The Marquis' Kiss Page 4

  "I haven't caught him,” Margaret pointed out. “He is only coming to call."

  "And why should he do that if he is not interested?” Helen demanded. She eyed Reggie speculatively. “What else do you know, Nephew? Are they placing bets at Whites?"

  "Probably,” Mr. Munroe muttered. “Seems they bet on most anything these days."

  "In truth I have not had an opportunity to check,” Reggie replied, preening that he had their full attention. “I came here straight away to congratulate my cousin."

  "If you'd paid attention, you could have congratulated me last night,” Margaret pointed out. “And spared me this humiliation."

  Reggie spread his hands. “But if I'd been too attentive, you might never have had the opportunity to attach him. Are you not pleased I led him to you?"

  "No more arguing,” her stepmother declared. “We have too much to do.” She clasped her long-fingered hands together reverently, button brown eyes gleaming with matronly delight. “The Marquis DeGuis! And to think you took him right out from under Lady Janice Willstencraft's nose."

  Margaret refrained from explaining that he had been more thrust into her lap than taken away. She refused to spread gossip. The poor man had been through enough. Two refusals in less than a year would dampen the ardor of the most romantic of gentlemen. She had seen the hurt in his eyes last night when he had watched Lady Janice return to the ballroom. She had also seen the frustration in the other young lady's eyes when she had seen Margaret with the marquis. If Lady Janice could be jealous of so unlikely a rival as Margaret, she obviously still carried some strong feelings for the marquis. Despite the marquis’ denial, they would no doubt soon reconcile.

  She said as much. Mrs. Munroe looked horrified.

  "Think shame on yourself for wishing this opportunity away,” she scolded. “For once in your life, Margaret, have some care for the future. Reggie, it was most kind of you to come bring us the news, especially as Margaret did not see fit to speak of it. I must ask you to leave us, now. We have much to accomplish."

  For once, Reggie did not attempt to prolong the visit. He rose eagerly, no doubt, Margaret thought, to spread his gossip to all who would listen. She was sure he would make the most of the upcoming visit, as for once he would appear the hero of the tale.

  "You should not get your hopes up,” Margaret told her stepmother as soon as Reggie was safely out the door. “I am sincerely grateful that I actually got a dance out of the Marquis DeGuis. But he is only coming Friday out of a sense of duty. There can be no other explanation."

  "I will get my hopes up,” Mrs. Munroe countered. “You have a chance, Margaret, and it is my duty as your father's wife to make sure you make the most of it. Marcus, I expect you to loosen the purse strings. She needs an entire new wardrobe, and we must refurbish the sitting room, by Friday."

  That set her father to arguing. Margaret watched their good-natured bickering for a moment. Her stepmother always reminded her of a militant rabbit, with her bright eyes tucked deep in a round, soft-skinned face. She was shorter than Margaret by over a head, and outweighed her by over three stone. As her own mother had died when Margaret was seven, she had little with which to compare her stepmother. From stories her father told, Margaret thought the only things she had inherited from her mother were the woman's strength of will, her graceful movements, and the impressive line of her bust.

  Margaret did not have to look at her father to be reminded what he looked like. Everything she had not inherited from her mother—formidable nose, generous mouth, piercing blue eyes, towering height—she had inherited from her father. At fifty-five, he was completely gray, his coarse hair flying at all angles about his long face. A second son of a second son, he had had to earn a living as a secretary to a venerable military man early in his life. Some well-placed investments in the Exchange had netted him enough to remarry a widow of some social standing, retire into gentile poverty, and pretend he was every bit as refined as his wealthier Munroe cousins. Now he spent his days reading and debating with others of his rank in the various gentlemen's clubs, with an occasional evening's entertainment organized by his capable wife. She caught herself wondering how soon the marquis might be invited to one of her stepmother's fetes and shook her head. The marquis was not likely to be in her life long enough for him to so much as take tea. She would assuage his sense of propriety by going through with the visit. She was certain he would not call again.

  Her father was showing signs of weakness, edging out of the wing-backed chair as if he wanted to escape the decision. Her stepmother was using the unethical weapons of family loyalty and love for his daughter, arguments her poor father would have a difficult time countering. Margaret re-entered the fray.

  "I have no interest in a new dress, and we have no time to reupholster the furniture,” she pointed out. “Even if we had the money to do so."

  "There, you see?” her father caroled, seizing the lifeline. “She's quite right. The marquis was interested in Margaret, after all. I doubt he will so much as glance at the furnishings."

  "That's how much you know,” Helen replied with a sniff. “We must make the best impression. But you are correct that time is short. We will simply have to use the withdrawing room."

  Her father looked impressed. The last time the room had been used was for the reception following the death of his father, some four years ago. The furniture there was elegant with scrolled backs and arms of polished wood and muted patterns of gold on navy. It was also stiff from lack of use. One could not slouch in the withdrawing room. One could only sit ramrod straight.

  But if her father thought that assigning the visit to the little-used room would be simple, he was doomed to disappointment. It seemed everything on the ground floor of the little house had to be inspected, repaired, and cleaned, even if the marquis was unlikely to so much as set foot in any room but the withdrawing room.

  "We cannot be certain he will not notice other rooms,” her stepmother replied when Margaret pointed out the illogic. “First impressions are vital, Margaret. I will not have him think you out of fashion."

  "But we are out of fashion,” Margaret tried, helping their diminutive maid Becky shove a sofa off the carpet so it could be cleaned. “Couldn't we just admit that and save ourselves considerable work?"

  Becky brightened, but Mrs. Munroes’ frown was sufficiently quelling that neither of them dared broach the subject again.

  With only the maid and their cook to help, the work took much of the few days remaining. Unfortunately, it was not sufficiently challenging work that it kept Margaret from brooding. Forced nearly every minute to prepare for the visit, she could hardly keep from thinking about it. It also did not help that Reggie popped in from time to time to report the ton's perception of this visit. Bets at White's were running heavily in favor of a reconciliation with Lady Janice. Reggie even went so far as to imply that the visit was merely an attempt at revenge against the lady. Margaret laughed even as her stepmother looked horrified.

  "I'm a poor choice to make the lady jealous,” she told them. Then she sobered, remembering the look in the lady's eyes the last time she had seen her. Still, she could not believe the marquis would be so petty. Much as she supported mending one's heart after a painful romantic interlude, revenge seemed a paltry way to go about it. She'd recommend a ten-mile ride, a warm bath, and a good book, in that order. And perhaps a retreat to the country for a few weeks. She had heard he had a lovely retreat in the Lake District, which would surely be just the thing. Certainly such a remedy would be more useful than pretending to court her.

  By Friday morning, Mrs. Munroe declared the house suitable for the marquis’ visit. The formal withdrawing room had been aired, dusted, polished, and fluffed. The marble tiles in the little entryway gleamed. The banister on the stairs to the second floor was warm in its thick polish. With the house in order, however, her stepmother's attentions immediately shifted to Margaret, towing her upstairs to consider her wardrobe and coiffure.

>   She sank onto the stool before her cluttered dressing table and steeled herself for the onslaught. Mrs. Munroe immediately started questioning her choice of dress, preferring an insipid yellow ruffled silk to the simple green-sprigged muslin Margaret refused to take off. She then insisted on styling Margaret's hair in sausage-shaped curls on either side of her long face, which, to Margaret's opinion, merely called attention to her nose. And worst of all, she kept up a constant stream of instructions as she did so.

  "Remember not to talk unless he speaks first. We want him to think you demur."

  "Too late for that,” Margaret declared, but Helen only frowned at her before continuing.

  "Laugh at his quips. Men like that. But please don't laugh like you usually do. A lady-like giggle will suffice. Try to remember you are not a gentleman."

  Margaret bit back a laugh that would only have distressed her stepmother. “I doubt I'll consider myself a gentleman while the marquis is here,” she managed with a relatively straight face.

  Her stepmother seemed to be satisfied with that, hurrying from the room to make sure all was in readiness for the visit. As soon as she was gone, Margaret combed her hair out and tucked it up on top of her head.

  Shortly before three, all was ready. Mrs. Munroe confined Margaret to her room with the admonition not to muss herself. Margaret sat on the bed, then rose, concerned she might further wrinkle the muslin. She paced instead, then jumped when Becky knocked to tell her she could come down. She swallowed the lump of nervousness in her throat and hurried after her.

  The marquis was already sitting properly in one of the arm chairs when she arrived. He was probably the only person in the world who could look comfortable and in command in the stiff chairs. He was arrayed in a splendid coat of camel-colored superfine and tan chamois trousers tucked into gleaming Hessians. He rose as she entered, and she did not think it was her imagination that he looked relieved to see her. She wondered what her stepmother had been saying to him. Mrs. Munroe was glowing possessively. Margaret and the marquis had no more than greeted each other and seated themselves before Mrs. Munroe made the flimsiest of excuses and quit the room with a knowing glance at Margaret.

  She was giving the marquis a moment to propose. The idea was so ludicrous that Margaret's nervousness evaporated in amusement.

  "I'm now supposed to captivate you with my stimulating conversation,” she informed him in the silence that followed her stepmother's's precipitous departure. “As we both know this visit is a sham, perhaps we could just dispense with the formalities."

  He frowned. “I'm not sure what you mean by sham, Miss Munroe. Are you under the impression that my intentions are less than honorable?"

  Having both heard of and been witness to his proper lifestyle, she could not help but chuckle. “Oh, no, my lord. I'm sure your intentions, if you had any, would be entirely honorable. I simply thought it best that we be honest with each other from the beginning and acknowledge the fact that you are here only because of Lady Janice."

  He rose and walked to the window, but not fast enough to hide the fact that he had paled. “Have the rumors spread so quickly?"

  "I have no doubt the gossip is flying,” she replied, refraining from mentioning her cousin's stream of it. “But I was there at the ball, remember?"

  She thought his shoulders sagged in his relief and wondered suddenly whether there was more to the story of Lady Janice's refusal than she had thought. If he did stay in her life long enough, she might have to have a talk with the lady. Surely Lady Janice would tell her the truth of the matter.

  "You are very good at being forthright,” he said to the window.

  "Painfully so,” she acknowledged cheerfully. “And I do expect the same of others. So, out with it, my lord. You are only here to prove to society that you were not trifling with my affections. Let us have a decent conversation and set you free from this onerous duty.” She knew the words sounded like a challenge and steeled herself for his concurrence. He stiffened as if making some resolution then strode back to her side. Sitting beside her on the sofa, he took her hands in his. Margaret looked up in surprise at the intensity of his gaze.

  "Miss Munroe, you must believe me. I would not be here if I were not sincere in my admiration of you."

  She would have given anything to hear that speech and believe it. She snatched her hands away from him, leaning back against the opposite arm of the sofa to put distance between them. “Rubbish! Do you think me so feather-brained? You have not spent more than a half hour in my company since the day we met over a year ago. During that time, you sincerely courted two other women. You cannot admire me. You don't even know me."

  He swallowed, lowering his gaze. “You are right, of course. I did not mean to imply that I had formed an attachment in so short a time. That would be quite unseemly."

  Though she had known the truth, his statement still hurt, for her own attachment had been formed quickly and surely. “Not unseemly, my lord. Just unlikely."

  "Agreed. I know very little about you, as you noted. However, I must insist that what I know is wholly admirable. You are sharp-witted; you seem to have a joy of life I have seen in few others; and your laugh is altogether delightful."

  "Really?” she squeaked, then swallowed the astonishment and pleasure that was preventing coherent thought, much less speech.

  "Really,” he said with a smile that lit his eyes with blue flame, like brandy around a plum pudding. It both warmed and thrilled her.

  "I will not claim to be courting,” he continued, “but I see no harm in a friendship. Will allow me the opportunity to get to know you better?"

  She could only nod, overcome by the tumult of emotions. She could not have attracted his attentions. A friendship was more than she had thought possible, yet how insipid it seemed. Her cousin Allison had inspired an offer of marriage after only a few encounters, and the best Margaret could do was a friendship? The second-rate Munroes were a dismal second this time. Yet even as she sighed, she felt a tingle of hope. Stranger things than friendship had led to romance.

  He continued to smile at her, and her heart turned over. “Perhaps we might go driving tomorrow?” he asked.

  She knew this was one of those times when she should do as her stepmother suggested and simply agree. Yet she had told him she wanted to be honest. “I abhor driving in the city traffic, my lord,” she confessed. “Could we not ride in the park?"

  His smile deepened. “That would be delightful. Shall I call for you at this time tomorrow?"

  She didn't want to be difficult. But riding in the park at three was simply not riding at all. “If one is really to ride, my lord, you will have to start earlier than that. I generally take Aeolus out at eight each morning."

  "Then I shall be pleased to join you,” he replied, but his smile was beginning to look strained. He rose and offered her a bow. “And now, I had best be on my way before I overstay my welcome."

  "You could never do that,” she told him, but she rose and curtsied. “Allow me to show you out."

  He did not protest as she led him down the corridor to the small entryway, where his hat and cane lay waiting as she had thought they might across the half-moon table against the wall. He accepted them, turning the brim of the hat around in his hands before donning it. “Thank you for seeing me out, Miss Munroe. It was most gracious of you."

  "Not at all,” Margaret replied with a smile. “You must understand that there is method in my madness. The moment you leave, my stepmother will interrogate me endlessly. I'm only seeking to hold her off as long as possible."

  He glanced over his shoulder, and there was the unmistakable sound of a door closing somewhere behind them. He looked back at Margaret and winked. Her heart sang.

  "In that case, I regret I did not stay longer. You may assure Mrs. Munroe that I found the visit delightful.” He raised her hand to his lips and brushed them across the back. Then, tipping his hat, he walked out the door.

  Margaret shut the door and leaned
against it, staring unseeing at the corridor. She ought to be similarly delighted, but she only felt a rising panic. The man she adored most in all the world, a man who was totally unsuited to her personally, wanted to further the acquaintance.

  What was she to do now?

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Five

  What was he to do now?

  The rather companionable feelings he had shared with Margaret in the entryway vanished almost immediately as he climbed into his carriage. In truth, when he had left home, he was determined not to call again after today. Her stepmother's reception, with that salivating look he had seen so often since he declared he was on the marriage mart, had only reinforced his opinion. He shouldn't be courting anyone just yet. He needed time to survey the prospects, discuss the matter over dinner with a few choice friends, consider what had gone wrong the first two times, and determine how to fix it. That last activity should not take much time. He was fairly confident he knew what had ruined his chances with Allison and Lady Janice. He would not be so precipitous the next time.

  But then Margaret Munroe had entered the room with a glow in her eyes that told him how sincerely glad she was to see him. When she had accused him, rather correctly, of false intentions, he found he could not use her so ill. She did have traits that might be good in a marchioness—intelligence, honesty, what appeared to be loyalty. Perhaps, if he got to know her better, he would find that she might suit after all.

  Still, he wasn't entirely sure how to proceed with something that was not yet a courtship. He could not remember ever feeling at such a loss in either of his other pursuits. He had quickly determined that Allison and Lady Janice had the stuff for a marchioness and made his intentions plain to the parents of his chosen bride, long before he had made them clear to either of them. There had been several well-chosen, properly chaperoned appearances in public—balls, the opera, a drive through Hyde Park. While Allison had asked some difficult questions and Lady Janice had been demanding of his attention, neither had made him search his motives, his actions, or his very character. Margaret Munroe had a way of looking at him that made him acutely aware that he had other failings than the one that had made Allison and Lady Janice refuse him.