The Missing Marchioness. Paula Marshall
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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