The Reluctant Marquess by Maggi Andersen Page A

his hands felt on her body.
    She couldn’t even be near him like this and not want to be in his arms, to be engulfed by his strength and his maleness, and relish her own feminine power. She wanted also, quite desperately, to offer him tenderness and her love. Would that have happened if she’d insisted they go to her chamber?
    She wanted to explain that to him, but he’d retreated into his shell again and was as remote from her as the first night they met.
    Their sad lack of conversation continued as the first course was served. Not able to speak of important issues, Charity wracked her brain to find something light and amusing and failed. She swallowed a little of the oyster soup. When the course was replaced, she pushed potted asparagus around her plate.
    By the time the peacock pie was removed along with the vegetable dish, Charity could bear the silence no longer. She had to speak even if it meant an argument would ensue. “Did you have a pleasant afternoon?”
    “I did. And you?”
    “Not very. Robert …”
    “Not here, Charity.” He frowned as a servant brought in the dessert course.
    Charity declined the syllabub and selected a nut from the dish. “I thought I’d wear my damask this evening.”
    He lowered his wine glass. “What about the sea green?”
    “The Italian silk? If you’d like me to.” She was pleased that he expressed an interest.
    “Yes, it makes you look regal.”
    Regal? Charity would never have chosen such a word to apply to herself. Was that what he wished of her? Then it was understandable why she’d failed to impress him or gain his affection. Must she spend the rest of her life attempting to look regal? She didn’t know where to begin. Perhaps the dress of his choice would help. She threw down her napkin. “If you’ll excuse me, I must dress.”
    Brigitte had just begun the finishing touches to Charity’s toilette, when a knock sounded at the door. Charity gave a nervous start. “That must be Robert.” Had he come to inspect her and see if she looked regal enough?
    She swallowed as feelings of inadequacy consumed her.
    A footman bowed. “Lord Southmore is below, my lady. He wishes to attend while you dress.”
    “Watch me dress?” Appalled, Charity frowned into the mirror and pulled her wrap over her bosom. “What can he mean?”
    “He asks to come to your boudoir, my lady,” Brigitte said, “to assist with the placing of your patches, jewelry and hair adornment. It is often done.”
    “Indeed?” Charity thought this a most deplorable fashion.
    “You would insult him should you refuse, my lady.”
    Charity remembered Robert’s warning about his friend, but it only served to make her rebellious. Would Robert be just a little jealous to find he’d been here? “This is the way of things?”
    “Oh yes, my lady. I have seen it many times.”
    She was sure that Lord Southmore didn’t wish her to look regal. “Have him come up,” she said.
    Shortly afterward, the elegant man, dressed in peach satin, entered the room and came to kiss her hand. “Lady St Malin.”
    How civil he was. And quite attractive, she hadn’t noticed that before. She felt sure that a man such as he would never give a woman a moment’s heartache. “Lord Southmore.”
    He settled on a chair beside her as Brigitte opened the box containing patches. “Now let me see. One here, I think.” He traced her cheekbone with a feather light touch. “And one at the very corner of your mouth, to highlight one of your best features.” He brushed her bottom lip with the tips of his fingers before withdrawing his hand.
    Charity wanted to giggle, but as Lord Southmore appeared quite serious, she said, “Thank you, my lord. I appreciate your assistance.”
    His gaze moved over her, the warm light in his eyes failing to match his impersonal tone. “Now for the hair.” He turned to study her waiting gown. “An excellent choice. That lovely shade of green will pay homage to your eyes. For your hair, those