Marguerite was his only sibling and he was well aware that the difference in their age and sex had kept them apart. His childhood had been far stricter than hers—tutors, riding and fencing masters, carefully selected playmates from suitable local families had filled his days and provided his company. He could never forget that he was heir to an ancient title, great responsibilities, with a duty to the past and to the future. Marguerite had been spoiled and rather vaguely educated by a doting governess—it was no wonder that she had been hit so hard by what had happened.
‘As though I want to be carted through the streets like an ageing dowager,’ she said, pulling him back from his brooding, and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, just like she used to do in the days before she ran away.
‘Well, take it slowly,’ he chided, not wanting to let his delight show. ‘It is a hill.’
‘I have to learn to climb hills again some time, otherwise everything would be abominably flat,’ Marguerite observed as she unfurled her parasol.
Had that been a mild joke, a pun even? Perhaps this flight to the seaside had not been such a bad idea after all and he had been too impatient for results. She managed the climb well, without needing to pause for breath, and studied the shop windows as they passed with something like interest.
Lucian took her into Aphrodite’s Seashell and let his gaze wander with seeming casualness over the women already gathered around the long table. Some were sitting with craftwork spread out in front of them, others stood chatting. Everyone looked up as he and Marguerite entered and then the ladies went back to what they had been doing without any vulgar staring. They all seemed perfectly respectable, well dressed and spoke in educated accents. Their ages ranged from about twenty to sixty, he estimated.
Mrs Harcourt was standing at the shelves, a number of books in her hands, talking to a tall, earnest-looking woman. ‘You could either write the journal directly into a book that is already bound and do your sketches on blank pages, or do the entire thing loose-leaf and then have it bound up, which might be safer—then if there are any small corrections you want to make that page can easily be replaced. But see what you think of these, at any rate, Mrs Prentice.’
She excused herself and came over to greet them. ‘Miss Dunton, Mr Dunton.’ She looked at him and Lucian found himself staring back into those intelligent grey eyes that, surely, held a gleam of mischief. What was there to amuse her? It did not seem to be malicious, more, almost, as though they shared a secret. And once more that inconvenient sense of attraction, of arousal, stirred. It should not have surprised him, he thought. This was a lovely woman with an intriguing mixture of assured sophistication and youth.
He wanted to touch her, badly, and that made him abrupt. ‘I understand there is a small charge for refreshments?’
‘Six pence, if you please, Mr Dunton.’
Lucian took off his glove to retrieve the loose change from his pocket book and held out the small coin, rather than put it on the counter. She extended her own hand, palm up, and his bare fingertips brushed her skin as he laid the silver on it. He suspected she knew exactly what he was about, but she was perfectly composed as she broke the contact and placed the coin on the counter. Her hand had been warm and soft to his fleeting touch and Lucian had a startling mental picture of it, pale gold on his bare skin.
‘Thank you, sir. At what time will you be returning to collect your sister? There is an excellent library just up the street on this side, if you choose to wait.’
So much for any thought of waiting in the shop to observe proceedings. ‘Thank you, I will investigate it,’ he said with a deliberately cheerful, open smile when he suspected she was anticipating something more laden with meaning, an invitation to flirt, perhaps. ‘Half past four, Marguerite?’
‘Mmm? Oh, yes, thank you.’ His sister was already investigating the books and pamphlets. As he watched her a woman in late middle age smiled and indicated a book with a murmured comment. Marguerite took it down from the shelf and Lucian nodded to Mrs Harcourt, resumed his hat and left the shop.
Most definitely surplus to requirements, he thought, turning to continue up the hill in search of the library. It was a surprisingly good feeling to see Marguerite confident and engrossed. He couldn’t even be annoyed that Mrs Harcourt was proving so resistant to his hints. She was a respectable lady with a position in the town to defend, no doubt, and, as a gentleman he had no intention of ruffling those feathers without a clear signal to proceed. Still, it was a pity, he enjoyed the unspoken conversation they seemed to be having. Or perhaps it was a duel.
Chapter Three
Two hours later Sara watched Mr Dunton—the Mysterious Marquess, as she was beginning to think of him—finally extract his sister from the shop, his arms full of parcels. She had suggested that Marguerite leave her purchases, and the shell-work project she had just begun work on, and she would have Tim bring them down to the hotel. But nothing would content her other than heaping them into her brother’s arms, despite the fact that no gentleman—let alone a marquess—should be walking around town laden like a footman.
To judge by his expression, any number of parcels was worth the animation on the girl’s face, the colour in her cheeks. Sara knew she ought to dislike him, or, at least, be completely indifferent to him, for he was exactly the kind of man she was living her life to avoid, but she admired his care for Marguerite.
She was still musing on the brother and sister—rather more on the brother, if she were to be truthful—as she locked the door, drew down the blind and began to deal with the contents of the cash drawer while Dot cleared away the tea things and washed up. The day’s takings had been good, she saw with satisfaction, entering them in her ledger before locking the money bag away in the safe. She must make a trip to the bank tomorrow, which was very gratifying.
It was not that she needed the money, exactly, but profita
bility was her main measure of success in a business and Sara did not like to fail at anything she put her hand to.
‘There you are, ducks.’ Dot emerged from the scullery, flapping a drying cloth before hanging it on the rail. ‘All done and dusted. Busy today, wasn’t it? I liked that little scrap of a lass, the new one. Pretty manners and no side to her. Looks as though she’s been having a difficult time of it though, bless her. It’s a hard thing to lose a baby.’
‘What?’ Sara stood up from the safe so sharply that she hit her head on the shelf above. ‘Ouch! What do you mean about a baby?’
‘She’s grieving and sad and she’s thin—but not in her bubbies. And Mrs Pike knocked against her when she passed the scones and she flinched and made a little sound like it hurt. I reckon they’re still sore, poor lamb, just like mine were when I lost our second.’
‘But she’s so young, only eighteen, I think. Oh, Dot, how awful.’ No wonder her brother was so anxious and so protective and they were here under a false name. ‘We must look after her, because I don’t think she has her mother or a companion with her, no woman to talk to, only her brother—and her maid, I suppose. And I would wager this shop he’s thinking most of the time about how to kill the man who fathered her child and not about how it has affected her.’
That was what men of breeding did, guarded the honour of their womenfolk whether the women wanted it or not. And people got killed as a result and the women in question were tied about with rules and restrictions because their menfolk cared so much and honour meant everything. Their honour, she told herself angrily. That helped stifle her own guilty conscience. A little.
The demands of honour had killed her husband, the man she had thought was above those antiquated notions about women and their lack of right to govern themselves and it had driven her here, a safe distance from the loving tyranny of father and brother. She could not turn away from Marguerite.
‘We’ll do our best for her, that’s for sure.’ The older woman threw her shawl around her shoulders and picked up her basket. ‘I’m off home to make supper, then we’re going down to the Dog and Mackerel, Farwell and me. What’ll you be doing, ducks?’
‘Dancing at the Assembly Rooms. I have promised Mr Makepeace a set.’
‘He’s sweet on you, you know, and he’ll never say, a’cos of who you really are.’