The Dutiful Rake (13 page)

Di’s assumption that Marc had been trapped was abandoned. Marc would know if he had been tricked. No fool her cynical, rakish brother. He might have accepted the inevitable, but it would have been with his
eyes fully open and he would not have been able to hide it from her. Certainly he would not be here, championing a scheming adventuress.

Looking up at Marcus with a softened face Di said, ‘Then I shall call upon your bride tomorrow morning, little brother. Be happy, my dear.’

He returned her smile and said oddly, ‘Do you know, I almost think I will be.’ He saluted her cheek and took his leave of her.

Di stared at the closed door, her mind full of speculation. Marc, of all men, to wear that dazed, uncertain expression on that hitherto-bored mask he presented to the world at large! Was he finally going to realise that it was not necessarily a death sentence to care for someone?

She went upstairs in a thoughtful mood to dress for dinner. Clasping her sapphires around her neck, she suddenly wondered if Marc was even aware of how different he seemed. She had never heard him speak of anyone with such feeling, never known him to express such anger. Yet he seemed to think he had acted on the promptings of duty and logic. Had he even hoaxed himself with his aloof façade?

Marcus walked home thoughtfully. Di had really taken it very well. He only hoped his formidable Aunt Regina could be won over as easily. He hoped to God she meant to stay in Bath until she had calmed down. Now he would go home and change for dinner. It was after six and he did not care to sit down with his bride for their first formal dinner together looking anything less than immaculate. He hoped that Meg had taken his advice and rested. She had looked tired, poor girl. With a twitch of his lips he wondered just what his innocent
bride had thought of her bedchamber. And their bathroom.

His steps slowed as he remembered the outrageous woman who had designed that bedchamber and had the bathroom installed. His heart lurched painfully and he strode on quickly, as if to leave the hurt behind.

The tapping on her door awoke Meg after what seemed like five minutes’ sleep in her cosy, silken nest. She yawned and stretched, then tweaked the curtains aside to look at the clock. Half-past six! Already!

‘Come in,’ she called.

Lucy bustled in with a large jug of water and said, ‘I brought some warm water for you to wash with, m’lady. Unless you’d like a bath drawn? I’ve had the water heater lit so…’

Meg thought about that. It was tempting, but if dinner was in an hour she would have to rush and she had an uncharacteristically hedonistic desire to positively wallow in the steamy luxury of that bath. No, she would have a bath before retiring for the night. Then she could take her time.

She shook her head. ‘I shall take a bath before going to bed.’

‘Yes, m’lady. Now, which dress will your ladyship wear?’

Which dress indeed? Never before had Meg concerned herself in the slightest about her clothes since they were all equally dowdy. Except, of course, in wishing they were not so dowdy. Now she had a wardrobe in the first style of elegance and she had no idea what to wear. For the last two nights she and Marcus had not bothered to change for dinner since they were travelling. Now she would sit down to dinner for the first time in
her new home and she wanted Marcus to be proud of her.

She went through to the dressing room and looked at the three gowns which Madame Heloise had designated for evening wear. There was really no question. A gown of shimmering blue silk with an embroidered bodice, to be worn over an underdress of ivory satin, simply begged to be chosen. The colour very closely approximated the wall hangings of her bedchamber.

‘This one,’ said Meg firmly.

Lucy took the gown reverently, saying, ‘Oh, it’s
lovely
! It will make your eyes look so blue, m’lady!’ She carried it into the bedchamber, laid it on the bed and turned to her mistress.

Lady Rutherford took a deep breath and steeled herself to being waited on hand and foot.

Floating down the stairs fifty minutes later, she thought to herself that she could get used to it very easily. It was not that she had permitted Lucy to attend her like a Roman bath slave, but that it was very pleasant to have someone to make suggestions, pass things to her that she didn’t even know were there…like that violet-scented soap Lucy had found. And it was lovely to have someone tell her how nice she looked! Not that she really believed it. The gown was lovely and having her hair swept up into a knot on top of her head with the soft curls falling from it was certainly very pretty, but surely she was still plain Meg Fellowes.

When she reached the hall she hesitated, unsure of where she was meant to be. Before she could panic, however, the stately individual she remembered to be the butler, Delafield, appeared from some fastness and bowed low to her.

‘His lordship’s compliments, my lady, and he would like you to await him in the library.’

My lady.
Meg almost looked around to see if he were speaking to someone else. It didn’t seem possible that he could mean her.

‘The library?’ she faltered.

He inclined his head. ‘If your ladyship would follow me.’

He led her to a huge mahogany door which he opened to usher her in, saying, ‘His lordship will be down directly. May I pour a glass of ratafia for your ladyship?’

A deep voice came from halfway up the stairs. ‘No, you may not, you old villain! You may leave me to pour my lady a glass of Madeira. Ratafia, indeed! I didn’t think we had any of the filthy stuff!’

The look of stern disapproval, warring ineffectually with pride, on the old man’s face told Meg that Marcus, though he might be a grown man and a belted earl to boot, was still an overgrown schoolboy to Delafield.

The butler’s outraged response confirmed it. ‘Ratafia, my lord, is a suitable drink for a lady.’

‘You go and tell that to my mother’s shade,’ recommended Marcus disrespectfully.

Delafield’s lips twitched but he bowed and said in quelling accents, ‘As your lordship pleases.’

Marcus grinned as he reached the bottom of the stairs, and said, ‘Give us fifteen minutes, Delafield. I have a present for her ladyship.’

He followed Meg into the room and looked her over admiringly. The gown was cut in the classical high-waisted style, outlining the soft curve of her breasts. Alternately clinging and drifting, the filmy skirts revealed and concealed the lovely, long legs in a way that made his breath tangle in his throat. The narrow cut
made them look even longer. The squared neck line with its
rouleau
was quite discreet, but it was shaped to follow the delicate curve of her breasts, coming down very subtly to a point between them, so the veriest suspicion of voluptuous cleavage was displayed. Tiny puffed sleeves left the graciously rounded, creamy arms bare. And her hairstyle accentuated the graceful line of her ivory throat.

That was quite enough, thought Marcus dizzily. Anything more and he’d be gibbering like a moonstruck halfling! As it was, all he could think of was how those arms had wrapped themselves about him, how he had pressed kisses on that lovely throat, feeling her soft moans vibrate under his lips. He had had some odd idea that the innocently sensuous siren who had shared his bed for the last two nights would be somehow invisible to the rest of the world. That no one else would see what he had seen in Meg. In the face of this celestial vision, shimmering before him in blue silk, he rapidly revised his opinion.

Dowdy little Meg had blossomed into a swan. Admittedly she had looked far more presentable in her elegant carriage dress the last three days and quite lovely in her wedding dress, but this! Any man who couldn’t see what he saw was blind. Abruptly he turned away to a console table to pour her a glass of wine.

Meg watched him nervously. Something was wrong. He was staring at her as though he had been struck dumb. Was the gown ill fitting? Ugly? Was she wearing it back to front? Or was it her hair? That was it! She wished she had not let Lucy persuade her into this mode. She felt so dreadfully exposed…but wait, he was saying something.

He turned back to her and handed her the Madeira.
‘Your health, my lady. You…you look quite…lovely my dear.’ He had to clear his throat twice to complete the sentence. What an inadequate remark, he thought ruefully. It was the understatement of the century. And the sudden glowing look in her eyes was doing impossible and dreadful things to his heart and stomach. The two organs seemed to have got themselves inextricably confused. He had never in his life felt so wildly, gloriously out of control.

Desperately he reached for his usual sangfroid and said, with a tolerable assumption of calm, ‘Yes, that gown suits you.’ He told himself he was relieved to see the glow of joy fade very slightly. He did not want to feel like this! It was dangerous for both of them. They had made a bargain about how they should chart their course through marriage. He must not tip the delicate balance, not if he wanted his marriage to fulfil his expectations.

‘Th…thank you, my lord,’ said Meg in a low voice.

Marcus frowned slightly. He had not meant to be
that
forbidding; still, perhaps it was as well. The difficulty of maintaining the sort of relationship he had intended would be doubled if she were to look at him like that too often. Better if he saved his compliments and tenderness for the bedchamber. There at least he could be himself with her. She was too sweet and yielding in his arms, had trusted him too unreservedly, for anything else to be possible.

Belatedly he remembered that he had a present for her. ‘I have a gift for you my lady,’ he said politely, reinforcing her sudden formality. He walked over to the small Pembroke table which stood behind the sofa and opened the drawer, taking out a long, flat, wooden box. He turned to her and beckoned.

Shyly she went to him, wondering what he had for her. Not another tea caddy, obviously.

Then she gasped as he opened the box and drew out a long rope of shimmering pearls. She stood transfixed as he clasped them around her throat. Surely he could not mean such an expensive gift for her! It was unthinkable!

It was even more unthinkable when a moment later, after viewing with satisfaction the effect of the pearls against the blue silk, he reached into the box again and produced a pair of earrings which he screwed into her ears with surprising assurance. Another dip into the box and he was clasping a bracelet about her wrist.

‘My…my lord, you cannot give me these…I…’ Meg was overwhelmed. She stared at the glimmering pearls on her breasts and at her wrist.

‘Why not?’ he asked in surprise. ‘They are always given to the brides in my family. Have been for three generations. You are the fourth countess to wear them.’

‘Oh.’ Meg looked up at him apologetically. ‘I beg your pardon. I…I didn’t understand.’ She had thought he was giving them to her for her very own, and the thought was terrifying. But he was bowing to tradition, wished his bride to present a creditable appearance, no doubt. They were to adorn his bride; not a present for Meg. She stifled the longing for something of her own, not jewellery, just…something…something from Marc, rather than the Earl of Rutherford, as the tea caddy had been.

He was frowning again. Why the hell should she mind being given jewellery? She hadn’t been wearing any, except her wedding ring, of course, and he’d wager if she had any it would not be the sort of jewellery that Lady Rutherford should wear. Mere trumpery, no
doubt! And in his experience no woman ever minded being given jewellery. Most of ’em had any number of hoaxing ways to cajole a new jewel out of a man.

He acquitted his bride of hoaxing ways, but he did wish she looked a little more enthusiastic at the priceless articles with which he had just adorned her. Could she not see how well they looked on her? On reflection he realised that she probably couldn’t.

‘Come with me,’ he said firmly and, gripping her shoulders, practically frogmarched her towards a console table over which hung an elderly looking-glass with a battered gilt frame.

‘Now, look at yourself.’

Marcus discovered that, unlike the basilisk, Meg’s wide-eyed stare did not lose a jot of its heart-stopping power in the glass. Rather it seemed to double because he was seeing her startled reaction to herself. And then he could see the disbelief on her face, the look of puzzled confusion.

‘That’s not me…is it?’ She glanced up to meet his eyes in the mirror. He could barely hear her next words, so softly were they uttered. ‘That’s Lady Rutherford.’

He stared down at her sharply. ‘I beg your pardon, Meg?’

An odd little tremor ran through her. ‘Nothing. I…nothing.’ She sounded oddly dazed, as though the mirror had shown her a stranger. ‘Thank you, Marcus.’ Hesitantly her hand lifted to touch the necklace briefly. ‘They are beautiful.’

For the first time, as he gazed at the reflected vision of his bride adorned in the family jewels, Marcus understood why pearls were considered so suitable for a young girl or bride. Their chaste beauty was the perfect foil for Meg’s unselfconscious loveliness. He had seen
these jewels countless times before, since his mother had loved the set, but never had they looked more right than they did at this moment.

Forgetting his resolve to keep tenderness strictly for the bedchamber, he gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze and pressed a kiss below her ear. ‘You look beautiful, my sweet. And you make the pearls look beautiful.’ He felt the tumultuous pulse in her neck and released her with difficulty.

‘Drink up, Meg,’ he said, moving away from her. ‘Dinner will be served shortly.’ For God’s sake! Could he not keep his hands off her for five minutes? Tonight at least he should leave her to sleep undisturbed. She could have no fears in his…their…house. He was within call if she needed to find him in the night. Theirs was to be a marriage of convenience. As such it was ridiculous to expect her to share his bed every night.

Meg sipped her Madeira and found to her surprise that she liked it. She smiled at Marcus over the glass and said, ‘It’s lovely, thank you. And thank you for the pearls. I have never worn jewellery at all, so…’ She stopped, embarrassed. It would never do for him to think she was begging for more.