Surrender To The Marquess. Louise Allen

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СКАЧАТЬ warmth in his eyes, the faint, undeniably attractive, compression of the lines at their outer corners that hinted at a smile, was the only clue to what she suspected his thoughts were.

      He was a very handsome specimen, she supposed, managing, with an effort that was deeply annoying, not to let her thoughts show on her face. He was tall, well proportioned, with thick medium-brown hair and hazel eyes. His nose was slightly aquiline, his chin decided, his mouth...wicked. Sara was not quite certain why that was, only that staring at it was definitely unwise.

      ‘Sir?’ she prompted.

      ‘I have a sister. She is eighteen and in rather delicate health; her spirits are low and she is not at all happy to be here in Sandbay.’

      ‘She is bored, perhaps?’

      ‘Very,’ he admitted. Then, when she made no response, he condescended to explain. ‘She is not well enough for sea bathing and, in any case, she is unused to the ocean. That unfamiliarity makes her rather nervous of walking on the beach. She has no friends here and there are few very young ladies resident here, as far as I can see. At home, were she well enough, she would be attending parties and picnics, going to the theatre and dances, or shopping. At least her friends would be on hand. Here, she is not up to evening entertainments.’

      ‘You hope to find an occupation for her, something that will help her to pass the time during the day. I can understand that it might help. Can she draw or paint?’

      ‘Her governess taught her, but I do not think she ever applied herself to perfect her art. Marguerite was always too restless for that.’

      If the girl was naturally active then convalescence and its restrictions must be even more galling. ‘Can she walk at all?’

      ‘A few hundred yards along the promenade seems achievable. Then she flags and asks to return. I cannot tell whether her reluctance is weakness or depressed spirits.’

      ‘Would she come here and visit the shop to see what we can offer?’

      ‘I do not know,’ he admitted. ‘Not if I suggest it.’ He shut his mouth, tight lips betraying his anger with himself for allowing that flash of irritation to escape.

      So, the young lady was at outs with her brother. Probably she wanted to be in London with her friends, however unhealthy that grimy city was for her. ‘Then shall I come to her? I could bring some ideas for crafts she might like to try, some drawing equipment, perhaps.’ As she spoke Sara made a slight gesture with her hand at the bounty of objects in the shop. ‘Something might tempt her.’

      ‘Temptation?’ The word, spoken in that warm voice, was like a touch. He really could stand very still for a man of his size. It was faintly unnerving for some reason, even though her closest male relatives had the same quality of stillness. It came from power and fitness and the knowledge that they did not have to move to make their presence felt. But this was not her father or her brother. ‘That would be most obliging of you, Mrs Harcourt. But who would mind your shop for you? Your husband, perhaps?’

      That had been clumsy of him, the first maladroit thing he had done, and the rueful twist of those beautiful lips showed that he knew it.

      ‘I am a widow, Mr—?’ She did not expect for a moment anything other than a title, or at the very least a family name she would have heard of. She did not recognise him, but then she had been out only one Season before she married and moved to Cambridge with Michael, so it was perfectly possible to have missed him.

      ‘Dunton.’ He produced his card case and placed a rectangle of crisp pasteboard on the counter. ‘We are at the Royal Promenade Hotel.’

      ‘Where else?’ Sara murmured. With that tailoring and manner even the best private lodgings in Sandbay would not do. She took the card, felt the depth of expensive engraving under her thumb, glanced at it and found herself surprised. A plain Mister without so much as an Honourable to his name? She was not altogether certain she believed that, but she could hardly challenge the man on no evidence. Besides, as long as he was not engaged in some criminal endeavour he could call himself what he liked.

      Faint sounds of pans clattering emerged from behind the curtain screening the door to the back room. ‘Excuse me, sir. Mrs Farwell, could you spare me a moment?’

      To do him justice, Mr Dunton did not flinch when Dot emerged through the curtains, rolling pin in hand. She was a big woman, but then most of the dippers who commanded the bathing machines were. She glowered at him, which was her normal reaction when any man was close to Sara, and he returned the look with one of indifference. Dot gave a little grunt as though he had passed some test.

      ‘I am accompanying this gentleman to visit his sister at the hotel. Do you mind managing by yourself for an hour? I am not expecting more than usual to this afternoon’s tea and everything is ready to set out.’ Sara handed her henchwoman the card. Dot was not much of a reader, but it did no harm to let him see that someone else knew where she was going with Mr Dunton. She might be independent to a fault, according to her brother Ashe, but she was not reckless enough to go away with a strange gentleman without taking basic precautions. Particularly with this one who, she was certain, was not who he said he was.

      ‘Aye, all’s prepared and ready. All I need to do is to pour the hot water on the tea. Sandwiches are made, fruit cake and plain scones with strawberry jam waiting to be set out and the boy brought up a good lump of ice, so the cream and the butter are cooling nicely. I’ll take my apron off and come out the front.’ Her accent might be pure local Dorset, but none of their customers ever had any problem understanding it. If fate had decreed that Dot had been born somewhere other than a fisherman’s cottage, then she would have made even more of herself than she had already.

      ‘This is also a tea shop?’ Mr Dunton enquired as Sara took a basket and began to walk around the shop, selecting things to try and tempt his sister’s interest. It was hard to decide what to take, for Miss Dunton might be a very fragile invalid or she might simply be a wilful and tiresome brat. Time would tell.

      ‘We provide tea and refreshments twice a week. Customers come and work on their latest artistic projects, or their writing, perhaps. They exchange ideas and take tea. It provides a congenial place for ladies to congregate, somewhere they are not expected to confine themselves to idle chit-chat or to sit about looking decorative.’

      ‘And it encourages them to replenish their supplies while they are here.’

      ‘Exactly. This is a business, after all, Mr Dunton. The ladies encourage each other, take up new crafts having seen them being practised by their acquaintances and have an enjoyable few hours together. If you are ready?’

      She put on a light pelisse, tied on her new, and pleasingly dashing, bonnet and added her reticule to the craft supplies. Mr Dunton reached for the basket, Sara held on to it. ‘There is someone outside to carry it, thank you, sir. I will be back soon, Dot.’

      He held the door for her and attempted again to do polite battle for the basket, but as they emerged Tim Liddle came trotting over from the mouth of the alleyway beside the milliner’s shop opposite. He was eight and the main support of his widowed mother, so Sara gave him all the odd jobs she could find and some she had to create. He was clean but skinny, despite her best efforts to feed him up, and dressed in clothes that were worn and handed down, but his gap-toothed grin was cheerful.

      ‘Here you are, Tim. Down to the hotel with it, if you please.’ She handed over the laden basket, took Mr Dunton’s proffered arm and sent him a slanting look from under her bonnet brim as СКАЧАТЬ