Maggie (12 page)

“She and my aunt have been sightseeing. I haven’t seen much of either of them. Perhaps I will take both of them to the opera tonight. I have a box.”

“You simply must bring Miss Dunglass to one of my salons.”

“Who?”

“Your cousin.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I mean, I don’t think she would accept. Very retiring sort of girl. We always end up talking about her. Let’s talk about you, Dolly.” He smiled into her eyes and Dolly smiled back, not really seeing the earl but only the Strathairn fortune.

Miss Rochester was thrown into quite a flutter by the invitation to the opera. To date, she had carefully concealed her disappointment in the earl, for he had not offered to take them anywhere at all, and although she was enjoying an innocent sort of day-trippers’ London life, with visits to Madame Tussaud’s and the Tower and places like that, it did seem irritating to be perpetually
out
of society when one’s host was
in
.

Most of the new gowns she and Maggie had ordered had been delivered just that day. Miss Rochester was clever enough to know that she had no dress sense whatsoever and had put them both in the willing hands of Madame Vernée, a modiste with a clever eye for line and colour. Her bills were staggering but Miss Rochester had naively assumed that since the earl seemed prepared to pay that ridiculous decorator’s bill, then he would hardly quibble at the expense of a few gowns and mantles.

Maggie, too, was flustered by the unexpected invitation. Unlike Miss Rochester, she did not long to venture into society. She had thoroughly enjoyed the outings with her new friend, and Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London were more suited to her unsophisticated tastes than any grand ball or party.

She had resigned herself to the fact that the earl would shortly announce his engagement to Mrs. Murray. Mrs. Murray must be very charming and beautiful, thought Maggie wistfully.

Maggie felt the earl had been very kind to her and
wondered that she had ever thought him a wild young man who enjoyed proposing marriage to accused murderesses in order to satisfy some decadent need.

Sometimes in the privacy of her bedroom, Maggie could not help wishing that life had been different and that she were in fact married to the earl, but she quickly suppressed these thoughts, putting them down to vanity. The earl was rich and handsome. But she wasn’t in love with him and so it was wicked to even think of marriage. Maggie had only recently begun to read novels again and it seemed quite logical to her now that one only married for love, and that to find that luxury you had to be high-born. Why else would all these novels only deal with the yearnings of Lady This and Lord That? For people of her own degree, there was only lust followed by child-bearing.

That evening, as he waited downstairs in the drawing-room, the Earl of Strathairn smiled wryly at his own snobbery. It would have been fun to go to the opera with the dazzling and chic Dolly Murray on his arm instead of two ladies who would undoubtedly be dressed in the worst of provincial taste.

He had no fear of meeting the Marquess of Handley, Lord Robey or Alistair Ashton. To his request for news of these gentlemen, his chamberlain at Strathairn had informed him that the marquess was in Deauville and the other two were safely tucked away on their estates.

Miss Rochester was the first to enter the drawing-room and the earl looked at her with surprised appreciation.

Nothing could be done to make Miss Rochester look beautiful but she did look magnificent in an imposing way. She was wearing a modish gown of claret-coloured satin, cut low to reveal a surprisingly white pair of shoulders. Her pepper-and-salt hair had been piled high on her head and frizzled at the front to disguise her knobbly forehead. Artificial claret-coloured silk roses were threaded in her hair
and she carried a magnificent osprey fan with diamonded sticks. She minced forward on the unaccustomed height of a pair of French heels and looked at the earl timidly.

“I don’t look an old fright, do I?”

The earl handed her a glass of sherry. “You look marvellous,” he said. “All the young fellows will be fighting to take you away from me.”

Miss Rochester gave a girlish giggle. “Wait till you see Maggie, and you won’t even look at me,” she crowed.

“Nobody could outshine you this evening,” said the earl quietly. “You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel all these years.”

“I’m glad it’s worth it,” said Miss Rochester. “My corset is killing me.”

The earl grinned and then turned as the door of the drawing-room opened and Maggie Macleod walked in.

He stood looking at her in absolute amazement while Miss Rochester watched him gleefully.

Maggie was dressed in a gown of pale lilac chiffon which seemed to have been moulded to her figure. The skirt was caught up at the back into a bustle and layer upon layer of scallopped chiffon cascaded down to form a short train. Her shoulders rose from the tight bodice, white and soft and feminine.

Her glossy hair was piled up on her small head in an intricate arrangement of gleaming curls. Her eyes were very wide and dark in the exquisite oval of her face. The only make-up she wore was a little rouge on her lips. She carried a black lace fan and a heavy green and gold opera cloak over one arm.

Maggie looked at the earl nervously. He was staring at her in such an odd way. He was wearing faultless evening dress with a scarlet-lined opera cloak, fastened with a gold chain, slung around his shoulders.

“I know what you need, Maggie,” he said suddenly, and
quickly left the room.

“What’s the matter?” asked Maggie nervously. “Doesn’t he like my gown?”

“Oh, he likes it all right,” said Miss Rochester cheerfully. “I wonder what he’s doing.”

In a few moments the earl was back, carrying a flat morocco leather box. He opened it and lifted out the necklace he had bought for Mrs. Murray and said to Maggie, “Turn around.”

“Oh, those are for Mrs. Murray!” cried Maggie, looking thoroughly upset.

“Well, I agree I shouldn’t give Mrs. Murray expensive presents until we are engaged,” said the earl lightly. “But there is nothing to stop me giving them to my cousin.”

“Do as he says and let him put the things on,” urged Miss Rochester. “You need some jewels.”

Maggie meekly turned around and the earl clasped the diamond necklace about her neck. She trembled slightly as his hands touched her skin.

Roshie came in to announce the carriage was waiting and stared at the vision that was Maggie Macleod.

“Michty me!” exclaimed Roshie. “Ye look like a princess.”

The earl held out one arm to Maggie and the other to his aunt. Strange the workings of fashion, mused Maggie, that even Roshie should look at her without his customary disapproval.

It was as well, the earl thought, that Maggie was so totally and completely engrossed in the performance of her first opera. She was quite unaware that she had created a sensation from the moment she had arrived at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. Men and women alike jostled each other aside to get a better look.

When the opera,
Rigoletto
, began, Maggie leaned forward slightly, her lips parted, engrossed in the music. Miss
Rochester immediately fell asleep.

The earl was all at once aware of Maggie’s nearness. She was wearing a delicate, subtle perfume unlike the heady musky scents Dolly Murray wore. He had certainly been aware before that Maggie was a pretty girl. It was only this evening that he realized she was beautiful. It was not only her appearance but her air of soft femininity and the way she seemed to sway slightly as she walked.

Disloyally, he felt that Dolly Murray would have been all too aware of the admiration and would have paid little attention to the music, waiting only for the interval so that she could be ‘on stage’ with her crowd of admirers.

He reminded himself severely that he was in love with Dolly, intended to marry her, and that this fair charmer beside him had probably put arsenic in her husband’s tea.

He glanced at Maggie sideways, at the beautiful shape of her mouth and wondered what it would be like to kiss her, to place his hands on those perfect breasts, cunningly revealed by the tight chiffon bodice of her gown. He tried to fight his thoughts which were becoming increasingly erotic, putting them down to the darkness and intimacy of the opera box and to the enchantment of the soaring music.

The earl longed for the interval when the lights would go on and Maggie Macleod would revert back to the little Highland girl he had brought south from Glasgow, instead of this disturbing enchantress whose skin gleamed like pearl in the darkness of the box and whose perfume was doing exciting things to his senses.

But when the lights went up and Miss Rochester slept on, Maggie turned and faced him, a drowned look in her eyes, and said simply, “I did not think there was anything so beautiful in the whole world.”

“Neither did I,” said the earl quietly, but he was not talking about the music.

As the opera went on and the Duke taunted and Rigoletto
plotted revenge, the earl envied Maggie her absorption in the music. Her silk-gloved hands lay in her lap and he had a longing to stretch out and take one of her hands in his. He remembered how ill she had been and how he had called in the best doctor he could find and then how he had escaped to London. How could he ever have left her?

“Steady boy,” he admonished himself. “It’s a trick of the music. You love Dolly Murray, dammit. You can’t fall in and out of love like this. The minute you see Dolly again it will be all right.”

He was to see Dolly again sooner than he knew.

Mrs. Murray had visited her aunt, had held her hand, and had talked about the sheer Christian goodness of making a will. But her aunt had fallen into a deep sleep in the middle of this interesting monologue, leaving Dolly bored and restless. She glanced at the watch pinned to her bosom. Eight o’clock. All at once she decided to return to London. She would have time to change and be at the opera for the final curtain. That way she would get a glimpse of this mysterious cousin of Peter’s.

The earl descended the stairs of the opera house with Maggie on his arm, stopping to introduce her to some of his new friends, noting the jealousy in the women’s eyes and the hunger in those of the men.

Maggie smiled prettily and said little. Miss Rochester was yawning horribly and muttering that opera always sent her to sleep.

And then, he saw Dolly Murray standing at the bottom of the stairs. She looked handsome, sparkling and bright, her glossy brown curls swept up under a magnificent tiara of diamonds and rubies. Her black and rose-pink striped gown was daringly cut. Her eyes, which had looked at the earl with such roguish tenderness, now held a steely glint as they fastened on the necklace of diamonds glittering against the white skin of Maggie’s bosom.

The earl made the introductions, and Maggie smiled at the other woman and said warmly, “I am so glad to meet you at last. Peter has told me such a lot about you.”

“Indeed!” Dolly gave a brittle little laugh. “I mean, how frightfully
odd
. He has told me absolutely
nothing
about you. But that’s my Peter for you. You must come to one of my salons and meet some of my
younger
gentlemen friends, although darling Peter is so possessive, I think he has frightened most of them away. You know Sir Percy Blythe, don’t you?”

The earl nodded and introduced Dolly’s escort to Maggie. Sir Percy was a young man with a great waxed moustache and ingenuous hazel eyes. “By Jove!” he said, seizing Maggie’s hand and pumping it up and down. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He had moved close to Maggie as he spoke and she blushed with embarrassment and recoiled a little. The earl put a protective arm around her shoulders, caught the startled look in Dolly’s eyes, and hurriedly withdrew it.

Dolly had every reason to look surprised. Gentlemen and ladies did not touch in public, no matter how intimate they might be in private. Putting your arm around a woman at the opera was tantamount to a proposal of marriage.

Dolly decided the sooner she broke up this little gathering, the better. She was clever enough to know that she was appearing at a disadvantage beside this cousin.

“Call on me tomorrow, Peter,” murmured Dolly, giving him an intimate smile. “Come, Percy.”

Percy, who had been staring open-mouthed at Maggie, gave himself a shake like a dog and led Mrs. Murray away.

Dolly Murray burned with rage and jealousy. She realized it was not only the Strathairn fortune she wanted to get her hands on, but Peter himself. He had looked so distinguished and handsome tonight, and…

“They make a splendid couple, Strathairn and Miss Dunglass,” said Sir Percy brightly.

“You make my head ache,” snapped Dolly. “Stop goggling at me like a stuffed cod and take me home.”

Maggie and the earl were very quiet as the carriage bearing them back to Charlton Street swung around into the Strand. The earl tugged down the window letting in a wave of warm night air with its smell of hot pies, cigar smoke and patchouli.

Miss Rochester wondered if they had quarrelled but she was too sleepy to care, and, when they arrived home, she excused herself, muttering to Maggie that all she wanted to do was get off her corsets and have a good scratch.

The earl felt suddenly restless, his thoughts confused. “I want to walk,” he said suddenly. “I don’t think I can sleep.”

“Neither can I,” said Maggie softly. Her glittering evening had somehow fallen in ruins about her feet the minute she had seen the hard, accusing eyes of Dolly Murray.

“Come with me,” said the earl. “We’ll walk until we’re tired.”

Maggie nodded as if the suggestion of a walk around the London streets at midnight was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll change into something more suitable,” she said, unclasping the necklace and handing it to him.

“Keep it,” said the earl harshly. “I wish I’d never seen the bloody thing.”

“I’ll put it away and give it to you in the morning,” said Maggie quietly. “Are you jealous of Sir Percy?”

“Good heavens, no!” said the earl in great surprise. “Should I be?”