The Missing Marchioness. Paula Marshall

Marcus protested. ‘You didn’t even pretend to consider it—which is not the proper way to refuse a business proposition.’

      ‘I never pretend, sir,’ and oh, dear what a lie that was, since her whole life, and even her name, was a pretence. ‘You have had my answer. Pray allow Jessie to escort you to the door.’

      ‘Without even the offer of a cup of coffee,’ he said sadly. ‘That’s no way to treat a guest, madame.’

      ‘You are not my guest,’ she flashed back at him. ‘You come here uninvited, force your way in—’

      ‘True,’ he said, still sad. ‘But how else may I speak with you, tell me that?’

      His smile was so wicked, his eyes mocked at her so gently, that Louise felt as though she had begun to melt internally. She had never experienced such a sensation before. No, he was not handsome, but he was better than that—he must be to have such an effect on her. She licked her lips, and saw his expression change when she did so—and wondered why.

      Louise was inexperienced in the arts of love because she had never been subjected to anything other than the acts of frustrated lust. She had no notion of what might attract or rouse a man. Marcus, watching her, was, to his surprise, sure that she was truly innocent, and that the signs of fear which she occasionally showed were genuine.

      He was suddenly ashamed. He had been teasing her after the fashion in which he teased Sophia and the Two Neds, but where that had been innocent and playful this could be construed as malicious. More so when he could see her quivering lip and her trembling hand.

      ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I should not be doing this, I did not mean to frighten you. I ought to go.’ And he began to turn away from her, to leave by the door by which the little maid had earlier left.

      He was going! She would be alone again. Fearful though she was, Louise found that she did not want that. Beyond the fear of him which Marcus had briefly seen lay something else.

      She was so lonely. All her life she had been alone. The only bright stars in it had been her guardian and later Athene Filmer and she had lost both of them. If he left her now, to whom would she speak this day? To the housekeeper, the little maid and later, perhaps, tradesmen, shop-girls, and barely them.

      ‘No,’ she said, the words almost wrenched from her, ‘don’t go. You…I…standing there you tower over me—pray sit down.’

      Now what had caused that, Marcus wondered? There was even the faintest hint of a smile on her face, a tremulous one. Was he seeing the first breach in her defensive wall?

      He said, as lightly as he could, ‘Oh, I am not so tall that I could be called a tower, but you are such a dear little thing that I can see I might appear to be if not a tower, a turret.’ And he pulled out a chair and sat opposite to her at table.

      Yes, he had provoked a proper, if rueful, smile by his last remark. Emboldened by it, he asked, rather after the manner of a small boy seeking a favour, ‘Would your kindness extend to offering me a cup of what smells like excellent coffee? I was so anxious to meet you again that I skipped breakfast.’

      Oh, he was impossible! How in the world had he managed to persuade her into not only allowing him to stay, but also to sit there, smiling, as though his proper place was in this room with her as though they had just risen from bed and were being Darby and Joan together.