Marriage Alliance: A charming Regency Romance

by Mira Stables

  But she would not have him watch her when she practised, however cunningly he pleaded. Even when he resorted to blackmail, asking plaintively how he could be sure that she really liked his gift unless he saw it in use, she stood firm. Finally he said, “And your wifely submission, sweetheart? If I remember aright, you promised to obey me.”

  That was unfair, as he very well knew, since it was unanswerable. And on this occasion, as it chanced, they were alone. The grey eyes that had learned to meet his own so frankly were lowered in swift confusion and vivid colour mantled in the creamy skin. Marcus surprised himself by saying softly, “And very soon, my sweet, I mean to remind you more fully of those promises that you made. We know each other better, now, do we not?”

  He would have drawn her into his arms and kissed her. Indeed he found himself extremely desirous of doing so. But at that moment Deborah came in and the opportunity was gone.

  Nevertheless the small incident stirred him to awareness of the change in his attitude towards his wife. He was scarcely, he supposed, in love with her in the high romantic style. That sort of thing was not at all in his line. But she was a taking little thing, young and fresh and vital. And she was his. Moreover those soft red lips, with the delicious arch in the upper one, gave promise of an ardent temperament. The prospect of initiating her into the delights of love was increasingly attractive.

  Several times during the remainder of the day Fleur caught him quietly watching her. There was a new quality in his glance. Speculative? Possessive? She could not be sure. But it made her heart beat faster in mingled apprehension and excitement, for there could be no misunderstanding the tenor of his remarks just before Deborah had interrupted them. Perhaps — tonight? An odd little shiver ran over her and the fingers that were turning over the patterns of upholstery materials grew suddenly clumsy. She looked up, only to meet his eyes again. Their glance dropped to her mouth. “That velvet is the very colour of your lips,” he said conversationally, and smiled at her. He might just as well have kissed her. She blushed and lowered her gaze and the patterns tumbled to the floor in confusion.

  And now, because it seemed that the moment she had so eagerly desired was almost at hand, she wished, with feminine perversity, to hold it off for a little. The present was deliciously exciting, a delicate tip-toe excitement which she knew instinctively could never come again. Once her surrender was made those grey eyes would no longer tease — challenge — invite. And though she might indeed find heaven in his arms, these last few hours of freedom were tantalisingly sweet. They were married — yes. But that was no reason why she should be taken for granted. She wanted to be wooed and won.

  It was in this mood that she went up to dress for dinner and looked with disfavour at the simple muslin gown that Betty had laid out for her. She had been married in such haste that there had been no time to think of anything but her wedding gown. All the other dresses that she possessed were the jeune fille muslins and jaconets that Melly had chosen for her when she left school. They were charming, but they were quite out of tune with her present tempestuous mood. And neither would she wear her wedding dress, since that would certainly be construed as blatant invitation to the conqueror to claim possession of his prize.

  It was then that she remembered the mulberry brocade. She did not know quite what whim had caused her to bring it with her to Blayden, save that she had known and loved it all her life. It was the one treasure that Maman had brought with her on that hurried flight from France, and a foolish thing to have brought, so poor as they were, for it was quite impractical. It was by far too grand for ordinary use as well as being very old fashioned, since it had belonged to Grand’mére. Maman, like Fleur, had always loved it. In her poverty-stricken days she had sometimes been tempted to cut up the glowing breadths into something that might supplement her shabby wardrobe, but her heart had always failed her when the scissors were in her hand. So the dress had survived to lend its glamour to Fleur’s childhood.

  She could well remember the first time that Maman had permitted her to dress up in it. She had been nine, tall for her age but skinny — as Grandpapa kindly phrased it. The fabric of the gown had fascinated her. In some lights it looked almost black, in others a deep rich crimson. The low-cut bodice with its tiny waist had hung loosely on her slight frame while the skirt lay in folds about her ankles, but the child had seen only the glow and sheen of the heavy silk, and the enraptured face that looked back at her from the mirror had caused Maman to warn soberly of the dangers of vanity. As for the dress, said Maman, it might serve some day for a masquerade. And, forgetting all about the dangers of vanity, she had proceeded to show Fleur just how the hair should be dressed — very simply, high on top of the head and bound with a riband; then secured at the nape of the neck with a flat bow and coaxed to fall over the left shoulder in one shining rolling curl that accentuated the creamy skin exposed by the deep décolletage.

  The dress was utterly and completely unsuitable for a family dinner party — and Fleur was utterly and completely determined to wear it. Only last Christmas she had tried it on, one idle afternoon, and she knew that it fitted her perfectly. Had recognised, too, that it transformed her from thin, commonplace little Fleur Pennington into a veritable figure of romance. It was the kind of dress that made one think of secret assignations, elopements, duels and all the trappings of the fabled past. Never mind if Marcus and Deb and the servants thought she had run mad. Tonight she would wear Grand’mére’s dress. And from it draw the courage to face the encounter with her husband that she knew to be imminent.

  She set the bell pealing for Betty and hunted through a drawer for the silver ribbon that had been tied around her bridal posy. It would have to do for her hair since she had nothing that matched the muted crimson of the dress. She would wear the silver slippers that she had worn for her wedding and several ruffled petticoats to hold out the full skirts.

  Fortunately, Betty was young enough to be infected by her mistress’s impetuous behaviour. Never a word of surprise or protest did she utter but devoted all her skill to producing an effect that startled both of them when the unusual toilet was completed. Betty, quite frankly, drew in her breath with an audible hiss. Fleur, already aware of the transformation that the dress could achieve for a plain child, had not allowed for the added effect of the appropriate hair style, to which her shining dark locks were admirably suited. Nor, though this she did not recognise, for the magical glow that love had set about her. She only knew that never had her eyes looked so large and luminous, her lashes so long and silky, her skin so creamy smooth. Indeed this last was a positive embarrassment. Accustomed as she was to modern standards, the low-cut, tight-laced bodice of fifty years ago seemed almost indecent. She tugged anxiously at the heavy curl that hung over her shoulder, trying to loosen it so that it should fall a little lower and veil the curve of her breast.

  “They was used to wear fronts of lace and ribbons in them dresses,” volunteered Betty suddenly, forgetting her carefully learned genteel accent and reverting to her natural rustic speech in her excitement. “But ’twere only to keep the cold off their chests, not to cover themselves up. So Mum said. And she were maid to old Lady Blayden — ’is lordship’s Mama. You look proper nice, ma’am. You do so.” Recollecting herself, she coughed to cover her lapse and said woodenly, “Will there be anything else, ma’am?” And, on Fleur’s shaking her head, hastened to the servants’ hall where she regaled the senior members of the hierarchy with the tale of the strange goings on to which she had just been privy.

  Fleur went downstairs carefully, holding up skirts that were a good two inches longer than those to which she was accustomed. The Tompion clock at the turn of the stair informed her that she was a little early. The bolting eyes of the unfortunate footman whom she encountered in the hall assured her that her appearance was, at any rate, arresting. The poor man looked for a moment as though he had taken her for a ghost.

  Since Lord Blayden’s departure the three of them had formed the
habit of dining cosily in front of the library fire. Fleur opened the library door, still smiling over her encounter with the footman, and went in.

  Chapter Seven

  DEB was not yet down. Marcus was sprawled in leisurely comfort in a chair before the fire, one foot in its elegant evening pump elevated against the ancient stonework of the chimney-piece that framed the glowing logs. His mind had been pleasantly occupied in plans for his immediate future. He could not linger on at Blayden indefinitely. He was needed at Dakers. The busiest season of the year was almost upon them. It was high time that he was back in the saddle. But first he must reach a proper understanding with his wife. He had, he considered, been patient for quite long enough, entirely forgetting that, in the first instance, he had felt no im-patience. The child had been granted all these weeks to accustom herself to the thought of wifehood. Now it was time to be done with shilly-shallying.

  He foresaw no particular difficulty. Quite a self-assured young man, Mr Marcus Blayden, who, until his father had brought a comfortable inheritance to ruin, had been a popular target for the matchmaking mamas. He had flirted gaily with the prettiest of the débutantes and had successfully eluded capture. His dealings with a different class of female had been, for two or three seasons, the talk of the Town. To be sure he seemed to have put aside these youthful follies when he had inherited his uncle’s estate, but rumour still clung about him. He was reported to have a ravishing mistress tucked away down in Kent, though heaven knew how he managed to support such a luxury on a beggar’s pittance. Another version of the tale credited him with having so deeply attached a married lady of quality that she had abandoned husband and home in order to follow her lover into rustic exile. The knowing ones agreed that there was undoubtedly some truth in these tales. How else could one account for the fellow’s peculiar comings and goings? Friends who sought him out at his London lodging would be told that he was in Kent. Yet if they were sufficiently persistent to follow him thither, he was nowhere to be found, while the servants on the Cobham manor were dull oafs who were wholly absorbed in the processes of agriculture and knew nothing of the master’s cantrips. Or perhaps Blayden had trained them to secrecy. If a lady’s honour was in question, what else could her protector do?

  It was amply plain that the Honourable Marcus had never had cause to doubt his success with the fair sex. Nor did he do so now. A child out of the schoolroom who had never mixed in society and who was already drawn to him? His knowledgeable eye had not missed the fugitive glances, the rising colour, the unsteady fingers. A few compliments, a kiss or two, and she would tumble into his arms. They might dally very pleasantly at Blayden for perhaps another week of honeymoon, but after that he must really make a move.

  At least he would not leave the little creature behind, as his father had suggested. She would be happier at Dakers, where she could play at housekeeping on a smaller scale and make the mistakes of inexperience without fear of ridicule. It did not occur to him that he had decided to take her with him simply because he was loth to leave her. In this, at least, he was perfectly sincere. He only wished that he might carry off Deborah as well. Perhaps, now that he was a married man, his father might be brought to consent to Deb’s living with them. But that was for the future.

  This was the rather self-satisfied gentleman who, lolling idly in front of his library fire, turned his head at the gentle sound of the opening door and came automatically to his feet before he fully appreciated the vision that stood on the threshold.

  For a moment the power of speech was reft from him. It was forgivable. In that moment Fleur was lovely as possibly she might never appear again. The gaiety of her smile over the footman still curved her lips. The knowledge that she looked better than her best kept her head high. Yet there was a half-enquiring, mischievous tilt to that proudly held head that made her vivid little face wholly enchanting. Only the childishly slender arms betrayed the fact that she was not yet fully grown to womanhood.

  And in that brief, dazed moment, Marcus caught his first glimpse of the woman she might become. “And I thought her less than pretty!” he remembered in self-scorn. “She is lovely. Radiant. Exquisite.”

  He never gave a thought to the peculiarity of her costume or her possible reason for choosing it. To him, in that moment of revelation, it was exactly what he would have chosen for her. She was a queen, aware and proud. And a queen can do no wrong.

  But only for an instant did complete surprise hold him immobile. Something of his customary poise was recovered as he came to greet her.

  “My lady,” he said, very formally, and swept her a magnificent bow. Then, on a deeper, more intimate note, “My very lovely sovereign lady.”

  The last vestige of Fleur’s hesitancy fled. He was neither displeased nor mocking. Rather he had slipped into a matching role and was playing his part beautifully. He liked her. She dimpled delightfully and extended a slim hand for his kiss with right regal grace. Only when he followed up that courtesy by catching her in his arms and kissing her, for the first time, full on the lips, did she show any hint of shyness. Then, indeed, she did resist for a moment, straining away from him against that strong encircling arm. But when his free hand tilted her chin she yielded meekly enough.

  Her lips were soft and untaught and very trusting. He made love to her gently, dropping light kisses on cheek and brow and smoothing the lids over the huge solemn eyes with a kiss apiece before he came again to her lips. He felt the shiver that shook the slender body and smiled a little at her innocent response to his practised love-making. But his own emotions were not untouched. The creamy skin smelt deliciously of some subtle perfume. He found her quite intoxicating. And unfortunately this was not the time for further advances in his skilful wooing, since at any moment Deborah would be joining them. He had best resist the temptation to set his lips to the delicate little hollow at the base of the slim throat where he could plainly see the fluttering pulse-beat. He put her from him reluctantly and resumed his role of courtier.

  “If my lady is pleased to consent, we shall make tonight a special occasion,” he suggested, smiling down at her in most disturbing fashion under those sleepy lids. She blushed hotly, reading into the remark a meaning that he had not actually intended, and said, rather breathlessly, “Yes, sir, if it please you.”

  He guessed her thought but maintained his role, bowing slightly as he said, “Then tonight we shall drink the finest wine of France to pledge our life together.”

  She looked a little puzzled, for, truth to tell, she was little acquainted with wine of any kind.

  “Champagne,” he exclaimed. “Cool, sparkling, palest gold. You will like it, I promise.”

  Fleur was doubtful. She watched him ring for Reeves and give the order and as the butler went out said a little anxiously, “Is it an intoxicating drink? It would be very shocking if I became drunk.”

  He chuckled. “Trust me to guard against that! Yes. It is an intoxicating drink. You must never drink it save when I am at hand to keep an eye on you. But one glass, or even two, will do no harm, and no other wine is worthy of your dress. It, too, is French, if I mistake not. And has a history?”

  Deborah coming in at this point and exclaiming delightedly at Fleur’s appearance, the story of the dress was rehearsed in detail and its magnificence duly admired. Dinner — a much simpler meal than Lord Blayden would have countenanced — was gaily informal, with a very French flavour. Fleur told how Grand’mère had worn the mulberry brocade at a ball, from which she had presently eloped with the extremely ineligible suitor on whom she had set her heart. Oh, yes! Grand’mère came of good family, but poverty poor, you understand. After her reckless marriage her relatives had completely cast her off so the ball dress was the sole relic of her former standing. But she and Grandpère had been very happy despite their poverty, so Maman had said.

  The champagne was opened and drunk and the talk went merrily, Marcus telling now of the time when he had been lost during one of those visits to his aunt’s chât
eau. He had stolen out one evening on a forbidden fishing trip and grown so absorbed in his sport that he had not noticed the lateness of the hour or the distance that he had wandered along the river bank. A sharp thunderstorm caused him to seek shelter in a chance-found cave, and by the time the downpour eased it was full dark. It seemed to him prudent to stay where he was until daybreak showed him his whereabouts and he settled down to make the best of his bleak quarters, falling asleep almost at once despite their Spartan nature.

  His slumbers were, however, rudely interrupted by the arrival of the regular occupant of the cave, a sturdy peasant who, having fallen foul of the authorities over a little matter of taxes, was lying up in the woods until such time as his relatives could scrape up a sum sufficient to ship him off to America, where his independent notions might be better received. This gentleman, who had been making the evening round of his rabbit snares, was somewhat incensed at finding his uninvited guest, particularly as he did so by falling over him and catching his elbow a nasty crack on one of the boulders with which the entrance to the cave was amply furnished. Between the man’s rough patois and his savage appearance — for when eventually he kindled a torch, all that could be seen of him was a pair of wildly glittering eyes and a craggy prow of a nose emerging from a matted tangle of hair and beard — Marcus had been convinced that he had fallen into the hands of some brigand chief.

  The Marcus of today paused to sip his wine and grin at the fascinated horror in the faces of his two auditors.

  “What did he do?” begged Fleur anxiously, her eyes dark with imagined terrors, even though the story-teller sat there before her eyes in very obvious good health.

  “Why! He turned out to be a very good sort of fellow. When he saw that I was only a lad, and a fisherman to boot, he shared his supper with me. I was devilish sharpset by then, having eaten nothing since déjeuner. Don’t remember that I ever tasted a hunter’s stew the equal of that one. I daresay some of my uncle’s partridges had gone into it as well as the conies that he admitted to, but I’d no quarrel with that. I left him my catch in fair payment. He said fish’d make a tasty change, since he daren’t haunt the river bank in daylight and was no hand at fishing in the dark. A decent honest man I thought him. He set me on my way at first light — and never so much as asked me to keep quiet about our meeting.” The man’s voice still reflected the boy’s bursting pride in that instinctive trust. “I hope he got safe away, though of course I never dared to enquire.”