Surrender To The Marquess. Louise Allen

more bring his lover into contact with his sister at the moment than he would his mother, had she lived.

      The silence hung there for the time it took a seagull’s scream to die away and then he said, ‘And you are quite correct, of course, about Marguerite. Her needs must be paramount.’

      He was going to kiss her, she felt him shift against her as his breath touched warmth to her wind-chilled lips, then she was in his arms, moulding herself into his blatantly aroused body. There was no pretext now that this was curiosity or flirtation taken a little too far. This was an exchange of desire and demands that they both knew would go no further.

      One of them had to stop and she supposed it had better be her. Sara rested her cheek on Lucian’s chest and listened to his heart beat and imagined it over hers as they lay in bed, then put the fantasy firmly away.

      His hands dropped from her shoulders and she opened her eyes to see him outlined against the sun dazzle on the sea, already moving towards the door. ‘We will be in all day if you call. Marguerite would be pleased to see you. Thank you...for the tea.’

      * * *

      Marguerite was occupied with her new sketchbook at the window of the private sitting room at the hotel when Sara called. It had taken an hour to regain some composure and to think about how to best approach the younger woman. Now she perched on the table next to her and admired the drawing of the cliffs which was lively, if amateurish. ‘How is the shell mirror frame coming along?’

      ‘It is drying over there. I need some more small shells for the rim around the glass. Have you seen Lucian today?’

      Was that a question with a hidden meaning, or simply a genuine enquiry? Sara bent over the mirror and spoke casually. ‘He dropped into the shop this morning to tell me you would be at home all day. Would you like to go out on the beach? I need to collect seaweed to make some pictures and it is lovely weather.’

      ‘I...yes, I would, I think, if it is safe. I can’t swim, you see, which makes the waves rather frightening. What should I wear?’ Marguerite looked dubiously at her very pretty morning dress with its frilled hem.

      ‘We won’t be doing anything more perilous than paddling, I promise. Wear something cotton, the kind of thing you would put on at home in the country to go into the garden to gather flowers. Something that doesn’t matter if you get salt splashes or sand on it. And no stockings, just some old, sensible leather shoes.’

      ‘No stockings?’ Marguerite looked mildly shocked.

      ‘It is far less immodest to walk across the road with no stockings on than it is to take them off on the beach. We will be getting our feet wet.’

      ‘Oh!’ She sounded dubious, then seemed to make up her mind. ‘I expect I have something. I won’t be long.’

      * * *

      The tide was ebbing as Sara led the way across the beach to the foot of the cliffs where the retreating sea exposed firm, flat sand. ‘If we go around the little headland then we are into Bell Bay, which is quite small and secluded. There is some talk in the town about creating a path over the headland and making that the ladies’ bathing beach with no men allowed until after noon on the sands or the part of the headland that overlooks it. It would mean room for some more bathing machines and the shyer ladies might feel more comfortable.’

      She kept talking, chatting casually about trivial town affairs until they were around the headland, then she perched on a low rock and pulled off her shoes. ‘You do the same and then we can leave them on top of the rock. There, isn’t that pleasant? And walking on the sand smooths the feet beautifully.’

      Marguerite grimaced at the feel of the cool, wet sand, then smiled, the first really wide, uninhibited, smile Sara had seen on her face. ‘It is lovely. Ooh—if I wriggle my toes I start to sink.’

      ‘There are no quicksands in this bay, we are quite safe. Now, if we walk across to those rocks over there we can explore the rock pools.’

      * * *

      It took no more than half an hour of splashing along the surf line and picking up shells and driftwood for Marguerite to relax. She finally came to rest on top of a smooth rock to catch her breath while Sara dipped glass jars into the rock pools under the cliff.

      ‘What does Sarisa mean?’ she asked after a while. ‘Is it Indian?’

      ‘It means charming.’ Sara straightened up and held out a jar to Marguerite. ‘See? A little crab. I’ll put him back in a moment. Papa said I was a perfect charmer, right from the beginning, so that is what they called me.’ She tipped the crab back into the pool and watched it scuttle under a fringe of weed. ‘Marguerite means daisy, doesn’t it?’

      There was silence, then a wrenching sob. Appalled, Sara dropped the jar into the water and took Marguerite in her arms. ‘I am so sorry, what did I say?’

      ‘That’s what he called me. Gregory called me his... Dai... Daisy.’

      Sara gave her a handkerchief, sat down on the rock beside her and held her until the storm subsided into sniffles. ‘Do you want to tell me about it? I guessed about the baby. And Gregory is the father?’

      ‘Oh!’ Wide, tear-drenched hazel eyes gazed into hers. ‘Did Lucian say anything? I think he believes it is better that I lost her, but he doesn’t say that, of course.’

      ‘I told him that I had guessed and asked if I could help you. I’m sure he would never wish that you had lost the baby, although probably he would prefer that she never existed in the first place.’

      ‘I am certain he does.’ Marguerite blew her nose defiantly and sat up. ‘I am sorry to be such a watering pot. I try to be brave, but I worry so.’