Surrender to the Marquess

*

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Lucian strode down the hill to the seafront, blind to everything but the thick black fog that seemed to swirl around him. He was finally brought to a standstill by the railing around the promenade edge. The tide was right out, he could hear it far down the beach where the moonlight caught the breakers.

Beautiful, he thought bleakly. Probably romantic, but how the hell would I know? He loved her and he had lost her. Probably he had never had the part of her that he yearned for, the heart of her. Sara was romantic and she had probably agreed to marry him so that no longer would she be at risk of being hurt, of having to feel those emotions she spoke of. Her marriage had ended in terrible pain, she would not want to risk that again and yet, when it came to it, she could not bring herself to marry him, the man who could offer her a rational, sensible marriage with no messy emotions.

That water looked attractive. Cold, impersonal and uncaring. It would receive him and make him work hard, stretch his muscles, push him until, perhaps, he would be able to sleep. He worked it out and, yes, the tide was coming in. He was not such a fool as to swim on a falling tide on an unfamiliar stretch of coast.

The town was quiet now. It was past midnight. The Assembly Rooms were closed. No one was visible. Lucian ducked under the rail, dropped down to the beach below and walked to the jetty. He stripped rapidly and piled the clothes on the upturned boat that Sara had sat on to brush the sand from her legs. The night air was cool on his skin, but the sea would be warm. He strode down to the water’s edge and straight in to mid-thigh, then dived and struck out into the moonlight.

*

She would never sleep. Sara let Maude help her undress, then just stood in the middle of her bedchamber, nightgown in hand. ‘I am going to swim.’

‘What, now, my lady? It is dark.’

‘There is a moon, the tide is coming in and I am far too restless to sleep. Find me my swimming clothes, please, Maude.’

Most ladies used a flannel ‘case’, a shapeless flannel shift, to be dunked in. But that was useless for swimming. Maude fetched her the light calico trousers and simple shirt that she used. It was thick enough fabric not to cling and become transparent in the water, but light enough and free enough for her to swim strongly. She pulled on shoes to protect her feet on the way down, threw a cloak around her shoulders and hung a door key around her neck on a cord.

‘Don’t wait up for me, Maude. You deserve some sleep after tonight’s disturbances.’

*

It was a beautiful night. Sara leaned on the promenade rail and watched the moonlight on the water and wondered why she could not weep now that she was alone. Perhaps the loss was too deep for tears.

She made her way to the upturned boat to leave her clothes, puzzled by the bump on its usually smooth silhouette. Then she saw it was clothes. As she held them up she recognised the gleam of jet buttons on the waistcoat, the silver buckles in the shape of snakes on his evening shoes. Lucian’s clothes.

The panic lasted long enough for her to find she was sitting on the boat, clutching his shirt and staring out to sea, a cry of horror on her lips. Then she got it under control. Lucian was not a man to walk out into the sea and drown himself because of a broken engagement. He did not care that much and he had responsibilities he would never abandon. No, like her, he had not been able to sleep and the sea had tempted him.

She should turn back, she thought, but stayed where she was. The shirt held the scent of Lucian in its folds, a subtle counterpoint to the salt smell on the breeze. Why had he tried to persuade her to marry him regardless of that awful scene? Now she thought about it she was puzzled when before she had simply been too upset to wonder.

Could it be possessiveness, desire or a reluctance to be seen to have been jilted? No, Lucian was not a man to condemn himself to an unhappy marriage for the sake of his pride and what people might say.

What was it that he had said when she had stated with such assurance that she would know when a man was in love with her?

‘Your belief in your ability to tell a man’s deepest feelings may be misplaced. We may not wear our hearts on our sleeves… You believe that men want to give a hostage to fortune in that way, by admitting to love when they do not think it will be returned?’

Surely that did not mean that he loved her? Why ask her about romance? Was he trying to read her deeper feelings?

His shirt slipped out of her grasp as she stood up. He loves me? Perhaps he did, or perhaps she was indulging in the worst kind of wishful thinking. Lucian had never said one word about love, but then neither had she. Coward, she chided herself. You did not dare to risk rejection so you settled for what was safe, what was easy.

I must tell him.

Even if he did not love her, even if it was far too late for them, she would be honest. She scanned the calm, moonlit sea, but could see nothing breaking the surface of the gentle swell. From what he had said before he was a strong swimmer so he could be either east or west. But he had found the next bay last time, perhaps he had returned there. Sara kicked off her shoes, tossed her cloak on to the pile of Lucian’s clothes and ran down the beach.

The water was like silk, cool and slick over her skin. Sara put her head down and struck out strongly for the headland she had walked around with Marguerite, now jutting out into deep water. The very act of swimming was soothing and helped her think. That first, abrupt proposal in the punt—that had not been the considered act of a rational man and Lucian was not insensitive or unfeeling. No, he had realised something suddenly, that he wanted to marry her for reasons that were not rational, not considered, and he had spoken his thoughts aloud before he had time to consider them.

And I gave him no encouragement to speak about his feelings, she realised as she trod water to check her bearings, then angled in towards the beach in the little bay. Their lovemaking had come from a mutual physical attraction, not because they had fallen in love first which meant—

‘Ugh!’ She collided with something very solid, coming towards her. For a moment she was gripped by alarm, then, as hands met hers and her flailing arms hit warm, sleek muscle, she realised what she had collided with. ‘Lucian!’

‘Sara?’

They clung together in the water, rocked by the swell, then his arms were tight around her and his mouth was on hers and the kiss was hot and demanding and a possession that she returned as fiercely. She was drowning in him, sinking into him, and came back to herself to find that Lucian was hauling her to the surface.

‘Damn it, we nearly drowned. Back to the beach.’ He turned, waiting for her.