Fighting for control, she stepped down and stared up at the magnificent façade of the townhouse. It towered well over a story higher than any of the surrounding homes and was placed far back from the busy road. Its marble exterior glowed pink in the spreading twilight, both beckoning and imposing.
The sight overwhelmed her.
She had made a mistake. It was preposterous that she should turn to him for help. Why had she ever had such a crazed idea?
She would have stepped back into the hack, begged the driver to take her, but with a slap of the reins he drove off down the street. She was alone, save for the diminishing clatter of hooves on stone.
She stepped forward, then stopped.
She turned from the house and took three steps in the opposite direction. Surely she could find a more suitable benefactor.
The first lamplight of the evening began to glow in a window across the square. Night was coming.
She turned back and stared at the house. She might be naïve, she might even be foolish, but she was not an idiot. London at night was no place for a young lady to be alone. No matter how bad things might be now, that would be worse.
Drawing in a gulp of air, Marguerite straightened her bonnet and drew her pelisse tight about her. Thrusting her shoulders back she turned to the path in front of the house. She counted each step up the path, each step on the way to the door. She would not think of what she was about to do. There was no choice.
Marguerite lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall. Once. Twice. Before she could lift it again the door swung open and a well-appointed porter stood before her, his gaze questioning.
She could see from his expression that he was not taken by what he saw. An unaccompanied lady. Dusty blue traveling gown and pelisse that had once matched her eyes, but was now faded. Good fabric, but not the best. Straw bonnet, not at all suited to the hour or the season. No, if surprised by her strange appearance, her person nevertheless, did not impress the porter.
She forced words to her lips before he could speak. “I need to speak to Tri . . . the Marquess of Wimberley.”
Did her nerves show? Could he tell she was ready to faint at his feet?
The footman stepped back, his lips tight. “I am sorry, but the marquess is not receiving callers.”
Marguerite shuddered. This was unexpected. She had considered many forms of failure, many forms of cruelty, but never this, never that he should simply refuse to receive her. She swayed, and would have fallen if the porter had not grabbed her and pulled her through the door. He pushed her into one of the chairs that lined the wall. Sagging forward, she let the bonnet fall to her lap.
A bell rang. Then again.
“Dammit! Winters, we need more brandy. We need it now.” The voice, his voice, came pounding through the door immediately to her right. The hurried patter of feet came from the back of the house; she saw the porter start towards her, his gaze nervously moving in the direction whence the voices came.
None of it mattered. He was here. There was one chance left. Marguerite pushed herself to unsteady feet. She thrust open the door and entered.
Tristan Cornelius St. Johns reclined in all his majesty, one elegant evening slipper upon the stool in front of him, the other –- across the lap of the lady beside him.
Marguerite froze, her mind trapped by the scene before her. He was as beautiful as before –- rough golden curls worn longer than was fashionable; broad, well-tailored shoulders; long, muscled thighs. And that face. It should have belonged to a King’s College choirboy, not a grown man. His eyes were so pale they gleamed silver in the candlelight, his skin shining darkly in contrast. He did not hide from the sun. And his lips, so deep a pink they’d put a rose to shame, lips she had felt against her skin – lips, that even now, she wanted to feel again.
She drew in a deep breath and forced her eyes to take in the rest of the scene -– the woman he rested his leg upon. She was a beauty, deep red curls caught up in pearl clips, delicate features traced with the most artful of cosmetics. Her eyes –- could they really be lavender? And