Surrender To The Marquess. Louise Allen

indiscretion. ‘A little eccentricity in a lady is something to be indulged, is it not?’

      ‘It is?’ Eccentric dowagers were one thing, beautiful young widows were quite another.

      ‘Oh, most certainly. Lady Sarisa lends lustre to all the social and charitable occasions in the town and also amuses herself harmlessly by providing entertainment of a cultured and unexceptionable kind to ladies of all ages.’ He cleared his throat and lowered his voice even more. ‘We assist in keeping her ladyship’s two, shall we say, lives quite separate.’

      What the blazes her father the Marquess thought of this Lucian could not imagine. He had met the man, and his exquisite and alarming Marchioness, two years ago when they had come to England from India when Eldonstone inherited the title. The East India Company soldier and his exotic, half-Indian wife had caused a stir amongst the ton and there had been a son and daughter, he recalled now, but he had not met them because he had been called from London to his father’s deathbed and the remainder of that Season had passed without him.

      Lady Sarisa had inherited her mother’s looks, but her father’s blond hair and grey eyes, striking in contrast with the pale gold of her skin. For a moment he speculated that her marriage had caused a rift in the family, but if it had, she had not been cut off without a penny, because that gown and those gems had not been bought on a shopkeeper’s earnings.

      The small string orchestra struck up with a flourish and couples began to come on to the floor to form the first set. Lady Sarisa was led out by someone else he recognised, the gangling local librarian.

      ‘I would beg the favour of an introduction to the lady when this set is completed, Mr Flyte.’

      ‘Of course, sir. I would be only too happy to oblige.’

      Lucian might be incognito, but he knew that Flyte had discreetly assessed his tailoring, his accent and his manner and clearly decided that he was suitable to make the acquaintance of Sandbay’s grandest resident.

      Lucian was wryly amused at his own reaction to that valuation. He had thought that somehow he kept his own self-esteem separate from his sense of what was due to his rank and position, but it seemed that his father’s constant reminders of what was due to—and from—a marquess had made a deeper impression than he had thought. This was the first time that he had ever found himself in society as a plain gentleman and it was a mild shock to find how much he would have been put out to have been ignored.

      He took himself off to the card room, reluctant to let Lady Sara see him standing waiting on her, watching her. If she wanted to play games, he was not going to join in, at least, not too obviously. But how to approach her now? Flirtation would be acceptable, he was certain, but anything else was another matter. This was not some dashing widow on the fringes of society.

      * * *

      When the set finally came to an end he was back in the ballroom, Mr Flyte at his side.

      ‘Lady Sarisa.’

      She turned at the sound of the Master of Ceremonies’ voice, the movement wafting her scent to Lucian’s nostrils. Definitely sandalwood, with an overtone of citrus, an undertone of pepper and a stimulating frisson of warm female skin, although that last might have been his fantasies at play.

      ‘Mr Flyte.’ The smile on her lips curved them into a seductive bow and her grey eyes seemed to pick up green glints from the emeralds at her ears and throat.

      ‘May I have the honour of presenting Mr Dunton of Hampshire to your ladyship as an eligible partner? Mr Dunton, Lady Sarisa Harcourt.’

      Lucian bowed, she curtsied. Mr Flyte retired beaming.

      ‘Lady Sarisa.’

      ‘My lord.’

      For a moment he thought he had misheard her, then he saw those grey eyes were alight with mischief. ‘Just who do you think I am, madam? I confess that you have me confused.’

      ‘I know exactly who you are. The Marquess of Cannock. Do you intend to ask me to dance, my lord? I am unengaged for the next set.’

      ‘I would be delighted,’ he said grimly, offering his hand as the musicians signalled the start. ‘We need to talk, Lady Sarisa, but not here.’

      ‘No, indeed. I will show you our seafront terrace after this set. It is delightful on such a warm evening as this.’

      ‘I am sure it is.’ Lucian made himself concentrate on the dance, a complex country measure that kept him busy negotiating the steps and gave little opportunity for speculation on the games eccentric young ladies might play on moonlit terraces.

      ‘There is no reason we may not converse about general matters,’ Lady Sarisa remarked as the convolutions of the dance brought them together for a moment. ‘Unless you are a nervous dancer, of course, in which case I will observe strict silence. You only have to give me a hint. Do you intend a long stay in Sandbay, Mr Dunton?’

      ‘My nerves will withstand a little conversation, I believe. I had planned on a stay of a few weeks, Mrs Harcourt.’

      She chuckled softly as the measure separated them and he remembered with a jolt that this was not some game between the two of them, but something much more serious. She knew he was keeping his sister from society, that there was something very wrong and he had no idea at all whether he could trust her discretion. Who did she know and, more importantly, who might she gossip to? If he had any hope of saving Marguerite’s reputation then she must make her come-out next Season in good health and spirits without a whisper of suspicion that anything had gone amiss. Even then, it was going to be hard enough finding a suitor willing to overlook what had happened if it ever came to a proposal of marriage.

      But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, there was this woman to deal with. This infuriating, teasing, beautiful woman.

      By the time the set had finished Lucian was quite ready to scoop up Lady Sarisa and dangle her over the waves if that was what it took to ensure her promise of silence. Somehow he managed to wait until they were off the dance floor and to make his words a suggestion, not a demand. ‘Madam. Would you care to take the air?’

      ‘That would be delightful. The terrace is this way.’

      The Assembly Rooms building stood at one end of the promenade with its back to the sea at the point where the sweep of sand tapered into the beginning of low cliffs. At high water, which was the present state of the tide, the waves broke against the foot of the sea wall along which the terrace had been built. In a high wind they would have been drenched. As it was, with only the lightest breeze, and the moonlight enhancing the glimmer of lanterns set along the balustrade, it was a welcome escape from the heat and noise of the ballroom.

      Lucian scanned the terrace along which at least half-a-dozen couples were strolling. ‘We are adequately chaperoned, I see.’

      ‘We will be alone soon enough, but I am not quite so careless of my reputation as to come out here when it is deserted to begin with, my... Mr Dunton.’

      ‘If your reputation can survive spending half your time as a shopkeeper, Lady Sarisa, I would suggest it could stand most things.’

      ‘Sara, please. Anywhere else it would not, of course, but Sandbay is not the resort of the ton, nor even the smarter set. One day soon it will begin to come into fashion and then I will have to become respectable all of the time or leave.’ She lifted her hand from his arm and strolled to the balustrade.

      Lucian felt as though he had stepped away from a warm hearth. ‘You do not fear that irreparable damage has already been done by your masquerade as a shopkeeper?’

      Lady Sara turned in a swirl of skirts and leaned back, both her elbows on the stonework. The amber silk settled into soft folds that hinted at the slender limbs and feminine curves beneath. He kept his eyes on her face with an effort that he feared was visible.

      ‘It is not a masquerade. I am a shopkeeper, just not all of the time.’ She sighed. ‘I see I was right about you, Mr Dunton—you are one of