Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus by MC Beaton Page B

Blenkinsop went slowly upstairs. She had not enjoyed herself so much in a long time. She thought fleetingly and guiltily of the duchess. Well, she hadn’t meant to humiliate the girl anyway; simply to meet her. And she had asked the marquis in order to discover whether he was enamored of Polly. But the marquis’s face had been like a well-bred mask. Pity! They made such a handsome pair.
    Then she gave a happy chuckle as she thought of her banished husband and rang the bell to tell Wilkins to tell the cook to take every grain of curry powder in the kitchen and throw the stuff on the garbage heap. Sir Edward would not be dining at home again. Not if she could help it.
    The marquis and Polly traveled a good length of the way back to the center of London in chilly silence. Polly was still furious with him for his disparaging remarks at Brown’s and for his part, the marquis thought sourly that the girl was too attractive for her own good.
    At last, as the horses were clopping toward Euston, some imp forced him to say, “Still expecting to marry my brother, Miss Marsh?”
    “Of course,” said Polly, turning her head to stare out of the window. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss a lady unless he means to marry her.”
    “Don’t be so naive,” drawled the marquis. “If all the men married all the girls they’d kissed, we’d have polygamy all over the country. A kiss means nothing. It’s simply a pleasant gallantry that leads to… well, never mind.”
    She looked at him with slightly disdainful and inquiring surprise, the light of a gas lamp shining on her gold curls, making her large eyes great black pools of mysterious depths.
    He swore gently and pulled her toward him. She stared as if mesmerized at the white high-nosed face bending over her and the thin, mobile mouth coming closer to hers.
    His thin, cool lips pressed gently against hers, much as Peter’s had done, and then pressed closer as his tongue gently parted her mouth. And then all the skyrockets and Catherine wheels and Roman candles burst and rocketed across a sky of deep black velvet.
    The carriage came to a stop. Polly wrenched herself from his arms, stumbled from the carriage, and ran into the hostel.
    The marquis sat as still as a statue, staring straight ahead, his eyes hooded by his heavy lids and his chin sunken into his fur coat while his carriage rumbled over the cobblestones toward the West End of London.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The November gales whistled and roared through the twisting streets of the City, swept up the Strand to Leicester Square, scampered along the Tottenham Court Road and, howling along Goodge Street and increasing in force by the minute, plunged into Euston and tore slates from the roofs, sent chimney pots flying and sent whirlwinds dancing around the arch of Euston Station.
    Polly Marsh was worried. She rose shivering and tiptoed across the icy linoleum to the washstand in the corner. The water in the ewer had a small film of soot on it as the gale seemed to have forced the output of London’s chimneys through every crack in her small room.
    Lord Peter Burley had not written. He had not replied to her many letters although she had kept them light, gossipy, and friendly, and had not mentioned anything about their future together.
    Westerman’s was to have its first Christmas party ever, and Polly had dreamed of announcing her engagement before that time and then gracefully retiring from the grubby world of commerce. She had tossed and turned all night in her narrow bed, dreaming endlessly of walking in St James’s Park with Lord Peter. But every time he bent his head to kiss her, his face faded to be replaced by that of the marquis. And what was even more horrible about these dreams was that she was always glad it was the marquis instead of Lord Peter.
    She carefully put on the scarlet velvet dress that was now smelling strongly of benzine from repeated cleanings. Her precious store of rice powder was nearly finished. Polly sighed.