The Dutiful Rake (17 page)

For a moment he was stunned, and then he thought that despite her chatter she
had
looked rather pale at dinner.

‘Then cuddle up and let me hold you,’ he said gently. ‘I promise I won’t pester you.’

There was a moment’s charged silence, during which Meg summoned up all the icy reserve of which she was capable. In the face of his tender consideration it was a daunting task.

Thankful that the dim light made her face unreadable, she said very politely, ‘No. Thank you, my lord.’

Marcus felt as though a sword had passed straight through his guts. And then he lost his temper.

Swinging himself off the bed he said coldly, ‘Then I will relieve you of my unwelcome presence, Madam Wife!’ And in tones of brutal indifference, ‘No doubt I can find amusement elsewhere!’

He waited a moment for Meg’s response, but she was struggling with tears and remained silent so he turned on his heel and stalked out in a mixture of hurt and affronted male pride.

Hearing the door slam behind him, Meg buried her face in the pillow and cried herself to sleep, a proceeding which took over an hour and did absolutely nothing to help her headache.

A
week later the Countess of Rutherford, exquisitely gowned in clinging, shimmering blue silk, stood between her sister-in-law and husband, being formally presented to society. Lady Diana’s idea of a select assembly turned out to mean that she had not invited above two hundred or so people to have the honour of meeting Rutherford’s bride.

Sir Toby commented on this with gentle satire and told Meg with a grin that he would quiz her on names later in the evening.

Meg was fairly certain that she would not remember a quarter of the names she had heard, although many of the people she had already met while driving with Diana. These she greeted with genuine relief as being lifelines in a sea of frothing, gossiping humanity. So confused was she by all the noise and new faces that she would have even greeted Lady Hartleigh with relief.

Lady Hartleigh was conspicuous by her absence, a fact which confirmed Meg’s belief that there was some connection between her and Marcus. Why else should Di have been so annoyed at seeing them together? Perhaps he had even contemplated marriage with her.
Di had intimated that he had considered a marriage she disapproved of.

Trying to concentrate, she responded to Lady Castlereagh’s gracious compliments on her looks with a shy ‘thank you’ which did her no disservice in that lady’s eyes.

Lady Castlereagh had already been pleased to approve of Rutherford’s choice and she confirmed it now, saying, ‘I must wish you happy, Rutherford. I shall look forward to seeing the two of you at Almack’s.’ She passed on regally to inform her acquaintance that Rutherford’s bride was just what she liked in a girl, dignified and with no simpering nonsense about her. Attractive too, trust Rutherford for that!

Despite his continuing hurt at his bride’s rejection, Marcus swelled with unspoken pride in her composure. To anyone who did not know her she appeared perfectly happy with her surroundings, delighted to meet one curious stranger after another. Only Marcus suspected that she was finding the whole business somewhat of an ordeal and he could not have said why he had that impression. Certainly she did not shrink towards him, or cling to his arm. Her voice held no tremor and a friendly smile curved her soft mouth.

It was just that he had the oddest feeling that he was watching a play, in which a very talented actress held the stage. Which would have been all very well if she had ever relaxed and cast off her mask. But she didn’t. In the last week he had seen very little of Meg. At first he had been too angry to trust himself near her and by the time he had cooled and approached her with overtures of friendship it had been too late.

She was caught up in a whirl of social engagements, fittings with Diana’s dressmaker, visits to Hatchard’s
and Hookham’s. And when he did see her she held him at arm’s length with her chatter about her doings, how kind Diana was being and how much she was enjoying London. In short, he had lost Meg and acquired Lady Rutherford.

Even when he gave her a betrothal ring, which he had meant to do on that ill-fated day they had met in the park, she had maintained her barricade. Oh, she had thanked him prettily enough, put it on at once and turned her hand so the enormous diamond blazed. But he could not flatter himself that she was in the least moved by it. And he had not made the least attempt to enter her bed again or woo her into his. Never in his life had he been rejected by a woman and it had stung unbearably.

Had he but known that Meg had been hard pressed not to burst into tears when he gave the ring to her and went to sleep each night with her cheek cuddled against it, then he might have felt appeased. But he did not know these things; although he was observant enough to recognise the mask which Meg wore, he could not see past it to what lay underneath.

So Meg stood at his side, bitterly unhappy, and utterly determined that no one, least of all Marcus, should know it.

The throng of people flocking up the steps had died down and Di turned to Meg. ‘Well, my love, I think it is time Marc took you to mingle with our guests.’ Narrowly observing the slightest of shadows in the depths of Meg’s dark eyes, ‘And a glass of champagne too, I think! Oh, dear! Who is this arriving? I’m sure I didn’t send out this many cards!’ Then she fell silent as she saw who was coming through her front door.

Marcus beside her swore softly and said, ‘What the hell did you invite them for, Di?’

‘I didn’t, you idiot,’ she informed him with sisterly directness.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Sir Toby in detached interest. ‘Your call, I’d say, Marc.’

Very puzzled, Meg gazed at the vaguely familiar couple ascending the stairs towards them.

She was sure she knew them, but couldn’t remember having met them in the last few days with Di. Yet the red face of the corpulent gentleman puffing his way up to them was familiar, as was the hatchet-faced lady on his arm. Somewhere deep inside she began to shake. Who on earth could they be? She was aware that Marcus at her side was absolutely rigid with fury.

‘My dear little cousin!’ gushed the gentleman. ‘I dare say Lady Diana did not realise we were in town! But really, we could not ignore you, dear Marguerite.’ Then, as she continued to look at him blankly, ‘I am your Cousin Delian, Marguerite!’

Her jaw dropped. Looking down at her, Marcus saw, for the first time in a week, a genuine reaction from his wife. Hurt, shock and disgust at this undisguised hypocrisy were all there for a fleeting moment. And something else which clawed at his heart. Briefly he had a glimpse of the frightened, grieving orphan, confused and alone. And then the mask slipped back into place.

But Marcus had seen enough. ‘How charming, Sir Delian. But you did manage to ignore Marguerite for ten years very satisfactorily. You really needn’t do such violence to your feelings now.’ His silken tones cloaked a murderous rage at a man who could throw a ten-year-old child out of her home and not even settle money on her.

Sir Delian blustered ineffectually and his wife took over. ‘How is this? Do you tell me that we are not welcome here, my lord? At our cousin’s coming-out?’

‘About as welcome as you made her ten years ago,’ said Marcus with deadly emphasis. ‘We, however, shall not be so ungracious as to turn you away. Unless Marguerite would prefer me to do so.’ He turned to Meg. ‘Well, my dear?’

She stared up at him. What was she supposed to say? Those icy grey eyes gave her no clue. The decision must be hers. It had been the dream of her life to one day repay Delian and Henrietta for casting her out and now she had her chance. She looked at them uncertainly. Sir Delian was obviously upset, his weak chins quivering as he passed a handkerchief over his florid countenance. Lady Fellowes looked as proud and disagreeable as ever.

Meg had a blinding flash of memory, recalling the day they had arrived at Thornaby, summoned her and pronounced sentence of exile from her home. Lady Fellowes had spelt out, in words the frightened ten-year-old had not understood for years, just why she was to be sent away. Sir Delian, she recalled, had protested a little but had been overruled. Now was her chance. She could refuse to acknowledge them and word would get out that she had done so. It would ruin them socially.

She couldn’t do it. It was not in her nature to return evil for evil.

‘No, my lord,’ she said quietly. ‘I will be pleased to acknowledge my only family.’

Sir Delian gasped, ‘My dear child! I am so delighted! You must know we have been meaning forever to have you on a visit! Perhaps now that you are—’ He fell silent before the searing scorn in the light grey eyes
before him. They were like chips of ice, hard and implacable.

‘Lady Rutherford has acknowledged you, Sir Delian,’ interposed Marcus. ‘It will be for her to determine what, if any, friendship should develop.’

With her head held high, Lady Fellowes towed her spluttering husband past them into the house.

‘Really, Marc! Was that necessary?’ expostulated Di.

Marcus looked down at Meg, a curious expression in his eyes. ‘Yes, Di. It was.’

Meg returned his gaze, wide-eyed and defenceless. Just for a moment he was her Marc again, protective and caring.

Shyly she put her hand on his and said, ‘Thank you, Marc.’

Her touch seemed to scorch through her kid glove, searing his fingers which longed to clasp hers. Instead he shrugged and said, ‘I can’t stand hypocrites. Shall we mingle?’ And felt a strange pang of dissatisfaction as he saw Meg’s barriers crash down, leaving him confronted with the polite and obliging bride he thought he wanted.

‘Certainly, my lord.’ What a fool she was to think he had responded to her need! He had merely found the Felloweses distasteful, for which she could not blame him in the least.

For the rest of the evening Meg circulated through the pressing throng and found herself feeling more and more at ease. People were kind and did not, thank God, expect her to remember all their names. Indeed, they were only too happy to present themselves to her notice.

‘Dear Lady Rutherford. You won’t remember, but Di presented me in the park…’

‘We met in Hatchard’s, Lady Rutherford…’

‘You must have met so many people this evening, dear Lady Rutherford…’

And so it went on. Marcus, after an hour or so, had drifted away, satisfied that she was launched safely and could manage for herself. There was no danger of her being ignored or finding herself at a loss. So he brought her a glass of champagne and excused himself gracefully, leaving her deep in conversation with Lady Wragby on a sofa.

Meg rather liked Lady Wragby, who was fat and comfortable with absolutely no pretensions to fashion or beauty, but was possessed of an abundant good nature which ensured that she was everywhere welcome.

Lady Wragby was obligingly pointing out various persons of note and telling gently scandalous stories about them when an urbane voice from behind them said, ‘How delightful. I have longed to renew my acquaintance with Lady Rutherford.’

As her veins congealed to solid ice, Meg turned to face the mocking eyes and thin lips of Sir Blaise Winterbourne. He had possessed himself of her hand and was raising it to his lips. Meg could barely repress a shudder as he kissed it. All at once she felt tainted, defiled, and sickeningly, shamefully afraid.

Regardless, she gave him back stare for stare and said, ‘Have we met? Oh, of course! Mr Winterbourne. In Grantham, was it not?’ She had the queerest feeling that Meg was standing a little distance away, quaking with fear, admiringly watching Lady Rutherford deal with an awkward situation.

Winterbourne laughed gently. ‘I am flattered that you remember me, Lady Rutherford. But Rutherford made
wretched work of presenting me! It will be more appropriate for you to call me Sir Blaise.’

He lingered beside the sofa for a while, chatting to Lady Wragby and idly quizzing Meg.

‘Such an elegant gown, dear Lady Rutherford. But then you are always exquisitely garbed for the occasion, are you not?’

Meg deflected his barbed gallantries with increasing coolness until to her relief she observed Jack Hamilton approaching through the crowd. He had his head on one side and was regarding her with one cocked eyebrow.

As he drew closer Winterbourne excused himself and sauntered off. It would never do to give Hamilton of all people the least suspicion that he was sniffing around the Countess of Rutherford.

Hamilton bowed low over Meg’s hand and greeted Lady Wragby with pleasure.

‘How nice to find people I actually want to see. Didn’t Di say something about a select assembly? Remind me not to come to a squeeze.’

Lady Wragby chuckled. ‘Never mind. Should you like to come to a nice select card party next month? I’ll only send out a hundred cards.’

Hamilton shuddered. ‘Thank you for the warning. I believe I have a prior engagement that evening!’

‘Why, you wretch!’ protested Lady Wragby. ‘I haven’t even told you the date!’

In their relaxed and cheerful company Meg recovered slightly, laughing at their teasing and responding in kind. Yet, observing her, Jack thought she was rather pale. He could not say what it was that had told him she was upset, but he would have sworn that she was frightened by Winterbourne. Racking his brains, he could think of no reason for her to be so, unless of
course Marc or Di had warned her that he made a habit of bedding Marc’s mistresses and might think it amusing to seduce his Countess. He resolved to keep a brotherly eye on Meg. He thought she was the best thing to happen to Marc in years and he did not want anything to go wrong.

By the time Lady Fellowes sailed up to claim the privilege of cousinship, Meg was feeling thoroughly at ease again.

‘My dear Marguerite,’ she said, as she contrived to draw Meg away from Jack and Lady Wragby. ‘I do trust there is no resentment on your part for your cousin’s very understandable decision to protect his children from any breath of scandal. As a mother and dutiful wife I could only concur with his opinion.’

Holding herself proudly, Meg said steadily, ‘My memory of the occasion is perfectly clear,
Cousin
Henrietta. I hold no resentment where it is not due.’

‘Then we may be comfortable,’ said Lady Fellowes with a sublime unawareness of the edge to Meg’s response. ‘Naturally, now you are so advantageously married, no one will give a thought to your past.’

‘My
past?’ queried Meg. ‘I was under the impression that it was my parents’ past that was the problem.’ She could not quite believe this bare-faced hypocrisy. ‘I am still their daughter!’

‘How you do take one up, dear Marguerite,’ said Lady Fellowes with a tinkle of laughter. ‘Now, you must know I am bringing out dear little Sophia this spring. She is presently recovering from this dreadful flu, so I have left her at home this evening. The most fragile constitution! But I am sure you will be pleased with her. Such a dear child. She is quite longing to meet her long-lost cousin.’

Since Meg’s only memory of Sophia Fellowes was of a seven-year-old who had marched into her bedchamber and announced that it was hers now, as well as all the toys, and Mama wished to see Cousin Marguerite in the drawing room at once, she was not unnaturally startled at this announcement. But she did not wish to harbour a grudge so she said quietly, ‘I am sure I will be pleased to make the acquaintance of my cousin.’