MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS by Margaret McPhee Page A

stared deeply into hers, affecting a smoulder that at best appeared contrived, and at worst as if he had contracted an ocular complaint.
    ‘How interesting, Mr Frew.’ She smiled.
    Razeby would have laughed at the response. Frew just looked slightly aggrieved.
    She refrained from teasing him further and resigned herself to a very dull evening in his company. ‘So what was that poem you recited in the Green Room the other night?’
    ‘I wrote it just for you, Miss Sweetly.’ Frew began to recite the flowery words again, but Wordsworth had nothing to worry about. After two verses she knew that if Frew made one more reference to long thrusting swords and softly dewed maidens she would not be able to keep a straight face.
    Halfway through the dance his hand took hers and their steps led them to exchange places. It was the point she had been waiting for. She glanced again towards Razeby, whispering his name in her mind as if to call him.
    Razeby’s eyes moved to meet hers, as if answering her call. She watched his gaze drop to her dress and sweep over it before coming back up to her face. She held his gaze, gave him a small teasing smile. Nice? it asked.
    Very nice, indeed! His eyes answered with an unmistakable interest.
    She gave him a naughty arch of her eyebrows, knowing full well what it would do to him, before she turned back to Frew.
    She leaned her mouth closer towards Frew’s ear, let him hold her that little bit closer than respectability decreed. ‘Tell me that last line again, Mr Frew. You do have such a way with words.’
    Frew positively puffed out his chest, and, looking like a man that thought his luck was in, he obliged.
    By the next time she could glance in Razeby’s direction she saw he was watching Frew with a distinctive glower.
    She drew Razeby an admonishing look.
    He put on his innocent face.
    She gave that smile that told him she was not fooled for a minute by his protested innocence.
    He grinned an admission.
    The dance took them away from one another. She did not see him again, only Frew. And she could not help feeling a little deflated at that. But not as disappointed as Frew at only being allowed a chaste kiss of her hand when he delivered her home.
    * * *
    When she lay in bed that night it was not Frew she was thinking of or his terrible poetry, but Razeby.
    No one could accuse her of avoiding him. Not after Dryden’s. Not after White’s. And not after tonight. She smiled because it felt like her plan was coming together. And she smiled just because she had enjoyed the little exchange with him and it made her feel warm and dangerous and excited. In the back of her mind she heard again the whisper of Venetia’s warning. There was a truth to it, she acknowledged, because as surely as Alice dangled an enticement before Razeby, she felt the pull of him. There was a rapport and an attraction that existed only with him. And that was a very dangerous thing. Venetia was right; she should have a little more care in her dealings with Razeby.
    * * *
    ‘You know you are more than welcome to come, Razeby, but do you really think it is a good idea?’ Linwood asked his friend as they sat together in the drawing room of Linwood’s home a few nights later. He got up and poured two glasses of brandy from the decanter that sat on the nearby desk, passing one of them to Razeby.
    ‘A man is entitled to one night off.’ Razeby accepted the brandy with a murmured ‘thank you’. He knew what Linwood was saying was true. Going to watch Alice in one of her plays in the company of Linwood and his wife was the worst idea in the world. He knew it and yet here he was sitting in Linwood’s drawing room, suggesting the idea. ‘Besides, I have a wish to see the play.’
    Linwood raised a single, dark, sceptical eyebrow. ‘Or a wish to see Miss Alice Sweetly.’
    ‘Maybe,’ he conceded. ‘She is the most talked-about actress in all London. Her reputation as a serious actress on stage challenges both Venetia’s