She came to him, her eyes full of tender laughter. ‘Oh, my love, I know you better than you know yourself !’ she said huskily. ‘At the first hint of opposition, you’ll coerce me shamefully. Oh, Vidal! Vidal! ’
He had caught her in his arms so fiercely that the breath was almost crushed out of her. His dark face swam before her eyes for an instant, then his mouth was locked to hers, in a kiss so hard that her lips felt bruised. She yielded, carried away half-swooning on the tide of his passion. But in a moment she struggled to get her hands free, and at once his hold on her slackened. She flung up her arms round his neck, and with a queer little sound between a sob and a laugh, buried her face in his coat.
Nineteen
Miss Challoner appeared at the breakfast hour next morning rather shy, her face delicately tinged with colour. She found both the Marquis and his father in the parlour, and an elderly dapper little Frenchman whom she discovered to be his grace’s valet.
The Marquis carried her hand to his lips, and held it there for a moment. His grace said in his bored voice: ‘I trust you slept well, child. Pray be seated. Gaston, you will take my chaise immediately to Dijon, where you will find her grace.’
‘Bien, monseigneur.’
‘You will bring her to this place. Also my Lord Rupert, Miss Marling, and Mr Comyn. That is all, Gaston.’
There had been a day when Gaston would have been appalled by such an order, but twenty-five years in Avon’s service had left their mark.
‘Bien, monseigneur,’ he replied without the smallest sign of surprise and bowed himself out.
The Marquis said impetuously: ‘I’ll make that fellow Hammond marry us, Mary, at once.’
‘Very well,’ said Miss Challoner equably.
‘You will be married,’ said his grace, ‘in Paris, at the Embassy.’
‘But, sir –’
‘A little coffee, my lord?’ said Miss Challoner.
‘I never touch it. Sir –’
‘If his grace wishes you to be married at the Embassy, my lord, I won’t be married anywhere else,’ stated Miss Challoner calmly.
The Marquis said: ‘You won’t, eh? Sir, it’s very well, but it will cause a deal of talk.’
‘I rather think that it will,’ agreed Avon. ‘I had no time on my way through Paris to arrange the details. But I have no doubt that my friend Sir Giles will have done so by this time.’
Miss Challoner regarded him in frank wonderment. ‘Is my grandfather in Paris then, sir?’
‘Certainly,’ said his grace. ‘I should tell you, my child, that officially you are in his company.’
‘Am I, sir?’ Miss Challoner blinked at him. ‘Then you did meet him at Newmarket?’
‘Let us say, rather, that he came to find me at Newmarket,’ he amended. ‘He is staying in an hôtel which he has hired for some few weeks. You, my dear Mary, are at present keeping your room, on account of some slight disorder of the system. The betrothal between yourself and my son is of long, though secret standing. Hitherto’ – his grace touched his lips with his napkin, and laid it down – ‘Hitherto, both Sir Giles and myself have refused our consent on your marriage.’
‘Have you?’ said Mary, quite fascinated.
‘Obviously. But Vidal’s banishment to France so attacked your sensibilities, my dear child, that you seemed to be in danger of going into a decline. This induced Sir Giles and myself to relent.’
‘Oh, no!’ begged Miss Challoner. ‘Not a decline, sir! I am not such a poor creature!’
‘I am desolated to be obliged to contradict you, Mary, but you were certainly on the brink of a decline,’ said Avon firmly.
Miss Challoner sighed. ‘Well, if you insist, sir… What next?’
‘Next,’ said Avon, ‘the Duchess and myself came to Paris to grace the ceremony with our presence. We have not yet arrived, but we shall do so in a day or two. I imagine we are somewhere in the neighbourhood of Calais at the moment. When we do arrive we shall hold a rout-party in your honour. You will be formally presented to society as my son’s future wife. Which reminds me, that I cannot sufficiently praise your admirable discretion in refusing to go about when you sojourned with my cousin Elisabeth.’
Miss Challoner felt herself bound to say: ‘There is one person who met me at the Hôtel Charbonne, sir. The Vicomte de Valmé.’
‘You can leave Bertrand to me,’ interposed the Marquis. ‘This is all very well thought of, sir, but when does our marriage take place?’