Marguerite sat in silence, trying to remain awake as the carriage drove towards Richmond. Her brother sat next to her, while Sir Percy occupied the facing seat. She could not stop glancing at her husband as he stared out the window. He had been the soul of courtesy and kindness the last two days, arranging for clothing to be brought to her, sending for a doctor to see to her before she even left the yacht. Except for assisting her in and out of the boat and carriage, he had not touched her. He rarely even looked at her…
"We're here, Marguerite." She woke to her brother's excited voice. Blinking, she stretched her cramped muscles, then allowed Sir Percy to help her out of the hired carriage. Turning, she stopped in her tracks. "Mon Dieu!"
The house was huge. House? It was a palace. How could anyone live here? With Armand and Sir Percy on either side of her, she walked up the stairs. An elderly man opened the door, beaming. Good Lord, a butler? She fought the urge to flee. "Welcome back, Sir Percy. Lady Blakeney, Monsieur St. Just, we are so happy to have you back."
Bringing her to the front parlor, Armand helped her to a large armchair. Sir Percy turned to the older man. "Henderson, please tell the maids to prepare Lady Blakeney's rooms. She has been ill, and needs to rest. She'll have a tray sent up tonight." He ordered. "And please send for the doctor." Marguerite opened her mouth, then sank back into the chair as the butler left the room.
Sir Percy looked over at her brother. "Armand, you need to go get something to eat." Startled, Armand started to protest then subsided under the older man's commanding stare. Quietly, he exited the room.
Marguerite watched him leave with a small frown on her face. She fought a pang of jealousy. When had her stubborn brother become so cooperative? He seemed to hang on Sir Percy's every word. These past few years, she had deeply felt the absence of a father figure for Armand. Now that he had one, she felt left out, abandoned.
Bending down, Sir Percy lifted her effortlessly. "I'll take you upstairs, Marguerite." She was so light, her body soft and warm against his chest. Her red-gold hair spilled over her shoulders, brushing his cheek. Determinedly, he ignored his response to the feel of her in his arms and carried her up the stairs to her suite.
She objected when he made her sit down. "Sir Percy, I can do it for myself. And I don't need another doctor. I-" Someone knocked on the door, and she fell silent. Two uninformed maids came in the door. "Oh, my lady, we heard you were ill. The doctor is on his way. Shall we put her to bed, Sir Percy?" The younger one said.
Marguerite's eyes widened. Put her to bed? She had always heard the aristocracy was lazy, but this was too much! Her husband caught her eye, and gave her a mischievous wink. Caught off guard, she smiled and blushed confusedly. "You may help me to bed…I'm sorry, I am still a little confused. What shall I call you?"
"Louise, your ladyship. I am your personal maid." The other woman pulled the covers back on the bed, as Louise went to the wardrobe and opened it.
Sir Percy stepped back, looking extremely uncomfortable. "I'll leave you alone for a moment, Marguerite. My rooms are next door."
She frowned as he walked out the door. His rooms?
Sighing, she allowed Louise to help her out of her dress and into a gown. Yet another maid came in with a bowl of fruit, and she settled in the huge bed and ate.
The doctor, a hearty middle-aged man, came and looked at her wound. "How did this happen, Sir Percy? It almost looks like she was shot-" He broke off abruptly at her husband's glare.
"She fell and hit her head, Doctor." Sir Percy said with ice in his voice. "The point is, how long before she regains her memory of the last few months?" His voice was at its most aristocratic, but Marguerite and the doctor could see his hands twisting together, the knuckles turning white. The doctor's manner softened. "I can't say, Sir Percy. It may take some time, or…she may never regain her memory of that time. The important fact is that she is alive and healthy." He rose and began to pack his bag. "I will return tomorrow, Lady Blakeney. I want you to rest tonight. If you are up to it, you may go outside for some exercise in the morning, but not alone."
Sir Percy walked the doctor out of the room. Marguerite felt her heart pound as he returned to stand beside the bed awkwardly. Was he blushing? "You heard the doctor, m'dear. Rest now. I'll be next door, if you need me." He leaned forward as if to kiss her goodnight, then checked himself. "Good night." She sank back into the mattress, both relieved and disappointed, as he left.
That night, as she lay in bed, she was aware of a faint feeling of familiarity. Did she remember this place? Excited, she sat up and glanced around. Slowly, she slipped from the bed, careful to make no sound. Looking over at the door that separated her apartment from his, she saw a faint light. Carefully, feeling like an intruder, she began to explore her new environment. Her suite consisted of two enormous rooms, bedroom and dressing room. The bed was so tall she had to climb up two stairs to get in. It could easily hold five people comfortably. Of course, Sir Percy was a very tall man…she shook herself. Stop this!
One of the walls consisted almost entirely of a bookcase. Touched, she noted the dozens of volumes in her native French, including many that she must have brought from home. Many more that she had always wanted but had not been able to afford.
Next to the bookcase was a scarlet chaise lounge, a perfect place to read on a lazy day. Giving in to a sudden impulse, she lit the lamps and sat down, plucking a book at random from the table. Thankfully, it was not one of her revolutionary tomes, but a book of short, comic plays that she had been meaning to read. (Meaning to read, or had already read? How would she know the difference?) Lying back on the cushions, she opened her find to the first act.
She was fast asleep when the door to her room opened.
Percy held his breath, cringing as the hinges squeaked. He would have them oiled tomorrow. He had not opened this door since the day his mother died, had rarely visited this room before then. Praying that he hadn't wakened Marguerite, he looked towards the bed. His heart froze as he saw the covers thrown back, the empty space. He moved towards the terrace doors, then stopped in his tracks.
She lay on the sofa beside the bookcase the servants had put up on his orders. In Paris, planning their wedding and future, she confided how much she loved to read, but barely had enough space for her own collection. He had determined then and there that he would put together a library for her.
She was so beautiful…he could barely breathe, looking at her. She wore a white nightgown that flowed over every curve, both concealing and flaunting the body he adored. She looked like a bride on her wedding night.
He sat down, watching his wife sleep. God! He thought. Now what am I to do? And why now, after all they had been through? He shuddered as he remembered that night. They had been preparing to leave after defeating Chauvelin, when one of the soldiers had unexpectedly returned. Marguerite had been the only one to see him. As he raised his pistol at Percy, she sprang between them.
He would never forget the moment she fell, blood flowing from a wound to the forehead. For several hideous moments he had feared that she was dead. If she had died, he would have simply found another pistol and ended his pain. The will he had made out before his marriage left all property not entailed to Armand, if Marguerite did not survive her husband.
But she was alive. That was the only thing that mattered now. He had been given a second chance. A few days ago, at the Prince of Wale's fete, when he had discovered the truth about her, he had vowed to do whatever it took to woo her back. He had won her heart once; he would do it again. He grinned wickedly. This time, he wasn't honor-bound not to try seduction.