skirts would set off her lissom charms to perfection.
Besides, Madame Heloise liked Mademoiselle Meg. Liked her so much that in their second session, as she made some minor adjustments to the silken ivory sheath in which Meg was to be married, she dropped her French accent and told Meg, through a mouthful of pins, to, ‘stop the Madame Heloise rubbish…’ and just call her ‘plain Louisa’ since that was what her parents had christened her anyway!
Meg had stared at her in stunned amazement and then burst into a delighted peal of laughter, in which Louisa Thwaites had joined wholeheartedly. She had explained with a grin that every shopkeeper in York knew she was no more French than a bannock, but it would never do for her exalted clients to guess as much! By which admission Meg, who was rapidly gaining the aforementioned confidence, adjudged she was one of a favoured few.
Those four weeks wrought a miraculous change inMeg. For ten years she had not known what it was to be consulted as to her wishes, deferred to and considered in every possible way. Now she was left in no possible doubt that even if her betrothed did not love her, he wished her to be happy and fully intended to look after her.
He even spent quite a lot of time with her while she stayed at the vicarage. He tooled her about the countryside in his curricle, remained to dine with her and never gave the slightest hint that she was not precisely what he had intended his bride to be. The only thing that bothered her was that he had never kissed her again after she had accepted his offer of marriage. The memory kept her awake at nights as she wondered if she had done something wrong, if his lordship had not liked kissing her. Then she reminded herself that he did not offer love and perhaps preferred to kiss her only when absolutely required to. She would do better not to dwell on the magical touch of his lips…
Instead she concentrated on his politeness, his charm of manner and his unfailing kindness to her. He seemed to take pains in remembering her likes and dislikes. She remembered clearly the first afternoon he had come to visit her and had suggested she might ring for a pot of tea…
‘How do you like it, Meg?’ he had asked, preparing to pour her a cup and calmly ignoring the convention dictating that she should pour for him.
Flushing deeply, she had admitted that Cousin Samuel had forbidden her to drink tea, on the grounds that it was far too expensive and he did not wish her to develop extravagant tastes.
Marcus had informed her that he would take it as a personal insult if his bride lost any time in acquiring asmany extravagant tastes as possible! He had then enlarged her vocabulary with a pithy and unflattering series of remarks on the subject of their mutual relative as he poured her a cup of tea, reducing her to helpless giggles, and the very next time he had come to take her driving he had brought her a gift.
Elegantly wrapped, he had dropped it on her knees after lifting her up into his curricle to go for a drive. She stared at it in disbelief…a present…a real present.
She opened it with hands that shook as he got up beside her and set the horses in motion. It was a tea caddy, full to the brim with fragrant tea. A dainty, leaf-shaped silver caddy spoon sat on top of the tea and eight silver teaspoons were revealed when Marcus showed her the cunningly hidden drawer at the bottom. And she had found herself unable to speak, with silent tears pouring down her cheeks.
Since she had come to Fenby no one had ever given her any sort of present at all, let alone one that showed such attention to detail, that tried in an odd way to make up for everything that had been lacking in her life. True, Marcus was providing all those lovely clothes, but no doubt they were just what he felt his countess ought to have. This—this was somehow different. This was for Meg—not the Countess-to-be.
Her silence had totally unnerved Marcus. Never in his life
Besides, Madame Heloise liked Mademoiselle Meg. Liked her so much that in their second session, as she made some minor adjustments to the silken ivory sheath in which Meg was to be married, she dropped her French accent and told Meg, through a mouthful of pins, to, ‘stop the Madame Heloise rubbish…’ and just call her ‘plain Louisa’ since that was what her parents had christened her anyway!
Meg had stared at her in stunned amazement and then burst into a delighted peal of laughter, in which Louisa Thwaites had joined wholeheartedly. She had explained with a grin that every shopkeeper in York knew she was no more French than a bannock, but it would never do for her exalted clients to guess as much! By which admission Meg, who was rapidly gaining the aforementioned confidence, adjudged she was one of a favoured few.
Those four weeks wrought a miraculous change inMeg. For ten years she had not known what it was to be consulted as to her wishes, deferred to and considered in every possible way. Now she was left in no possible doubt that even if her betrothed did not love her, he wished her to be happy and fully intended to look after her.
He even spent quite a lot of time with her while she stayed at the vicarage. He tooled her about the countryside in his curricle, remained to dine with her and never gave the slightest hint that she was not precisely what he had intended his bride to be. The only thing that bothered her was that he had never kissed her again after she had accepted his offer of marriage. The memory kept her awake at nights as she wondered if she had done something wrong, if his lordship had not liked kissing her. Then she reminded herself that he did not offer love and perhaps preferred to kiss her only when absolutely required to. She would do better not to dwell on the magical touch of his lips…
Instead she concentrated on his politeness, his charm of manner and his unfailing kindness to her. He seemed to take pains in remembering her likes and dislikes. She remembered clearly the first afternoon he had come to visit her and had suggested she might ring for a pot of tea…
‘How do you like it, Meg?’ he had asked, preparing to pour her a cup and calmly ignoring the convention dictating that she should pour for him.
Flushing deeply, she had admitted that Cousin Samuel had forbidden her to drink tea, on the grounds that it was far too expensive and he did not wish her to develop extravagant tastes.
Marcus had informed her that he would take it as a personal insult if his bride lost any time in acquiring asmany extravagant tastes as possible! He had then enlarged her vocabulary with a pithy and unflattering series of remarks on the subject of their mutual relative as he poured her a cup of tea, reducing her to helpless giggles, and the very next time he had come to take her driving he had brought her a gift.
Elegantly wrapped, he had dropped it on her knees after lifting her up into his curricle to go for a drive. She stared at it in disbelief…a present…a real present.
She opened it with hands that shook as he got up beside her and set the horses in motion. It was a tea caddy, full to the brim with fragrant tea. A dainty, leaf-shaped silver caddy spoon sat on top of the tea and eight silver teaspoons were revealed when Marcus showed her the cunningly hidden drawer at the bottom. And she had found herself unable to speak, with silent tears pouring down her cheeks.
Since she had come to Fenby no one had ever given her any sort of present at all, let alone one that showed such attention to detail, that tried in an odd way to make up for everything that had been lacking in her life. True, Marcus was providing all those lovely clothes, but no doubt they were just what he felt his countess ought to have. This—this was somehow different. This was for Meg—not the Countess-to-be.
Her silence had totally unnerved Marcus. Never in his life
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