visiting Russian court! I had no idea when I introduced Margaret to the marquis that his interest would last above a moment. For my little cousin to have attracted someone like DeGuis, well, all I can say is that I am in awe."

  Margaret stood up to remind him that his little cousin could fully look him in the eye should he be man enough to stand. “If you cannot make better conversation than that,” she advised him, “you may leave right now."

  "Margaret, please!” her stepmother commanded, wringing her hands in equal agitation. “I simply do not understand this. The Marquis DeGuis is coming to call on you?"

  "As he didn't ask after you or Father,” Margaret replied tartly, “I can only assume he's coming to call on me.” When Mrs. Munroe sputtered incoherently and her father blinked in confusion, she decided she had been right to wait to tell them. Their amazement was amusing, until one stopped to consider its source. Then her own composure was shaken. Deep down, she also found it unlikely that the marquis might want to further his acquaintance.

  Reggie was equally amazed. “It is hard to credit, Aunt, I agree. After Uncle's cousin Allison and Lady Janice, who would have thought DeGuis would settle for someone like our Margaret."

  "She's a clever gel,” her father put in loyally. “Haven't I always said so?"

  "Clever, certainly,” her stepmother allowed. “But to catch a man like the marquis? I agree with Reggie. I simply cannot credit it."