Lady Margery's Intrigue

by Beaton, M. C.

  The service passed as if in a dream. Some other Margery seemed to be making the responses. Then the marquess stooped to kiss her and she felt his lips cool and impersonal against her own.

  Then out into the sunshine again under the swinging clamor of the bells and surrounded by the cheers and cries of the villagers.

  The wedding breakfast, to which most of the local county had been asked, was laid out on long tables on the lawns in front of Chelmswood.

  Margery smiled and bowed and listened to the toasts and drank a considerable amount of iced champagne, feeling all the while that the old house was tying her to her childhood and that the familiar setting was stopping her from realizing that she was in fact married to one of the handsomest and richest men in England.

  The twilight deepened, and one by one the guests began to leave. The marquess did not wish any rowdy revels outside his bedroom windows on his wedding night.

  He looked down at his bride. She was talking to Freddie on her other side and showing more animation than she had done all day.

  Suddenly it was dark and Amelia was whispering in her ear that it was time to retire and, followed by a vindictive titter from Desdemona, Margery went slowly indoors. She had drunk too much and eaten too little. She seemed to float up the great dark staircase and along the twisting corridors that led to the east wing. She paused with Amelia outside her new bedroom door, realizing in a fuzzy way that she had not inspected her new quarters, having left all the arrangements to the marquess.

  She pushed open the door and went in.

  A footman followed behind them and busily moved about the room lighting great branches of candles.

  Amelia looked timidly round. “It is perhaps a rather masculine room, Margery. But no doubt you will wish to make some changes when you settle down.”

  A great four-poster bed draped in heavy crimson silk dominated the room. A fine tapestry of a particularly brutal hunting scene decorated one wall and the rest were hung with heavy, dark flock wallpaper and embellished with hunting scenes in ornate gilt frames.

  Margery looked around her vaguely. “It will do,” she said indifferently, and received a surprised and anxious look from Amelia. Battersby bustled into the room and set about getting her mistress ready for bed, turning the unresisting Margery this way and that as if she were a rag doll.

  Finally Margery was left alone to wait for her lord.

  The room seemed uncomfortably bright, so she snuffed most of the candles with the exception of one branch over the fireplace. The summer breeze blew in from the garden, bringing with it the smell of sweet-smelling stock, roses, and freshly cut grass. Margery wandered aimlessly about the room, picking things up and putting them down. A door beside the tapestry led to a small dressing room. There was a narrow bed over in the corner by the window and Margery’s heart leapt with relief at the sight of it. Perhaps he did not mean to sleep with her after all. Hard on the heels of that emotion came an irrational feeling of defeat. The marquess must have had love affairs with many beauties. He would probably not feel himself honor-bound to consummate a mere marriage of convenience—until he decided he wanted an heir.

  The effects of the champagne were slowly dissipating and she felt very young and forlorn. She climbed up into the great bed, closed her eyes, and waited patiently for sleep.

  The sound of the door opening made her sit up with a gasp. She had finally convinced herself that the marquess would not come and was shocked to see him standing in the doorway of his dressing room wrapped in an elaborate dressing gown embroidered in blue and gold. Without looking at her, he walked across and snuffed out the candles. She heard the whisper of silk as he removed his dressing gown, and pressed herself back against the pillows.

  “Is this necessary, my lord?” whispered Margery.

  “Very necessary,” came the mocking reply from somewhere in the darkness. “And my name is Charles.”

  Margery sensed a great bulk looming over her in the darkness. “Charles,” she cried in a pleading voice.

  He was in bed beside her. He was drawing her closer.

  “Now, madame wife,” said the Marquess of Edgecombe, “come here to me!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Marquess of Edgecombe twisted round in bed and stared down at the face of his sleeping wife. He was shocked, puzzled, and worried.

  He knew that many country-bred girls like Margery who went in for strenuous sports such as hunting did not come to their marriage bed virgo intacto.

  But nonetheless, he was troubled. Instead of the shy, frightened girl who would have to be coaxed in the arts of lovemaking, he had found himself in the arms of a fiery, sensuous woman who had returned passion for passion until he had been left trembling and shaking and feeling like a novice.

  The trick she had played on his three friends, which had recently seemed the desperate move of an innocent girl determined to save her home, now appeared as if it might have been the ploy of an experienced woman. He knew very little about Margery Quennell. His amours had always been with experienced women of the demimonde. And that was why these women existed. It was downright indecent for any gently bred girl to behave with the abandon that his wife had shown.

  He looked down at his wife again. Her face looked very young and innocent. He traced the faint scratches on her cheek and wondered again where she had got them.

  She stirred in her sleep at his touch and then opened her eyes and looked straight up at him. She stretched like a cat and murmured something and then wound her arms round his neck.

  Her slim body seemed to throb and pulsate against him, and the marquess’s last coherent thought before he was carried away on a tide of passion was, “Dammit, she might at least have blushed.”

  It was Margery’s turn to awaken first. The sun was high in the sky and her lord was asleep. She propped herself up on one elbow and gazed at him tenderly. He loved her after all!

  She looked lazily around the room and judged that the other door must lead to her own dressing room. Stiff and sore, she climbed down from the bed and made her way on trembling legs across the floor. She looked back at the sleeping marquess and had a sudden longing to climb back into that large, beautiful bed and fall asleep on his shoulder. But she was anxious to look her best for him when he awoke, so instead she moved into her dressing room, noting with amusement that it was as masculine as her lord’s, and rang for Battersby.

  Half an hour later, she tripped lightly down the stairs to find the Honorable Freddie helping himself liberally to breakfast.

  Freddie looked at her glowing face and the last of his doubts about Margery fled. “Morning!” he hailed cheerfully. “Been looking round your place and I must say I don’t blame you a bit for fighting hard to keep it. Would do the same thing meself.”

  “Oh, Freddie,” said Margery mistily, “you are a very generous young man.”

  “Ain’t I just,” grinned Freddie, “and Toby and Perry send their regards too.”

  Both ate their breakfast in companionable silence and then Margery volunteered to show Freddie the grounds.

  “This is just like old times,” said Freddie enthusiastically. “You’re the only female I ever met who didn’t make me feel awkward. Wish you happy, Margery.”

  “I am happy,” cried Margery. She stood on tiptoe to give him a sisterly kiss on the cheek. At the same time, Freddie turned his head in surprise and received the kiss full on his mouth.

  “Oh, Freddie! How fast you must think me!” cried Margery.

  “Don’t think of it,” said Freddie cheerfully, tucking her hand in his arm. “Supposed to kiss the bride anyway, you know.”

  The marquess let the curtain drop. He had been fooled like a regular greenhorn. She had walked straight from his arms into Freddie’s. No need to call Freddie out. That passionate kiss had been entirely Margery’s idea.

  Then if she wanted marriage à la mode she should have it. Two could play at that game. He pulled savagely at the bell rope and gave his surprised valet orders
to pack.

  Margery and Freddie turned at the end of the long drive and made their way leisurely back to the house. The tall Tudor chimneys of Chelmswood rose above the trees, which whispered in the lightest of summer breezes. There was no worry or care left in the world for Margery.

  Then she and Freddie drew back hurriedly to the side of the drive as a traveling carriage pulled by four matched bays came hurtling down the drive towards them. As it swept past, they were afforded a fleeting glimpse of the Marquess of Edgecombe’s excellent profile.

  Margery looked at her companion in dismay. “Why didn’t he stop, Freddie? Where can he be going?”

  “Must be something up with his father,” said Freddie anxiously.

  They hurried towards the house. Chuffley was waiting for them with an unreadable expression on his face. He mutely held out a small silver tray bearing a long letter. With trembling fingers, Margery tore it open.

  Its message was brief.

  “Madam,” the marquess had written. “Since you have obviously gained what you wanted from this marriage and your wants do not include me, I trust you will enjoy your first love—your home—and your second loves, of which you obviously have many.

  “I am determined, however, that we present a respectable front to the ton. I shall expect you to join me at my town house for the start of the Little Season.”

  It was coldly signed “Edgecombe.”

  Margery stood reading it over and over again. What had made him so angry? What had she done?

  She suddenly recalled her passionate love-making of the night before and felt ready to sink with shame. What had seemed so natural and so beautiful to her must have seemed an everyday occurrence to such an experienced man. Her inexperienced lovemaking must have seemed gauche and tepid.

  Her eyes filled with angry tears. What else did he expect from an inexperienced girl? He had not given her a chance to prove her love. The cold letter was like a slap in the face. Never again should he make her tremble with passion. There was no real world outside the covers of a three-volume romance. Love in reality was a charade and marriage a sham.

  She and her father were indeed a sorry pair, both tied to heartless fribbles.

  She would join him for the Little Season, and, with the help of Battersby’s genius, she would prove to the sneering, heartless aristocrat who was her husband that there were at least other men who would appreciate her.

  The crisp autumn leaves crackled under the curricle wheels as the marquess edged his way through the fashionable press.

  It was the fashionable hour in the park when everyone turned out to see or be seen.

  “Thought you’d given up all this nonsense,” said Toby from his perch beside the marquess. “What are we doing here, anyway?”

  “Shopping,” said the marquess briefly, his eyes raking over the crowd.

  Toby opened his mouth in surprise and then closed it again. He didn’t understand his friend one bit. Charles had been deuced odd since his wedding. Never mentioned Margery, and received all congratulations on his marriage as if they were insults.

  He came out of his reverie to notice that the marquess had reined in beside a smart-looking landau. The occupant was equally dashing and was smiling up at the marquess in an intimate way that made Toby sigh with envy.

  “Mrs. Harrison, I believe,” said the marquess, bowing low.

  The lady let out a little trill of laughter and opened her pretty little mouth. “La! Ain’t you the bold one, my lord,” she fluttered, “and us not even introduced.”

  Toby winced at the vulgar whine of her voice and waited for his friend to give her one of his famous set-downs.

  To his horror the marquess said, “Your beauty, madam, is sufficient introduction. But if I have offended you…”

  “Aw, no,” grinned Mrs. Harrison.

  “Then perhaps you will do me the inestimable honor of furnishing me with your direction so that I may… er… call on you.”

  “I should be delighted,” said Mrs. Harrison, giving him an address in Half Moon Street.

  “This evening, perhaps?” queried the marquess.

  “This evening,” confirmed the lady with a languishing flutter of her eyelashes.

  “This evening… late?”

  “I keep late hours, my lord,” said Mrs. Harrison with a genteel simper, awful to behold.

  “I look forward to the delightful charms of your… er… company,” said the marquess in a caressing voice that teetered on the edge of insult.

  He bowed and the landau moved off.

  “Not a word, Toby,” said the marquess savagely. “Not a single word!”

  When he arrived back at his town house, he was informed of Lady Margery’s arrival from the country.

  The marquess’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Pray be good enough to convey my respects to my lady,” he told the servant, “and tell her that I wish to see her immediately. I shall be in the library.”

  The marquess strode into that room and looked around him with distaste. Works of various authors, bought by the yard by his father, lined the walls. His own books lay scattered on occasional tables and in piles on the floor. A long low table covered with magazines and newspapers crouched before the empty fireplace surrounded by massive carved chairs. Like elsewhere in the house, there was no evidence of a feminine touch, and the Marquess felt irrationally that Margery should have done something about it, not pausing to consider that she could hardly be expected to move the furniture around on the day of her arrival.

  The door opened and Margery came in, hesitating on the threshold and giving him an inquiring glance. She was wearing a morning dress of heavy green crepe, slim and high waisted, falling to three deep flounces. Her sandy hair was elaborately dressed and gleamed with highlights in the pale autumn sunshine. The marquess felt angrily that she had no right to look so well.

  For her part, Margery thought her husband looked distractingly handsome and she gave a little sigh of resignation. How could she have expected anyone so devastating to fall in love with little Margery Quennell?

  “Sit down, madam,” said the marquess, waving his hand towards one of the repellent chairs.

  “Oh, call me Margery,” said that young lady with a flash of spirit. “I am well aware that you are in a bad temper about something. Perhaps you would now care to tell me what that something is?”

  The marquess looked at her from under hooded lids. He had not expected such a direct question. How could one possibly tell one’s wife that one had doubts about her morals?

  “I have realized that it was a mistake to get married,” he said cruelly. “I am too used to my bachelor freedom. But I will afford you the same freedom, my lady, provided you are discreet.”

  Margery flushed with annoyance. “Very well, my lord. Have you anything further to say?”

  The marquess put up his quizzing glass and surveyed his wife. She stared back at him, resting her pointed chin on her hand.

  “We shall, of course, appear at various functions together,” he said coldly, letting the glass fall. “I would not have it broadcast to the world I had made a mistake.”

  “Have you plans for this evening?” asked Margery, equally coldly.

  “I shall be privately engaged,” he said, crossing to the window and staring out into the street, with his hand holding the curtain.

  “I see,” said Margery, staring at his profile while a cold anger slowly took possession of her.

  There was a long silence. Outside in the street, a group of strolling acrobats were twisting and tumbling to the squeaky music of a fiddle. One of them saw the marquess watching from the window and executed several handsprings, ending in a low bow. The marquess dropped the curtain and turned back towards the room.

  But his wife had gone.

  He felt as if he had just lost some battle. Why should he spend the night sampling Mrs. Harrison’s doubtful charms if his wife were to know nothing about it? He came to a sudden decision. He would be seen in public wit
h Mrs. Harrison. Not among the haut ton but somewhere guaranteed to send a little ripple of discreet gossip running across London in Margery’s direction.

  Margery sat upstairs in her boudoir. She was too angry for tears. She wanted revenge. She wanted the marquess to know that she, Margery, was quite capable of enjoying as much bachelor freedom as her husband. She scribbled a note, folded it into a cocked hat, and sent a servant off in search of Mr. Freddie Jamieson.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The walks and boxes of Vauxhall pleasure gardens were crowded to capacity as Margery and Freddie strolled amicably along. They had just attended a stirring performance of “The Battle of Borodino” by Mrs. Salmon under the gilded cockleshell in the center of the gardens and were returning to their box to join Lady Amelia.

  “This was such a good idea, Freddie,” sighed Margery. “I should have felt so alone otherwise.”

  Freddie bit his lip. He was once again enjoying the novelty of squiring a lady but he had no wish to see the Marquess of Edgecombe’s face blazing at him from behind a yard of cold steel.

  “Charles all right?” he ventured. “I mean to say, newly married and all that. I mean to say, shouldn’t you… er… Shouldn’t he…” He thrust the knob of his cane in his mouth like a stopper and let his eyebrows, which were wiggling up to his hairline, ask the questions for him.

  “It is a modern marriage, you see,” said Margery with a lightness she did not feel. “Charles does not concern himself with what I do.”

  Lady Amelia was waiting for them in their box. She had been joined by Toby Sanderson and an equally large man who bore a marked resemblance to Toby.

  Toby introduced his elder brother, Archie, Lord Brenton, who gave Margery a stiff bow and a very hard stare from the family hallmark of bulging green eyes.