The Disdainful Marquis (15 page)

It hurt her, she groaned, realizing suddenly the thinness of her dancing slippers, more than it hurt him. In fact, through her fury and the pain of her smarting toes, she saw him throw back his head and heard him roar with laughter.

“Oh, Lord,” he laughed, his handsome face free of his usual cold expression, looking young as a boy's. “You don't kick a man who's just taken advantage of you, Miss Robins, not in the duchess's exalted set. It's just not done. In the first place, it doesn't hurt your attacker enough, and in the second, it's most unheard of. You take your hand, child,” he said, taking her trembling hand in his, “and you put your fingers together and swing. You slap the fellow for all he's worth, if you want to make a point of purity.

“If you do not,” he said, drawing her closer again, “you make some token gesture, such as a weak verbal protest, or perhaps a gentle little kick.” He smiled. “And then, token protest being made and accepted, you submit gracefully to his and your own will.”

And after this astonishing speech, Catherine found herself being held and kissed once again. This time she did not tarry to taste strange new sensations. She pulled free and, taking his excellent advice, swung her hand across his face. He seemed as startled as she was by her action. The sound her slap made, she thought as she turned to look for an exit through a cloud of outrage, should have stopped all the dancers in their tracks, although no one turned or seemed to notice. She raced quietly through the crowd of people and made her way up the great stairs to her room. Once inside, she locked the door and sank onto her bed. Unconsciously, she slipped off her slippers and massaged her aching toes. But it was only her lips, still tingling, that she thought of.

“She tasted sweet enough,” the marquis smiled to Jenkins as they stood on the fringe of dance, “But I'm afraid she wasn't ripe for the picking, I forgot to discuss the going price for green girls this season. That seems to have been my major mistake.”

“It could be,” Jenkins said, “that she hasn't got a price, or leastways one that any in this room can pay.”

“And it could be that I've taken too much wine, out of boredom. And attempted, clumsily, a highly bred doxy, for the same reason. It's just as well, friend, that I didn't find myself entangled with her. For we do have to be up and out early this morning, don't we? There's no more to be got out of this pack of merrymakers. We'll have to be off to Paris tomorrow, now we've made our token stop here.”

“It seems,” Jenkins said, carefully and conspicuously staring at the faint red palm print that still lingered on the marquis' cheek, “that some fruit hangs too high out of reach, even for you. You seem, lad, to have got lashed by some branches.”

“But it happens,” the marquis laughed, rubbing his cheek, “that she was only following my explicit instructions.”

Chapter VIII

Catherine was furious with herself. She paced her room, for once gladdened that there was nothing to be done during the day in this great, rambling home the Sidneys entertained in. For she did not think she could bear to make polite converse and exchange idle pleasantries when she was so bedeviled by her own thoughts.

It had only been a kiss, she thought—there was no need for the incident to overset her so. But it had. And that was the fact with which she had to deal. She had, she told herself strictly, been kissed before, so there was little sense in making such a pother about it. In fact, she remembered, she had been kissed exactly three times before (she had kept careful track). Once, when she was just fifteen, and Fred McDermott had been seventeen. It had been a hasty little kiss, stolen while they were at a picnic. And had been memorable in that it had excited not her senses, but rather her pity, since Fred had been horrified by his impulsiveness and had spent the rest of that lovely summer Sunday apologizing to her and castigating himself.

When she was seventeen, Mrs. Fairchild's son-in-law, on a visit from Sussex, had taken too much port, surprised Catherine in the hallway of his mother-in-law's house, and delivered an overheated, messy salute upon her lips, along with a great deal of unpleasant fumbling, until she had broken away and run off. But then it had been a shameful incident, and Mrs. Fairchild herself, some months later, was overheard to confide to Jane that her daughter had not picked a “right 'un” and was suffering for it.

The third kiss had come when she was twenty and had gone walking out with Tom Hanley. Tom had been a pleasant-looking chap, an aspiring law clerk on vacation from London, visiting his aunt in Kendall. But that relationship had not gone beyond a few visits. For at their last meeting he had seemed preoccupied and solemn. And when he had left her, he had kissed her once—one brief chaste kiss—and then he had looked at her and sighed deeply. Within a month Catherine had heard of Tom's engagement to a young woman in London, daughter of one of the partners in his firm.

So, Catherine thought, it was not as though she was inexperienced. But nothing had prepared her for the embrace she had received last night. She could scarcely believe how overwhelmed she had been by the marquis' attentions. And she did not know how she could face him again, for surely he must have known how she felt. And if he did, she was sure that it would only reaffirm his belief in her immorality. And as for her kicking him! But in truth she had been outraged—she had never struck another being since her childhood. She had to do something, and, fool that she was, she had kicked a peer of the realm. And then slapped him. And that, she was sure, was worse.

When the pangs of hunger recalled Catherine to her immediate world, she decided that she must carry on as before. She must assume an icy dignity in the marquis' presence. She must not allow herself to look for him or to scan the company for his presence. For if she continued to be fascinated by him, she would, she chided herself, end up in the same case as Rose and Violet in some fashion.

As Catherine dressed for dinner, she took special care with her appearance. She rang for the little French maid and managed to communicate well enough, even though she realized with sinking heart that her long-ago French lessons were hardly adequate to equip her to ask for fresh water properly. She wore her finest new gown of a deep sapphire blue, just to show him that she had not been overset by him. And brushed her hair and drew it back in a severe and startlingly sophisticated style to show him that here was no little miss to trifle with.

When she went down to dinner, she looked neither to the left nor the right, but seated herself in the manner of a grande dame. She chatted lightly and superficially with the Vicar, who seemed vastly amused at something and who enjoyed her company in a very proper fashion. It was only when the dinner was over and the guests were at their regular pursuits of gaming or dancing, or meeting with one another in darkened parts of the house, that the Vicar, who stood at her side watching the dancers told her that the marquis and his man had gone.

The house party, he told her in an aside, was already beginning to break up, and since the marquis had left, others were beginning to make noises about going on to Paris. “Which much displeases our host,” the Vicar said, “since he needs to keep his house full. Otherwise he is left alone, with only thirty servants or so, a few constant hangers-on, and, of course, dear Lady Sidney.”

Catherine felt deflated. And noticed that the music, dancing, and chatter all around her seemed suddenly less interesting, less enthralling. While the marquis was in evidence she had always felt on the verge of an adventure; now all this newfound splendor seemed oddly flat. And she murmured her sympathies for her host with compassion.

“Oh, don't pity dear Ollie overmuch,” the Vicar said, grinning, “for he has found compensation, as you can see.”

Looking up in the direction the Vicar nodded to, Catherine saw her host, smiling and whispering, deep in conversation with Rose. Rose towered above him by several inches and had to hang her head down to hear his whispered comments. But as they watched, the ill-matched couple seemed to come to some sort of understanding, and Sir Sidney, with a little bow and beaming smile, left the room. Catherine could see him going upstairs. It was rather unusual, she thought, for the host of such a great house party to absent himself from his guests, especially since if he needed anything above stairs, he had a clutch of servants he could summon.

But as the Vicar kept watching Rose silently, with a gentle smile upon his own face, Catherine did the same. And saw that within a few moments of her host's departure, Rose brushed some invisible lint from her skirt and then quietly left the room to go up the stairs quickly in Sir Sidney's wake. “Business as usual,” yawned the Vicar. And Catherine felt her heart sink. It was one thing to know of Rose and Violet's interests; it was quite another to see them in action. Catherine felt deeply ashamed although she had done no more than watch.

Throughout the evening she clung to the Vicar's side like a devoted daughter. Her attendance upon him seemed to afford him great pleasure. And when he pointed out Violet's departure with an ancient viscount, she was so glad of the Vicar's presence, and so determined to stay with him, that he had to gently, and then less gently, hint to her that he wished to absent himself for only a few moments; he would return immediately, but he really had to be alone for a few moments. When she saw that he was gesturing vaguely in the direction of the gentlemen's withdrawing room, she grew dizzy with embarrassment and vowed to stop clinging to him like a limpet.

But when, in his absence, she found herself approached by no less than three other gentlemen with speculation in their bold, assessing eyes, she gave up her resolve and fairly flew to the Vicar's side again when he reappeared. And there she stayed till she saw the duchess making her stately way upstairs to her room.

For the next days Catherine stayed close in her rooms during the day, and took tea with her companions, but said little to them. For she had seen them disappear with such a variety of gentlemen each night that she felt she was not yet able to converse normally with them. She did not want them to see her revulsion, for in all, they were pleasant and helpful enough to her. And yet she could not reconcile their actions with her own standards, much as she lectured herself about tolerance and different values for different persons during the long days that she was alone in her room. At nightfall she would dress with care, for the duchess's eye was sharp, and on the one occasion when she tried to dress demurely and unspectacularly, the dowager had barked that she didn't employ sparrows—what was the matter with the gel anyway? And she would spend each evening in close converse or, at least, in close companionship with the Vicar.

She soon discovered that he thought her situation vastly entertaining, and, further that he really did not care about her predicament at all so long as it afforded him pleasure in observing it. Sadly, she began to discover that he was using her in much the same way that, she had to admit, she was using him. So it was with heartfelt relief that she heard the duchess declare, after a week at Sir Sidney's establishment, that they had tarried long enough. “The company's becoming flat,” the duchess said, sending Gracie about her packing. “We'll take our leave tomorrow. I hear Paris is brimming with fashionables, and I'm eager to be
off.”

The Vicar had made one great sacrifice and was there to see them off the next morning. Their host and hostess were still abed, having made their good-byes in the night. As Catherine prepared to step into the coach with the others, the Vicar stayed her for a moment. There was a vaguely sorrowful look in his eyes as he took her hand.

“Good-bye, Catherine,” he said. “I wonder if we shall meet again? I think not, for I do not go on to Paris. I am one of Ollie's constant hangers-on, you see. I am not one to lecture on morality, I fear, and I cannot offer you any assistance. For not only do I live upon the sufferance of my fellowman, but I am too old, too lazy, and, in the end, too unconcerned with my fellowman and woman now. But I do tell you, for what it is worth, that you do not belong here. Country chicks cannot keep company with parrots and cockatiels, you know. And it is mortally easy to become that with which you constantly associate, by slow degrees. You cannot hide forever, Catherine. And there are all sorts of lures in this wide world, especially for young things. I should know,” he said, shaking his head. “I have set enough. Go when you can, Catherine,” he whispered, bowing over her hand. “And go while you can. Home, where you belong.”

“Thank you,” she said, more chilled by his words than she dared show. “And I will. I promise, as soon as I am able.”

He smiled sadly and then laughed quietly.

“Whatever you do decide, never fear, I shall know of it. For I hear of all things—that is what makes me so valuable a guest. Good-bye, my dear. It was pleasant being needed as a man again for a few days. Good luck.”

He handed her into the coach, and, with a wave, they were off.

“Well you certainly made a conquest,” the duchess grinned before she settled herself to sleep, in her usual traveling mode. “The Vicar don't give a demn for anyone in the world, but he seems to have been taken with you. But he don't spend a brass farthing on a female,” she laughed, and allowed Gracie to tuck her up into a cocoon of wraps for the journey.

This time the duchess was in no hurry. For, she said to her companions as they dined that night in a small wayside inn, she was “shaken to pieces” by the journey and “wearied unto death” by the constant partying at Sir Sidney's.