The Missing Marchioness. Paula Marshall

you will allow me to escort you to your carriage.’

      What could she say to that, but ‘Thank you, m’lord.’ Anything else would have been churlish.

      ‘Excellent. This way, then,’ and he manoeuvred her out to where her carriage, piled high with her bandboxes and other paraphernalia, was waiting.

      Once outside, though, when she lifted her small hand from his arm he took it gently into his large one, saying, ‘I hope that all went well with m’sister’s trousseau, madame.’

      Why was she so breathless? Why was he so overwhelming? She had even faced Sywell down, so why should one admittedly large, but extremely civilised, nobleman have this peculiar effect on her?

      She wanted to snatch her hand away, but reason said go slowly, lest she say, or do, more than she should. She could not believe how cool her voice sounded when she finally spoke.

      ‘Very well, m’lord. Both your sister and her mama were very easy to please, since our tastes coincided.’

      ‘Excellent,’ Marcus said again. Something seemed to be depriving him of sensible speech but what could he say to detain her which would not sound as though he were trying to coerce her into meeting him again? Which was, of course, what he wanted to do!

      ‘I believe that your premises are in Bond Street.’

      His eyes on her were now admiring, no doubt of that. It was, perhaps, fortunate, Louise thought, that her horses suddenly grew impatient.

      ‘It is time that I left,’ she said slowly. ‘I have further engagements this afternoon.’

      Marcus could not help himself. ‘With your husband, I suppose.’

      Well, at last, here was something to which she could give a straight answer.

      ‘No, I am not married. I am a widow,’ she added. Perhaps that would deter him from pursuing her further, since that was obviously what he wished to do.

      ‘Not recently, I hope,’ he said.

      Marcus thought that for sheer banality this conversation took some beating.

      Louise thought so, too. What in the world is wrong with us?

      ‘Not quite,’ she replied—and what kind of an answer was that?

      Marcus released her hand, but not before kissing it.

      ‘You will allow me to assist you into the carriage.’

      Her hand out of his, Louise felt that some sustaining presence had vanished. It was an odd feeling for her, for she had grown used to being self-sufficient. The presence reappeared when he helped her up, and disappeared again when he let go of her.

      She was aware, although she made no effort to look back at him, that he watched her until her carriage was out of sight. Something told her that it might not be long before she saw him again—and that something was right.

      The question was, could she afford to know him?—however much she might want to. Anonymity had been her protector since the day when she had fled Steepwood Abbey, to find safety far from her tormentor, and from anyone who might remember poor little Louise Hanslope.

      Marcus watched her carriage go, his mind in a whirl. Like Louise, he could not believe the strength of his reaction to someone whom he had only just met. He must see her again, he must.

      But how?