‘Thank you.’ She scrubbed at her eyes as the tears welled again. ‘I wish I knew what to do. I can’t ask Lucian to find Gregory because I know what will happen if he does and I don’t know anyone else who could afford to send an enquiry agent to France and who would cross Lucian into the bargain.’
No, but I do. If it came to it then she would write to Ashe and ask him to track down the handsome blond Englishman in Lyons. Her brother would know who to send and he would not ask endless infuriating questions if she told him it was important. ‘I will think about it,’ Sara promised. ‘There must be some way around this.’
‘Thank you.’ Marguerite’s chin was up now and her eyes, although red-rimmed, were dry. ‘Show me what is in the rock pools, please.’
They splashed about, soaking the hems of their old cotton dresses, laughing as they chased shrimps that darted into crevices, grimacing as seaweed wrapped itself around their ankles.
Sara collected several jars of brown and pink and black weed and some discarded crab shells and Marguerite’s handkerchief was stuffed with shells and sea glass in jewel colours, worn smooth by the waves. As they explored they chatted. Sara told stories about her family, their life in India, the dismay at realising that they must leave because her father had inherited the title and how strange England had seemed.
Marguerite asked questions and, her guard completely down, dropped little nuggets of information about her romance, about her lover, that Sara stored away to brood about later.
She kept an eye on the state of the tide and finally dragged Marguerite away. ‘See how it has come in? If we don’t go back now, we’ll have to walk back over the headland and there is no proper path. It is quite hard going and your brother will not thank me for exhausting you. Besides, it is time for luncheon.’
‘Lucian wants the best for me, I know. He just doesn’t understand.’
‘Men think about love differently from us.’
‘You mean because they can just have sex when they want to so it doesn’t mean much to them and then they get sex and love muddled up?’
‘Er...’
‘Gregory wasn’t like that.’
‘No, neither was my husband. And my parents and my brother made love matches. But Lucian is protective of you and he’s ambitious for you. He wants you to marry someone of your own class who can give you the life you should expect as the daughter of a marquess.’
‘Your father is a marquess and he let you marry a commoner.’ Marguerite was beginning to drag her feet through the sand like a tired child.
Sara linked her arm through the girl’s and slowed her pace. ‘My parents are very unconventional and Ashe knew Michael really well by then. But it seems to me that most men are happy if they have a companionable wife who makes them a comfortable home, children—and, as you, say, there is the sex. The fact that they would be even happier if they loved their wives doesn’t appear to occur to most of them, although actually I think a lot of them do and just don’t recognise that is what they feel.’
‘It would be better to be the daughter of some shepherd on the Downs, I think sometimes.’
‘No, it wouldn’t. You would not want to live in a little hut and besides, even then your father would be on the lookout for a son-in-law with a prize ram or who was handy training sheepdogs or something.’
That made Marguerite laugh and they were still making up the requirements for every kind of tradesman’s son-in-law by the time they reached an overturned boat by the low jetty and sat down to put on their shoes.
‘A butcher would want skill in getting all the meat off a carcass and his daughter would want a big chopper!’ They both doubled up in thoroughly unseemly laughter at the double entendre until a shadow fell across them.
‘I am not going to even ask what that was about.’ Lucian was on the jetty, hunkered down just above their heads.
‘Housekeeping,’ Marguerite said pertly.
Sara was sitting on the upturned rowing boat, her legs stretched out in front of her, her skirts almost to her knees as she let the sunshine dry her skin so she could dust off the sand. She leaned back on her supporting hands and saw that Lucian was studying her bare legs. She straightened up slowly, refusing to be put out of countenance, as she let her skirts slide down and brushed the sand away. When he lifted his head and met her gaze he had a heavy-lidded look of concentration that she had no trouble deciphering at all.
She pulled on her shoes and stood up to find he was still crouched down, buckskin breeches stretched tight over strong horseman’s thighs, the tails of his coat brushing the cobbles, his hat in his hands. ‘You have been riding, sir?’
‘I was just going to, but I wanted to be certain Marguerite had luncheon and a rest before I left.’ He straightened up and began to stroll back along the jetty parallel with them as they made for the steps. ‘You look well, sweetheart. There is colour in your cheeks.’ Tactfully he made no mention of the signs of tears.
‘I liked it, Sara showed me so many things. But I am tired now. Thank you, Sara.’ She turned and kissed Sara’s cheek, gave her hand a little squeeze, then climbed the steps to her brother’s side.
‘Do you ride, Mrs Harcourt?’ he asked. ‘Would you join me?’
‘I do, Mr Dunton. But it will take me half an hour to get home, change and have my horse brought round from the livery stables.’
‘If you give me directions I will fetch it to you, which will save some time.’ The severe mouth curved into a sensual smile. ‘I find myself very eager for a good gallop.’
Wretched man! A good gallop, indeed. I know exactly what he means and he knows perfectly well that neither of us is going to give way to whatever it is that makes him look like that and turns my knees to jelly. It is basic lust, I suppose, and we are both grown up enough to deal with it.
* * *
Her house, one of a row of neat, newly built, terraced villas with a desirable view of the bay, was a brisk five minutes’ walk uphill. Maude, her maid, scurried for the clothes press when Sara swept in, breathlessly calling for her riding habit.
‘The English one, my lady?’
Sara hesitated. It was very tempting to see Lucian’s expression if she appeared in the Rajput clothing that she and her mother used for riding in the privacy of the family’s country estate, but she had to remember that in daylight she was still Mrs Harcourt and it was not good policy to upset the precarious balancing act that was her social standing in the town.
She was changed, hat on head, boots on her feet when Maude twitched the curtain to look down on the street and reported, ‘There’s a gentleman outside with your mare, my lady.’
Sara jammed an unnecessary pin into her hat, pulled down the veil and ran downstairs, amused to see that her staff were all peeking from various places to see her gentleman caller. Besides Maude she employed a footman and a cook and a maid of all work who came in daily—a size of household that partly soothed her father’s worries about her living alone and which filled the small house to its limits.
‘My lady.’ Walter the footman opened the door with a flourish and handed her a riding crop. He, at least, had good reason to be in the hall.
‘Come and assist me so that Mr Dunton does not need to dismount, Walter.’ The footman beamed and she guessed he would now go back and give the other staff a detailed description of the gentleman, right down to the toes of those glossy boots.
‘That’s a pretty animal,’ Lucian remarked as she settled