The Dutiful Rake (8 page)

‘My lord—’

‘Marc,’ he corrected her softly.

‘I
cannot
accept!’ Her voice wobbled. ‘You…you are offering certainties in return for something I do not know if I can…’ She stopped, very embarrassed, but he had understood.

‘You do not know if you can have children? Is that it?’ Marcus smiled wryly. ‘My dear,
that
would be a problem no matter who I married. I can assure you I have no desire to be a stepfather just to ensure my wife is fertile.’

‘But…’

‘Marry me, Meg.’ His voice was low and persuasive.

She stared up at him. He meant it. He really did wish her to marry him. It would be a bargain between them. Suddenly she wondered what he had meant by discretion. She had to know before she answered.

‘What did you mean by
discretion?’

His amazement at the question showed in his dropped jaw and the faint flush on his cheekbones. What on earth had she said to startle him? Doggedly she faced him with the wide candid eyes of a child.

He drew a deep breath. ‘I do not offer love, Meg.
That is not part of our bargain. I neither offer it nor want it. If, however, after you have provided me with an heir, you decide that you require love, then you are free to seek it. I ask only your discretion.’ He looked at her soberly. ‘I am no saint, Meg, and neither am I a hypocrite.’

‘I…I see.’ And she did see. He was giving her a
carte blanche
to embark on an affair once she had fulfilled her duty. He was telling her that she need not fear to meet the same fate as her mother. That he would consider himself free to pursue his amusements and was prepared to offer her the same freedom. He was indeed offering a straightforward bargain. Bitterly she thought that she must be almost the only woman alive to whom he could have offered such a contract openly.

Yet his eyes were still gentle. He had intimated that he respected her.

In a voice she hardly knew was hers, she asked, ‘Why…why do you respect me?’

There was a pause and she looked up to find a considering look in his eyes. Then, holding her gaze with his, he said, ‘I like your courage, your determination…I like your pride. You were so determined to manage for yourself, to accept no charity despite your destitution. Those are qualities I admire, that I would like the mother of my children to possess.’

It was a good answer, she thought. He had judged her on her actions as he had seen them. He was wrong, of course, it was not pride or any of those other things, just a loathing of being the despised, poor relation. But nevertheless he liked the way she had behaved, did not resent the fact that she had disobeyed him. He was just. And, she reminded herself, he has offered a bargain. A bargain made between equals. No matter what she
might think of such a contract, it was still a contract in which she would be an equal partner. And, above all, he did not seem to expect her gratitude.

At last she heard herself say, ‘I accept your offer of marriage, my lord.’

She shut her eyes, feeling very dizzy. Surely this wasn’t happening. But it seemed that it was. She could feel his hands grip hers and draw her up to stand before him..

Trembling, she forced herself to look at him. He was very close, his tall frame towering over her. Meg was a tall girl, but she felt incredibly small and weak before him. He was looking down at her with a strange, intent glitter in his eyes.

‘Shall we seal our bargain, Meg?’ His voice was very soft, a velvet caress. He bent his head and touched his lips gently to hers in a featherlight kiss. She did not draw back, but stood unresisting as his mouth moved over hers tenderly. Fire seemed to ripple through her body as he released her hands, only to gather her in his arms and pull her into an engulfing embrace.

Meg was lost in a world of sensuous enchantment. His lips moving over hers evoked magic, darting fires of delight which urged her closer to his powerful body. Instinctively she nestled against him, joy exploding in her heart as she felt him pull her even closer, felt him deepen the intensity of the kiss. Here at last was someone who actually wanted her for whatever reason…someone who would care for her…She felt as though her heart would burst with happiness at the thought that here at last was someone she could care for…love…

She froze. He wasn’t offering love…didn’t even want it…love would not be part of their bargain. He had said
quite clearly that if she wanted love, she was free to seek it…elsewhere. The question hammered in her brain—What will happen to me if I fall in love with him?

In the last ten years Meg had not dared to love. She had come to Fenby House prepared to love Samuel and Euphemia Langley, but they had made it plain that they had taken her out of duty and expected her to be grateful. They had no use for her childish affection and had never tried to comfort her confused grief over her parents.

Indeed, on the one occasion when she had given way to tears in Cousin Euphemia’s presence, she had been told that her parents were a disgrace, her mother especially so, and that she must learn to control herself if she did not wish to grow up the same way. And when she had brought a posy of flowers for Euphemia on Mothering Sunday, they had been stigmatized as weeds and thrown on the fire. So she had retreated into a shell of seeming meekness…it was much safer than having your offered affection spurned. That hurt unbearably. Even with Agnes, who pitied her, she had tried to conceal her real thoughts and fears…until this morning.

Now Lord Rutherford, who by his own admission would have not the least use for her affection, threatened to force her out into contact with the world and its chill. It had been easy enough not to love Samuel and Euphemia. They had never shown her the least affection or kindness. Marc would be quite another matter. She shuddered at the thought.

Marcus released her at once, raising his head and sliding his hands down her arms to hold her hands again. He looked deep into her eyes and she dropped her gaze
at once, veiling the sudden fear. ‘Meg?’ His voice was a little unsteady. ‘Meg, am I frightening you?’

Meg stared up at him. He mustn’t know what she feared! But she couldn’t let him think that his embrace frightened her. It was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. And if he thought she feared him, he would hold off from her. Of that she was certain. She found her voice. ‘You? Frighten me? Oh, no!’

His concerned eyes searched hers. ‘You’re sure, Meg? I’m not frightening you…’ he hesitated slightly ‘…physically?’

She shook her head, shaken by his concern, his consideration, his sensitivity. Her heart lurched in fear. If his lovemaking was difficult to withstand, how would she survive his tenderness?

He was pulling her back into his arms, resting his cheek on her hair and murmuring. Her already-besieged heart shuddered at the words he spoke. ‘I swear to you, Meg, you will be safe with me. Always. Nothing will hurt you now.’

Except you, thought Meg in despair. She did not see how her heart’s defences could possibly hold out against his unwitting assault on it. She didn’t want to love anyone! And if she did fall in love with him, how would she bear knowing that he did not love her in return, did not wish her to love him? That he expected her to seek love elsewhere…as he would.

In bed that night Marcus worried about her response to his kiss. He had been very restrained with her, shackling his urge to deepen the kiss, fully taste and explore the sweetness of her mouth. Her body had trembled in his arms, whether in fear or pleasure he was not sure. Then she had pressed closer, her arms coming up to
wind themselves around his neck. His arms had tightened as desire flared through him, and was ruthlessly held in check. Had he alarmed her in some way? He couldn’t bear it if he had. He wanted her to feel safe with him, protected.

Something had scared her, he was sure of it. Yet her fingers had clung to his and her mouth was so soft, trembling from his kisses. He’d swear she’d wanted more. He thumped his pillow in frustration. He wanted her. But he didn’t want her to submit to him out of duty.

What he did want was beginning to scare
him.

So much so that he forced himself to think about his family’s likely reaction to this unlikely match. Sheer, unmitigated outrage at first, he’d be willing to bet. Especially his Aunt Regina, Lady Grafton. He didn’t doubt that he could manage Di; but Aunt Regina was another matter entirely. She’d be quite capable of scaring Meg into crying off and seeking refuge in the workhouse.

He swore. Di was going to have his hide for this, but there was only one safe option—tell her too late for a family deputation to descend upon him. Which meant he’d have to forgo having Jack as his groomsman. It would be the outside of enough to write and ask Jack to come and not tell Di. She was going to be hurt anyway; there was no need to make it worse for her.

F
our weeks later Marcus St John Evelyn Langley, Eighth Earl of Rutherford stood before the Vicar of the parish, listening to the Reverend Andrew Parker marry him to Miss Marguerite Fellowes. The bride, after her four weeks’ recuperation in the care of Agnes Barlow under the Vicarage roof, looked to be well on the road to recovery. She had lost the dark shadows under her eyes, her brown hair was alive with golden lights and a flush of delicate colour glowed in her cheeks.

Marcus, after securing Meg’s agreement to marry him, had ridden into the village to find the Vicar and arrange to have the banns called as fast as possible. He considered applying to the Bishop of York for a special licence, but on consideration thought that, since Meg needed time to recover from her illness and get used to the idea of becoming a countess anyway, he might just as well have the banns called. Besides, he could think of no better way of flinging back Mrs Garsby’s insults in her teeth. To hear them called three Sundays in a row would tip her a settler she would not forget in a hurry. And a special licence would give credence to any tale that a hasty marriage was essential.

The Reverend Andrew Parker, a mild scholarly widower in his late fifties, had been extremely upset at the story Marcus laid before him and had immediately offered to house Meg until the wedding if Agnes Barlow would act as her chaperon.

‘I should have taken her in at once if my wife were still alive,’ he explained apologetically. He was conscious of a most unchristian desire to give Mrs Garsby one in the eye and was positively looking forward to calling the banns the following Sunday. A sermon too…Surely he could find a suitable text or two that would give Mrs Garsby pause…that old testament story of Susannah and the Elders might serve his turn…and what about ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone…’ No, probably not. Madam Garsby was so convinced of her own moral superiority that it would have no effect whatsoever; besides, he didn’t want to suggest that Meg and Lord Rutherford were guilty as charged. The good Samaritan would do very nicely instead.

Once Meg was safely established at the Vicarage, Marcus flung himself into action to provide everything he thought his bride ought to have. A two-day visit to York enabled him to discover a surprisingly skilled modiste. By dint of laying down a positively shocking sum of money and promising to support Madame Heloise in every possible way in her projected move to the capital, he had succeeded in persuading her to make the journey out to Fenby in two post chaises to fit Meg for her wedding gown and trousseau. The second chaise was piled high with bolts of cloth and several awed assistants. Madame Heloise, after dismissing her first conviction that his lordship was escaped from Bedlam, had decided that lunatic or not, he was possessed of enough
of the ready to make any effort expended on behalf of his bride well worth her while.

Indeed, after making Meg’s acquaintance and finding out through the inevitable village channels the true circumstances of her betrothal, Madame Heloise was much inclined to regard his lordship as being straight from the pages of one of Mrs Radcliffe’s romances and one whom she was more than happy to oblige.

Mademoiselle Meg, she quickly realised, was a young lady who, with a little confidence and inspired dressing, would blossom into a beauty. And not just in the common way. Her tall, slender grace, waving dark hair and blue-grey eyes with their expression of wistful abstraction would admirably become the prevailing classical modes. The raised waists and straight skirts would set off her lissom charms to perfection.

Besides, Madame Heloise liked Mademoiselle Meg. Liked her so much that in their second session, as she made some minor adjustments to the silken ivory sheath in which Meg was to be married, she dropped her French accent and told Meg, through a mouthful of pins, to, ‘stop the Madame Heloise rubbish…’ and just call her ‘plain Louisa’ since that was what her parents had christened her anyway!

Meg had stared at her in stunned amazement and then burst into a delighted peal of laughter, in which Louisa Thwaites had joined wholeheartedly. She had explained with a grin that every shopkeeper in York knew she was no more French than a bannock, but it would never do for her exalted clients to guess as much! By which admission Meg, who was rapidly gaining the aforementioned confidence, adjudged she was one of a favoured few.

Those four weeks wrought a miraculous change in
Meg. For ten years she had not known what it was to be consulted as to her wishes, deferred to and considered in every possible way. Now she was left in no possible doubt that even if her betrothed did not love her, he wished her to be happy and fully intended to look after her.

He even spent quite a lot of time with her while she stayed at the vicarage. He tooled her about the countryside in his curricle, remained to dine with her and never gave the slightest hint that she was not precisely what he had intended his bride to be. The only thing that bothered her was that he had never kissed her again after she had accepted his offer of marriage. The memory kept her awake at nights as she wondered if she had done something wrong, if his lordship had not liked kissing her. Then she reminded herself that he did not offer love and perhaps preferred to kiss her only when absolutely required to. She would do better not to dwell on the magical touch of his lips…

Instead she concentrated on his politeness, his charm of manner and his unfailing kindness to her. He seemed to take pains in remembering her likes and dislikes. She remembered clearly the first afternoon he had come to visit her and had suggested she might ring for a pot of tea…

‘How do you like it, Meg?’ he had asked, preparing to pour her a cup and calmly ignoring the convention dictating that she should pour for him.

Flushing deeply, she had admitted that Cousin Samuel had forbidden her to drink tea, on the grounds that it was far too expensive and he did not wish her to develop extravagant tastes.

Marcus had informed her that he would take it as a personal insult if his bride lost any time in acquiring as
many extravagant tastes as possible! He had then enlarged her vocabulary with a pithy and unflattering series of remarks on the subject of their mutual relative as he poured her a cup of tea, reducing her to helpless giggles, and the very next time he had come to take her driving he had brought her a gift.

Elegantly wrapped, he had dropped it on her knees after lifting her up into his curricle to go for a drive. She stared at it in disbelief…a present…a real present.

She opened it with hands that shook as he got up beside her and set the horses in motion. It was a tea caddy, full to the brim with fragrant tea. A dainty, leaf-shaped silver caddy spoon sat on top of the tea and eight silver teaspoons were revealed when Marcus showed her the cunningly hidden drawer at the bottom. And she had found herself unable to speak, with silent tears pouring down her cheeks.

Since she had come to Fenby no one had ever given her any sort of present at all, let alone one that showed such attention to detail, that tried in an odd way to make up for everything that had been lacking in her life. True, Marcus was providing all those lovely clothes, but no doubt they were just what he felt his countess ought to have. This—this was somehow different. This was for Meg—not the Countess-to-be.

Her silence had totally unnerved Marcus. Never in his life had he bought such an unromantic present for any woman, but it had felt so right when he thought of it. At first he had just intended the caddy full of tea, but the box had that little drawer for the spoons…so he had dashed off to a silversmith…and then he had seen the caddy spoon…and all the time his heart aching to think that she had been treated as though she were one of the servants. Worse. At least they had been paid.

He concentrated on his team, not daring to ask if she liked it, until an odd sound caught his attention: a sniff, an unmistakable sniff. He steadied his horses and looked down at her…there were tears on her cheeks and she was clutching the caddy to her as though it were the most precious thing in the world. A tea caddy for God’s sake! Apparently he
had
got it right, absolutely right. He shook his head slightly in amazement. Obviously he had yet a few things to learn about women.

As for Meg, she was torn between fear at the unwitting assault his kindness made on her heart, and joy at having someone to treat her as though she mattered. It was just kindness she told herself, nothing else…he doesn’t care about you. Why should he? He scarcely knows you. But the mere fact that he was kind, despite his air of coldness, despite not caring for her, only tore at her all the more.

So Meg went down the nave of the village church on the arm of Dr Ellerbeck to be given into the keeping of Marcus St John Evelyn Langley in a very strange mixture of trepidation and joy.

Marcus, looking at the results of Madame Heloise’s labours, had no complaints. She looked lovely, radiant. He watched her proudly as she came to him down the aisle. His bride. He vowed silently that he would be a good husband, that he would make up to Meg for the barren years she had endured.

Often cynical at weddings, no trace of cyncism tainted his response as the Vicar declared them man and wife. She was his. The fierce surge of possessiveness stunned him. Forcing back a wave of desire, he turned to her, smiling tenderly as he bent his head to feather a
gentle kiss over her soft lips. For a spine-tingling instant he felt them tremble under his, parting slightly.

Again, desire seared through him and he drew back at once to offer her his arm and escort her to the vestry to sign the register. His body blazed with his awareness of her and this was definitely not the place to succumb to his inclinations. He was still haunted by the suspicion that he had frightened Meg in some way. Despite her denial, he was sure that he had upset her. And he was not entirely sure that he would be able to control his passions another time. She was so soft and sweet that he was actually looking forward to his wedding night and he did not want his bride to be in a frenzy of nerves beforehand just because he couldn’t control himself. He certainly didn’t want to give her a foretaste of the intimacies of the marriage bed in church.

Meg signed the enormous old register with a trembling hand. Even that brief kiss in front of the small congregation had wholly overset her intention to maintain the sort of detachment his lordship desired. She had not been able to stop herself leaning into his kiss, had actually started to kiss him back…and he had immediately withdrawn. Taking a deep breath, she turned to her husband, holding out the quill.

He took it with a slight smile and his fingers brushed hers gently as he said quietly, ‘The Countess of Rutherford need fear no one. Especially not her husband.’

The velvety darkness of his voice held a world of reassurance and her eyes flew to his in consternation. Was that it? Did he still think she feared him? That she feared what he would do to her in the marriage bed? Agnes had told her last night, very gruffly, what his lordship would expect, would do. It sounded most un-
comfortable, but Agnes seemed to think that he would not mind kissing her while he was doing it. In that case Meg was inclined to think she might be able to manage…that it might be rather nice to feel his body against hers…She just hoped that he wouldn’t be bored and disgusted by her total lack of knowledge.

She gave him the pen and said very shyly, ‘The Earl of Rutherford is very kind and he is the last person the Countess would ever fear.’ She looked up into his suddenly arrested eyes. They seemed to bore into her with a burning question. She flushed, but held his gaze with her own. He must not think she feared him!

Marcus felt a strange surge of triumph mingled with tenderness as her eyes answered his unspoken question. Whatever it was that had scared her, it was not him! He signed his name with a flourish and stood back to allow the Barlows to sign.

After the Barlows had signed in witness to the marriage, Marcus escorted Meg back through the nave slowly, pleased to note that the little church had quite a respectable number of witnesses to his marriage. The Barlows, of course, but quite a number of his tenants had turned out in their Sunday best, several of them clutching bunches of primroses or violets and wind flowers. These were bestowed on Meg as they left the church, pressed into her trembling, gloved hands with smiles and muttered wishes for her happiness.

Meg felt thoroughly dazed as she changed in her bedchamber at the vicarage. And not just from the unexpected flowers. His lordship—no, she must try and think of him as Marc…he wished it—Marc was confusing her completely and there was no time to think. She had to change so that they could leave for town immediately. She had no idea why Marc was so determined to go at
once, but she was only too happy to shake the dust of Fenby from her feet. It had held little but misery for her. So she changed into a carriage dress of deep blue with a matching bonnet as quickly as possible.

Agnes Barlow bustled about her, twitching her sleeves into position, handing her the York tan gloves and shaking out the white lace collar to frame her face.

‘Now you look after yourself, Miss Meg…my lady…or rather let his lordship look after you!’ The faded eyes were full of tears. ‘There now, I’m crying! An’ there’s nothing to cry about…’ Her tears flowed all the faster at being hugged by the new countess and soundly kissed on her withered old cheek.

‘Goodbye, Agnes.’ Meg too had tears in her eyes and her voice wobbled. ‘I’ll…I’ll write and his lordship says he will need to come back later in the year, so perhaps I can come with him and see you…’

‘Go on with you!’ said Agnes gruffly, trying not to sound pleased. ‘My Lady Rutherford to be traipsin’ all the way to Yorkshire! Just to see an old woman like me!’ She smiled through her tears. ‘Not but what I dare say you might come to keep his lordship company!’

Ten minutes later Meg was settled alone in a post chaise, gazing out the window at the scenery flashing by. Marc was driving his own curricle. She felt a little sorry that he did not wish to be sitting beside her, but she couldn’t blame him. It was a lovely day, too good to spend in a chaise. She could hear the sky larks soaring in ecstatic song over the moors and could smell the vanilla scented gorse. Perhaps when they stopped she could ask…perhaps he wouldn’t mind if…