Surrender To The Marquess. Louise Allen

not showing that.

      She settled herself at the table, took the sketchbook and a pencil from the basket and began to draw the scene from the window, concentrating on a rapid and amusing vignette of two ladies who had stopped to chat by the flagpole. One was large, the other thin, and both had ridiculously small lapdogs on ribbon leashes. When the door opened Sara stood up and dropped the book quite casually, face-up, on the table.

      The young woman who came into the room with Mr Dunton at her back was obviously his sister, with the same brown hair and hazel eyes, but a straighter nose and less firmness to her chin. She was also very obviously young, had been unwell and was in a state of the sulks.

      ‘Marg—Mrs Harcourt, might I present my sister, Marguerite.’ Mr Dunton frowned at his own stumble and the girl sent him a sharp glance. ‘Marguerite, this is Mrs Harcourt whose shop I passed today. She has kindly brought down some things that might interest you.’

      Miss Dunton bobbed the sketchiest of curtsies and sat on the other side of the small round table set in the window bay.

      How very interesting. Dunton had begun to present her to his sister, which was correct if the girl was of higher rank. Then he had caught himself and presented the girl to her, the older, married woman. Which meant two things. Firstly he was treating her like a lady, not a shopkeeper, and secondly he and his sister actually ranked above a respectable married lady, even though he did not know to whom she had been married.

      If you are not in possession of a title, my fine gentleman, I will eat my expensive new bonnet, feathers and all.

      So what was he doing in Sandbay and what was wrong with his sister?

      Sara summoned up her professional smile and a brisk but friendly tone of voice. ‘Good morning, Miss Dunton. My shop provides everything in the way of rational entertainment for ladies.’ That was met with a blank look so she tried for something more direct. ‘I stock everything from hammers to hit fossils out of rocks to nets to explore rock pools with.’

      Finally she had managed to produce a blink of reaction from the young woman. ‘Hammers?’

      ‘And art materials and plain wooden boxes and mirror frames and so forth to decorate with paint or shells or scrollwork. Fabrics and embroidery floss, knitting wool, water trays for making seaweed pictures, patterns...books, journals.’ She nodded towards the basket. ‘Perhaps you would like to take a look. Would you excuse me while I just finish my sketch of those two ladies outside, they make such an amusing picture.’

      Behind her chair she gestured with her hand towards the doorway, hoping Mr Dunton would take the hint. After a moment, when she picked up the pad and pencil again, she heard the door open and close and bent her head over the sketch. To have the man out of the room was like releasing a pent-up breath and letting air into her lungs. He seemed to inhabit all the space, even when she could not see him.

      Sara steadied her breathing and her pencil. She was not here for Mr Dunton’s sake.

       Chapter Two

      From the corner of her eye Sara saw Marguerite hesitate, then begin to explore the basket. ‘Why would you want to hit rocks?’ She uncorked a bottle of little shells and let them run out into her palm. ‘And what is a fossil?’

      Sara sketched and explained about fossils, then mentioned, very casually, how liberating it was to scramble about at the foot of the cliffs, hitting things hard. ‘I really do not think that young ladies have the opportunity to hit things enough, do you?’

      ‘I often want to.’ Marguerite picked up the hammer and weighed it in her hand as though visualising a target. Despite her apparent fragility she managed it with little effort. ‘Aren’t rock pools full of slimy things?’

      ‘They are full of beautiful things, some of which are a trifle slimy. But the pleasure of taking off your shoes and stockings and paddling far outweighs the occasional slithery sensation.’

      ‘No stockings? In public?’ Finally, some animation.

      ‘On the beach only, of course. There, what do you think?’ She tipped the sketch up for Marguerite to see.

      ‘Oh, that is so amusing! The large lady with the little dog and the thin lady with the fat pug. How clever you are. I could never do anything like that.’

      ‘It really isn’t very good technically—I only sketch for my own amusement and rarely show anyone.’

      ‘I don’t know what I want to do.’ The girl’s shoulders slumped again, the moment of animation gone. It wasn’t boredom or petulance, more as though she was gazing at blankness, Sara thought. This went deeper than a lowness of spirits after the influenza or a fit of the sullens at being dragged off to the seaside by her brother. ‘I can’t draw as well as you. I do not like embroidery...’

      ‘Neither do I. Did your governess insist on you sewing tiresome samplers?’ Marguerite nodded, so, encouraged, Sara pressed on. ‘I hold afternoon teas at my shop where ladies bring their craft work or their writing and chat and plan new projects and eat wickedly rich cake. There is no need to socialise if you don’t want to—some ladies just read or browse.’

      ‘I suppose they gossip about their beaux.’ The pretty mouth set into a thin line.

      ‘Not at all.’ Interesting. Has she been disappointed in love, perhaps? ‘We do not meet to talk about men, but about what amuses us. And men, so often, are not at all amusing, are they?’

      ‘No. Not at all.’ Marguerite glanced towards the door, then stooped to rummage in the basket again and came up with a pamphlet. ‘What is this?’

      ‘How to make seaweed pictures. It is rather fun, only very messy and wet. I am holding a tea this afternoon at three, if you would like to come. It is six pence for refreshments and there is no obligation to buy anything.’

      ‘What did Lucian tell you about me?’ Marguerite asked suddenly.

      There are going to be tears in a moment, poor child. Whatever is wrong? Don’t lie to her—she will know. She isn’t stupid.

      ‘That you hadn’t been well, that you were here for your health, but were very bored, and he hoped I might have something that would entertain you. Do you wish you were back in London? If that is where you live?’

      ‘No... Yes, that is where our town house is, where my brother lives. I wish I were in France.’ The hazel eyes with their lids that seemed swollen from crying gazed out southwards over the sea. ‘I wish I was dead,’ Marguerite whispered so softly that Sara realised she could pretend she hadn’t heard that heart-rending murmur. What on earth could she reply that wasn’t simply a string of ill-informed platitudes?

      ‘I have never been to France. I was brought up in India.’

      ‘Is that why your skin is so golden? Oh, I do beg your pardon, it was rude of me to make a personal observation like that. Only you are so very striking.’

      ‘Not at all. I am one-quarter Indian on my mother’s side. Her mother was a Rajput princess.’

      That sent the threat of tears into full retreat. ‘A princess? And you own a shop?’

      ‘Because it amuses me. When my husband died I wanted to do something practical for a while, to get right away from everything that had been my life before. I found it helped.’ A little. It even keeps the nightmares at bay for most of the time.

      That would probably all get back to Mr Dunton, or whatever his name was, but her real identity was no secret in Sandbay. It would certainly serve to confuse the man, what with his assumptions about widows. Would he still flirt with a part-Indian descendant of royalty?

      She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘I must go now. Shall I look for you this afternoon?’ Sara kept the question indifferent, as though she did not much mind one way or another. This girl was being pushed to do things for her own good and