Awaiting Percy

<Percy>

Within the strictures of London society, everything must pay strict attention to form. Sir Percy Blakeney had followed the dictates of society to the letter, having drunk himself under the table at White�s club. No one was shocked. The game of loo continued around him as an usher helped drag Percy to his feet and help him out the back door, pushing him in the direction of the stable. It was more credit to Sultan than Blakeney that he arrived home.

Unsteady on his feet, Percy swayed against Sultan�s side, gaining his land-legs before trying to choose which of the three blurs before him was the door to the manor. A regiment of footmen, about three of them resembling Henshaw, arrived pell mell down the stairs.

�Welcome home, sir,� the voice of Henshaw said. Percy blinked and tried to focus.

�Sounds like the right place,� he told the voice. As Sultan stepped ahead, Percy�s knees buckled. �Let me just sit here for...� Sit. He sat. Leaned.

Rested his head on the step. Closed his eyes. He willed the ground to stop whirling. Willed his stomach to stop churning.

Why couldn�t he just die?

�Drunk as a lord,� he heard the voice of Henshaw say from a few steps away. �Milady shall be ever so furious to see him in this condition - again.�

Percy�s stomach lurched once more. Milady. Damnation, why couldn�t his lady and his marriage all have been nothing but a bad dream? A very bad dream.

Marguerite sat in the parlor pouring through Rousseau�s "Discourse on the Inequalities of Men" and reflecting on how drastically life had turned her from her country, from her career, from the realization of the ideals inspired by the author she was reading and into the arms... or rather home of Sir Percy Blakeney. What a fool she had been to marry him, what a fool she had been to think he loved her. That was the part that troubled her most, the sudden change, the foppish persona... so far removed from the passionate lover she had fallen in love with. Now all he offered her was liberal use of his fortune, name to impress the wealth, and a source to sharpen her wit upon.

It was just after midnight , when a rush of footsteps to the front door heralded her husband's return. She set down her book and rose to meet his lordship, wondering what condition the dandy would be in this evening.

Straightening her hair and gown, Marguerite swept out of the parlor and into the foyer. Her sharp ears caught the words, �Milady shall be ever so furious to see him in this condition again.� So, he was drunk again! Marguerite followed the voice outside and saw the swoon frowned and crossed her arms, how could she not have seen this before she married him. "Take Sir Percy's mount to the stable," Marguerite ordered.

"Henshaw, would you help his lordship to his room? I suggest dunking his head in water a few times to sober him up!"

<Percy>

Percy leaned against Henshaw as he made his way up the stairs to the colonnaded entrance hall of Blakeney Manor. He blinked in the light of a hundred candles brightening the sweeping Adam staircase. Midday at midnight � the idea made him giggle. He lived in a privileged world where despite hours of drinking to blot out the vision of his world, it was lit to penetrating brightness. He could not escape.

"I suggest dunking his head in water a few times to sober him up!" So spoke his virago wife. A sylph of brightness he�d worshipped on the stage, a sliver of passion in his arms, how had she become this censorious bitch?

He lurched out of Henshaw�s grip. "Leave me," he barked at the footman. Straightening himself, Percy made his way (groggily) toward the library. Walls of cream and gilt. Oak shelves piled with sumptuous editions of the classes. Did his lady read Cicero in the original Greek? Or was she thumbing her way through his illustrated edition of Fanny Hill: A Woman of Pleasure and remembering her past life on the streets of Paris ? He smirked at that thought.

Little tramp. She�d convinced him she was... well, not pure exactly, but certainly not given to sharing her favours with anyone who took her fancy. She�d said things about love that had made him feel privileged to kiss her.

"My wife!" He shouted at her from the doorway of the library. He leaned against the doorframe, a counterpoint to the yellow silk walls in his sapphire blue coat. "I shall speak to you, Lady Wife."

He lurched into the room and slammed the door behind him. "Stay. Sit. I have news to share with you. Enlightening news."

Marguerite sighed her disapproval, but swept pass him and sat as he had bid her. She eyed him skeptically as he slammed the door and lurched across the room in his drunken stupor. "Ah, wisdom from the eminent Sir Percy Blakeney! Such a rare privilege! Speak, sir. I am rapt with anticipation," she responded, noting the caustic tones that conversations with her husband seemed to inspire.

She remembered the unwavering adulation he had bestowed upon her before they married. He had worshipped her blindly, passionately, with such ardent intensity that it went straight to her heart. Had she loved him then? At the age of four-and-twenty, she naturally thought that it was not in her nature to love, but she was ready and willing to accept and respond with all tenderness to his devotion. But so soon after they had wed veneration had transform into contempt, and she was startled by the loneliness and unhappiness that seemed to grow inside her since.

An abrupt movement from the tottering Sir Percy dispelled these reflections; it was so easy to aim her shafts at him, than to acknowledge the emptiness she felt. "You spoke of enlightening news?" she prompted coldly.

<Percy>

Percy flicked a curl from his ribboned queue off his shoulder and attempted a masterful pose. Feet wide apart, spine rigid, hands clasped behind his back.

"You are making a success of yourself in London society; we owe Lady Melbourne a debt of gratitude for launching you. You are the topic of every conversation, as am I, and the word on everyone's lips is cuckold."

His dark blue eyes were as black as midnight as he looked Marguerite up and down. She wore brown striped silk that complemented her hair. Uncovered hair. In Percy�s world women covered their heads, from maids in mob caps to ladies in lace edged turbans, but Marguerite left her hair both uncovered and unpowdered. Gleaming and soft. He raised his hand to touch her hair, then pulled away abruptly, remembering.

"What I hear whispered is that Sir Percy is cuckolded by his French whore of a wife. That slimy snake Chauvelin - you've been seen slinking about London with him!" Once again he clasped his hands together to keep himself from slapping her.

"An upstart. A nobody. Lord Marguerite, if you wish an affair, why not choose someone respectable like Lord Grey or the Prince." He hadn�t meant to say that. Anger was making him careless. He made it sound like he would be willing to share her favours and he would not.

"You were seen meeting Chauvelin at the Chartroom Eating House. A common eating house, Marguerite! The only women seen inside an establishment such as that are paid by the hour. I hope you charged a fair price for your favours, dear heart, because your reputation � and mine - has been ripped to shreds."

Percy tried to read the truth of these accusations in Marguerite's blanched cheeks, in her glittering eyes. How much brandy had he swallowed as he worked up the courage to face her? He needed to show strength when he wanted to bury his face in her skirts and cry.

"You were smarter when I knew you in Paris. At least then you covered your tracks. Certainly, I had no idea that you were a tramp, Lady Blakeney. Everywhere I go I see Chauvelin's worm-ridden countenance. At Lady Ossory's supper, at the Duchess of Devonshire's card party, at Lady Melbourne's rout. I can't turn around without feeling his eyes boring through my back. The only place where I can be free of his miserable presence is at a gentleman's club. Your little spy cannot penetrate the recesses of a gentleman's club! So what happens? No sooner do I find a safe haven than I am assailed by whispers from all corners. 'Have you seen Blakeney's French whore with her little spy, Chauvelin?'"

Percy stabbed Marguerite with a finger, jabbed inelegantly against her breast bone. "I heard that from Pitt. Mr. Pitt, if you can imagine! Deep in his cups and hiccupping through the words, "Just to warn you, old chap. That Frenchy actress you brought over the water has taken up with a countryman of hers. A man that Grenville is trailing because he's a known spy for Robespierre."

Percy was staring deep into Marguerite�s eyes, searching for the truth of his fear. Was she unfaithful to him? Capable of it she certainly was; but this last blow would be the sword that pierced his heart.

"There are no secrets among the aristocracy, Marguerite. We are an exclusive club."

The blood drained from Marguerite's face as she heard her husband's pronouncement. "Sir Percy is cuckolded by his French whore of a wife. That slimy snake Chauvelin - you've been seen slinking about London with him!" Never asking the truth of these allegations, once again assuming she had played him false. Despite his indifference to her, despite her loneliness, despite the many opportunities that lay themselves down at her feet... she had been faithful to him. Yet he thought her loose with her favors, which was agreeable so long as the recipient was a man of name!

She used all of her strength to try to suppress the tremors that racked her body and soul as Sir Percy plunged on through his vindictive narrative. It was true she had met with Chauvelin, he asked her for introductions into the London social circles, which had thus far given him the cold shoulder.

She furiously blinked back the tears that threaten to fall, she would not let him see how much he had hurt her. At that moment she hated him! She wanted to tell him tell him the accusations were true... she wanted to tell him anything that hurt him as much as he was hurting her... but the words died upon her lips.

"Damn you!" was all she could get out and slapped him hard across the face.

<Percy>

He reeled backward with the blow, stunned and dizzy with liquor. That she would strike him was truly the last thing he�d have imagined. Was she angry that he�d discovered her duplicity? Or frustrated that he�d told her Grenville was on to Chauvelin � and her. Spying bitch that she was! Who else did she imagine she could have killed � Leveson Gower, perhaps? Percy could imagine her and worm-ridden Chauvelin trying to undermine the British embassy in Paris. Or was she aiming even higher � to Maria Fitzherbert, perhaps, who had strong ties to her French relations and was currently visiting in Paris . A blow struck against Maria would plunge through the heart of the Prince of Wales and therefore could be considered a direct hit on the royal family.

Percy rubbed his cheek, watching Marguerite flounce out of the room like a teenager in a temper. She was up to something, and he�d hit very close to the mark.

�Spying whore,� he muttered. What hellfire had he unleashed on London � on all of English society � in marrying the most delightful actress in all of France ? �Someone�s got to watch her,� he told the empty room.

Marguerite stormed out, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her tears. It wasn't until she entered her private apartments that the waves of anguish finally engulfed her. She locked the door behind her and collapsed against it, sobbing. How could fate be so cruel as to dangle happiness before her, then turn it into a nightmare? Why did his words hurt her so much? Anyone else and she would have laughed at them. She had given up much to be with him, her career, her country, even her brother Armand was so far away. If only Armand were here, she could bear Percy's insults and accusations... Perhaps she leave Percy... he was gone so often and cared so little for her that it might be days or weeks or months before he noticed her absence. But then where would she go? She had no family or close acquaintances in England to take her in. Where to then? France ? If she went there she might fall to the same fate as the aristocracy. A rapid trial and swifter execution.

Chauvelin could help her if she wanted to return, he had alluded to as much when they met, but he implied a price. But she knew to be indebt to Chauvelin was akin to selling one's soul to the devil himself. If she fell in with Chauvelin she would never be free.

<Percy>

Percy was still bleary from drink, but far more in command of himself than he had been only moments ago as he turned over in his mind what he might do. He could let Marguerite sulk and plot vengeance, or he could act while he had the opportunity. He would be within his rights to lock her in her room � in fact, no one would see anything amiss were he to follow her and beat some sense into the wench. Far better than allowing her the freedom to roam the city spying for Chauvelin.

An evil thought � what would happen if she were caught acting in concert with Chauvelin? Not only would she be arrested and condemned, but he would be blamed for having brought her to England . He would definitely have to watch her every move. But how could he?

He grinned. Who could more easily conjure up a round of watchers than the Scarlet Pimpernel? Inspired! Since she was in league with Chauvelin, the lord only knew what secrets he might discover. Of his men, who would Marguerite not recognise? Mackenzie. Glynde. DeLinn. What about Andrew? In disguise, she may not reckon him as someone she knew. Tony? Oh, but she�d spent a great deal of time with Tony; effectively disguising him would prove more difficult. But, it could be done! Of course, the greatest master of disguise was Sir Percy Blakeney himself and what a lark it would be to trail his own wife unrecognised.

Suddenly, he recalled Pitt�s ugly words. What else might he discover in following Marguerite? How would he bear up standing beneath the window of a grungy inn, aware that she was trysting with the likes of Earl Grey or Lincoln, or Lord Huddleston? Had all the whispering risen as a result of her one visit to the Chartroom Eating House, or had she been seen in other seedy dives . . . with other men?

When she was finally able to put her emotions in check, Marguerite decided it would be best to write to her brother, Armand for advice. He might provide a more rational voice to the one inside her screaming to flee. And should she wish to return, Armand was still in Paris working with the government and it might be possible for him to find a means of allowing her safe return. She could possibly return to the theater, a truer lover than any English milor.

She rose up and smoothed out her dress, straighten her hair, and wiped away all evidence of the anguish she had suffered. She looked in the mirror to see that all tell-tale evidence had been erased and she was once more the indomitable Lady Blakeney. She sat before her vanity and with pen and paper before her she drafted a letter to her brother.

Marguerite sealed the envelope and proceeded downstairs to seek out Henshaw, listening for Sir Percy lest he resume his tirade. "Henshaw, would you see to the arrangements for delivering this message to my brother, Armand?" she asked when she found him. Henshaw took the letter and nodded. She then when to the parlor and collected her book and proceeded with it upstairs. As for Sir Percy, she would endeavor to avoid him, lest he get the better of her temper and find that the female of the species could prove to be much more deadlier than the male.

<Percy>

Percy pulled the cord then paced the drawing room while he awaited a response to his summons. He passed the large writing table, a group of armchairs arranged to invite conversation. All about were tables piled with folios of sketches and exquisitely bound books. Despite this show, Percy was not a man who indulged in leisure and lounging. He was not drawn to intimate talk or desultory reading. He examined the portrait of his father as a lad, holding a hunter on a short lead. Next to it was a portrait of his grandfather in his hunting coats. In an ornate frame was his beautiful mother�s likeness. Her usually troubled eyes were clear, shaded by a wide garden hat. These paintings Manor. Was all of his life as great an illusion?

Both Sanders and Jamieson appeared at the door together, two of his vast retinue of servants. �I need a watch of footman to stand outside Lady Blakeney�s door at all times. Do not speak to her, unless she asks for something. Report her movements to me. Anything. What she eats, what she reads, who she writes to. I will see her letters before they leave this house, but they will be allowed to be sent. Anyone she invites to call on her is welcome and will be afforded every hospitality � even if it is one of her foreign French friends. But I need to be told of all visitors. Do you understand?�

Both men nodded soberly. �Good! You, Jamieson; I want you to take the first watch. You, Sanders, will advise the other footmen of my orders. There are easily enough men to launch three watches if we needed to. Four hours per man; that sounds right. Now, Sanders, please send Edwards and Henshaw to me. Oh, and ask Mrs. Dickinson to have cook prepare a cold supper for me. I�ll have it here.�

As the footmen departed, Percy congratulated himself on his quick action. He would curb the spy, bring her to heel. She wouldn�t even be aware that he knew what she was up to. Marguerite had no idea about the running of a great house. Precision was demanded when a man lived in a house with 60 rooms set in a park of 50 acres.

Marguerite had scarce been her for more than a few moment when she heard scarcely audible footstep approach. The sound seemed to come to a halt immediately outside her door, then silence reigned once more. Could it be Percy? Unlikely, in his state it was unlikely he could move so silently. She quietly approached the door, unlocked it, and peered out into the hall where she found Jamieson standing stiffly beside her door as sentinel.

"Jamieson, what purpose do you have out here?" she asked, but she was already beginning to understand.

"Sir Percy's orders, my lady," came the reply.

"For what reason?"

Jamieson was silent. Did Percy intent to make her a prisoner in her own house? His house she reminded herself. Anger and indignation rose up within her breast and her cheek flushed. "Where is his lordship now?" Marguerite demanded. "I demand you take me to him." She had wished to avoid any further argument with Sir Percy until she had consulted Armand, but this insult was more than she could bear. She followed Jamieson into the drawing room, where Percy had been instructing Henshaw and Edwards.

"What is the meaning of telling Jamieson to stand outside my door? Do you intend to make me a prisoner in this house?"

<Percy>

At his glance the three footmen fled the room, Jamieson closing the door behind him. Percy looked the worse for wear, his suit creased, his cravat stained, and strands of hair straggling free of his beribboned queue. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his knuckles as the quantity of alcohol in his system impaired his ability to think. Thirst overwhelmed him and he licked his dry lips before meeting Marguerite�s fiery gaze.

�My dear,� he began in an apologetic tone, �you haven�t been in England long enough to understand the impetuous nature of my people. Not so long ago all the lanterns in Richmond were broken � mobs of angry people shouting and throwing stones. Windows were broken. They broke every window in Mrs. Fitzherbert�s house on Richmond Hill and all because she is Catholic!�

He was dissembling, desperately hoping that she knew little enough of events to realize the story he was telling her was fully a year old. When Marguerite had first arrived at Blakeney Manor, Percy had begged Maria to befriend his Catholic wife, to take Margot under her wing and introduce her into society, but Maria would have nothing to do with a woman who had sullied her reputation by appearing on the stage. Maria Fitzherbert�s reputation was shaky enough; friendship with Blakeney�s wife would gain her nothing. Perhaps Percy could bank on the fact that no besides the Prince associated with Mrs. Fitzherbert who also associated with his new wife.

�I have had word that a ship arrived in London this morning � were you awake when Lord Grenville�s note arrived? A boatload of �migr�s who are begging for asylum from the revolution and the Londoners are in a riot over the very idea of another load of... well...�

Percy fell silent. The shipload of �migr�s was true enough. He could produce Grenville�s note if Marguerite doubted him; but why had he stumbled into this uncomfortable subject? For one thing, Marguerite would no doubt have heard from Chauvelin how poorly her countrymen were being treated in London and for another... the ship in port was his.

�I have a thick head from too much brandy,� he said weakly. �Truly, I hadn�t meant to tell you this; only to spare you possible injury should anyone wish to make an example of you what with tempers flaring and times so testy.�

Oh he was disingenuous! He lowered his burning eyes and wiped them with the back of his hand. Tender-hearted Marguerite should feel tremendous pity for her earlier outburst � especially she should feel repentant over her slap! Perhaps she would take him in her arms � she might even kiss him. Percy remained still with head bent and waited.

Marguerite stood there regarding her husband, her once wrathful face was now reticent. She knew that at least some of what her husband told her was truth, Chauvelin had told her of the English hostility, else he would not have called upon her. Percy�s rapid mood-swings were even more baffling. In one moment he accused her of being a demimonde, the next he claim to be protecting her from the ire of his own countrymen.

�And you thought it best that a guard be placed at my very door? For my protection?�

She regarded him for a few moments more in silence, trying to perceive the truth behind those tired, reddened eyes. She let out a sigh, of exasperation or disappointment it is difficult to say, then gently took his arm and lead him to a chair, steadying him as they proceeded, and there she bade him to sit. When Percy was installed into this seat, she walked to the door, opened it, and ordered a pitcher of water for his lordship.

"I think it best that one avoid a mirror, until you've bathed and changed, I know the sensitivity of your stomach where fashion is concerned." She took a seat by his side, hesitantly taking his hand in hers. She sat there looking into his eyes and trying to frame into words the tumultous thoughts that seems to crowd her mind.

�Percy, I beg a word with you," she finally said. "I fear, it seems to me as though a great chasm stands between us, it has grown since our marriage and I fear that before long, neither of us will be able to recross it. I admit that this is not the picture I had of our marriage..." Her brow furrowed as she planned how best to frame the next few words. "Tell me, Percy, did you ever truly love me?�

<Percy>

"Did you ever truly love me?" Percy could scarce believe what he heard. Marguerite, her English imperfect, was clear enough � and judging by her taut expression she had meant to ask the question she spoke. He tensed. How could he answer? If she didn�t know . . . what could he say? Perhaps it had been some other woman he had adored during his season in Paris. Perhaps he had only dreamed those afternoons he�d spent sitting at her feet while the furious talk of a Paris salon flew all around him. Robespierre. H�bert. Chauvelin. Desmoulins.

Percy had filled in his time admiring the shadows between the ruffles of her flounces and her pretty shoes. He�d filled hours of fantasy with visions of himself removing those shoes and kissing her lovely toes. Now she asked, had he never loved her? Had he ever done anyone but love her?

"Surely this is not difficult to explain." Abruptly he stood until he towered over her. He was so tall and Marguerite doll-like in her chair. "I�m astounded at your question, madam," Percy said, his voice harsh with feeling. "You and I were the only two people in the room. If you don�t know, dearest, pray, who does?"

Had he not loved her? He stared into her face � the cheekbones more prominent than usual, and wondered at her question. Did she remember nothing? He remembered everything! Every breath. Every moment. In particular, there was the afternoon when he had kissed her � oh my god! He remembered every detail. Rain streaking the glass. The bright flames of the fire in the small room, and she, dearest Marguerite, in tears. In his arms. In need of comfort. Turning to him. That kiss. Tentative. A salty-tender, suddenly passionate kiss. She had gazed up into his face and mouthed, �Je t�aime.�

His mindless joy � did she remember none of it? What about the drive? The lame horse? The walk in the rain? The grey Seine, never looking more wonderful, and the man with his chestnuts. "But it�s not winter, mon p�re?" Percy had said. "Is it not?" the man, red-nosed, had tested the air and looked surprised.

Don�t you remember the chestnuts? he wanted to ask her. Instead he cleared his throat. "Have you lost your senses, milady?" he asked with icy sullenness. "Are you quite well?"

Something in her look silenced him. Rocked him back on his heels. He found himself sitting in the chair without any memory of having moved there. They said, breeding women had absurd fantasies. Well, that was what they said. Dare he hope she was ill � with a blooming child?

Marguerite was very white. Percy leapt up and took her by the hands. "Come. Sit. I shall have tea sent. Or brandy. Or whatever you would like � my dear." He was choking on his words. His eyes were brimming with tears. Was she going to say it now: I have your child. You will be a father. Would she say it?

Marguerite had attempted to steel herself against her husband�s answer; had her husband answer in affirmation then perhaps there was a way to salvage that relationship they had once had� had he answered in the negative then she would have free leave to indulge in that hate which he had earlier inspired. However, she came to immediately regret her question.

Percy�s entire frame tensed, his jaw tightened, his entire continence was transformed before her eyes. He rose so suddenly and abruptly that for a moment she feared he might strike her, and when he spoke there was a harsh edge to his voice that she had dreamed him capable of.

"Surely this is not difficult to explain. I�m astounded at your question, madam."

The tone of his voice cut through her, she could hear behind it his word violent emotions and for a moment she felt distinctly foolish for. Was it hatred that he seemed intent to choke down? It seemed as though an icy hand gripped her heart and squeezed until her limbs went quite numb. Was it hatred? Contempt? Her senses began to reel and the world around her took on strange and ghost-like shapes. Her husband appeared preternaturally tall, towering above her, and there seemed to be a veil of mist between her and him as her vision lost focus. It was only a matter of time before she had her answer� if she didn�t have it already.

"You and I were the only two people in the room. If you don�t know, dearest, pray, who does?" he continued on. Had she missed the fatal blow? What room did he speak of? Was he speaking of their earlier conversation? What could she take from that? Contempt. Distrust. His French whore of a wife had betrayed him�

In the paused that followed, Marguerite had the impression of that great, judging hand plunging through her breast, seizing a hold of that delicate organ through which her very life's blood pumped, ripped it from her chest, and held it, dying, before her. She hated him! Thought she hated him. She hated the pain and emptiness she felt since he changed. Was this love? It was unlikely; she was quite incapable of that obscene emotion ever since she saw the toll it took on her poor brother when he sought to woo above his station. This sensation made her weak and sick, it left her heart aching, bruised and sore.

She thought that he spoke to her again, but she was not quite sure, for his voice sounded like some weird and mysterious echo. An infinite fatigue seemed to weight like lead upon her very soul. She then realized she was standing, it was possible her body sensing her distress had rose to leave or make objection, but lacked the strength to go any further. She had no control over her limbs. She felt a pair strong, firm hands fold upon hers and guided her to sit. She passively obeyed. Had he taken pity on her? Perhaps an attempted at chivalry? Whatever the motivation, she was grateful for it.

She closed her eyes, for she felt as if she must die if she looked upon him any longer. �It has been a long evening, my lord. Might I suggest you turn in for the night,� she forced herself to say. �I shall follow momentarily.� She needed time to think, to rally her strength.

<Percy>

"You think I can sleep? Now? Should I try, nightmares would consume me." He rubbed his eyes and a shudder rocked him; he was still fighting the effect of too much brandy. As he gazed at Marguerite he recognised the ice beauty who ridiculed him, then something in his vision shifted and he sensed her vulnerability. He blinked several times, the tender vision dissolved and once again Marguerite appeared as unyielding as granite. His cheek stung with the imprint of her hand; her scorn had been real, if nothing else.

"I uh, believe..." he began, but the words drifted away. Why did he insist on speaking to her in English when he knew she struggled with the meanings? It was a new trick, meant to distance her. Impulsively, he switched to French and said, "This is not a good night for frankness. You are moody and I am miserable, drunk, prejudiced and cruel..."

A memory stirred. Who had said those words? �Miserable, drunk, prejudiced and cruel...� He seemed to hear them against a background of shouting voices and the pounding of running feet. �Run, Percy; we must get away!� Lord, lord � it was the night when St. Cyr had been killed. He tried to swallow, his mouth was like sand.

Marguerite, cunning cat, lured him into indiscretion and he assisted her by clouding his judgement with liquor and gossip. Gossip? It was a wise man who listened to counsel. Pitt, too drunk to remain upright, had merely spoken aloud what everyone else was whispering. Further, Marguerite didn�t deny anything. She�d hit him, but denied nothing.

Percy dropped Marguerite�s hands into her lap. His long palm cupped her chin, drawing her face closer until he met her lips with his. He planted his other hand firmly against a whalebone stay and pressed. Despite her layers of skirts and petticoats, he felt her knees impact his. He spread his legs and continued pressing until the heat of her body rested firmly against him. Throughout, his kisses continued exploring her face and mouth.

When Percy released her hands, Marguerite felt sure he would leave. She couldn�t even open her eyes to watch him go, for fear that he took her hopes with him. She remembered the passionate lover who sat by her feet in the salons as the future leaders of France clashed words and ideals� how he would sometimes rest his head upon her knee as though the rest of the world meant nothing save to be in her presence. What did he think about during those silent reflections? She would like to think it was thoughts of her the passed through his mind during those moments. At times like those she would run her fingers through his hair or trace his features with her fingertips, while trying to suppress a smile of delight that mirrored the one that played across his lips.

When they were alone, he would open up to her the passion of that dear noble heart and speak so sweetly... how could that all have been a lie? Those merry blue eyes, which she often found herself lost in, spoke so eloquaintly of love and adoration. How often she smiled as she felt those eyes follow her around the room.

She felt a strong, yet gentle, hand cup her chin and lift her face, felt warm breath upon her cheek as prelude to two soft lips meeting her. Oh that kiss! That sweet, glorious, tender kiss! She had nearly forgotten the ecstasy of that kiss! For one exquisite moment he had returned -- she could feel him drawing close; feel the warmth of his body pressed up against her as he kissed her lips and face. For a moment she was lost in the sheer passion of her lover's return. She could feel her spirit returning, could feel the life returning to her arms as she reached up to touch that darling face, to run her fingers through his hair. She responded to all his attentions, willingly giving herself to him. Tears of joy flowed unchecked from those unopened eyes. She then opened her eyes to see that beloved face...

The dream ended...

In her doubt and excitement she perpetrated Orpheus's fatal sin, and watched as that beloved spirit faded before her. The man who kiss her and caressed her smelt of brandy and sweat, his blue eyes were tinged red with excessive drink, his hair an untamed mess. This man's appearance was so far removed from that immaculant vision that she nearly cried out.

"Who are are you?" she whispered.

She had seen this man before... he had called her a whore, accused her of bartering her services at the price of his reputation. This was a man who showed naught but comtempt for her, loathed her in all likelihood... and the inexcapable truth was that this man was her husband. Why now did he kiss her and stir the passions of her heart? Was it part of a cruel game in which she pay for that unforgiveable sin of taking part in the downfall of the St. Cyrs? Or had he married her with some other intention in mind? She had heard of men who bartered their wives' favors to acquire power and status... and he had suggested lovers: his Royal Highness, Lord Grey... Was it his intention to win the hand of Marguerite St . Just, the darling of Paris to whom men crossed countries to appear at her salons, to serve as a stepping stone in his ascent to... what? Power? Positions? Future allowances? The thought made her ill. And this moment? Was Sir Percy Blakeney evoking his "husbandly" rights? After all what good was a 'French whore' if not to service her master. Her position in that household was becoming painfully clear.

"You bear his face and form... I hear his voice when you speak, but you are not him..."

<Percy>

"Who am I? That is a good question," he said slowly. "There are times when I�m not sure of the answer. I�m not sure of anything I used to know beyond a doubt. People change. We expect that. Situations change. We adapt." Abruptly he got to his feet and walked away. It was too much to continue gazing into her eyes. Sometimes he didn�t know her at all.

"Perhaps I am different from the man you knew in Paris for then I was in your world. Is that why you�re different? Because of the sterile civilisation of my circle? You need to breathe life into the stodgy British lapdogs; well you have madam. Every man I know is aware of you, but that is not the lady�s way of presenting herself. Oh, don�t look like that, I will not shout at you again."

Marguerite�s crestfallen look wounded him. "We could go away - to Scotland perhaps. D�you remember me telling you about my good friend, Ffoulkes? Any time I�ve spent in Scotland has been wondrous refreshing. Fishing. Hunting deer. Perhaps a good rest is what we need. Time to heal these bleeding gouges we�ve ripped out of each other�s flesh."

There was the accusation again. A tiny but deadly barb amid all the talk of peace. Next to dear Armand, Percy was the one person in the world she had believed would never hurt her, her faith in him lead her from the life she knew to this� She could retaliate to these subtle attacks -- deal a swift and decisive blow to her husband, but for all her anger she could not bring herself to strike. Her pride had already taken victims, there was no need to add anymore.

"Perhaps we have both changed� and perhaps Scotland would be a good place to heal, for if these wounds grow any deeper they will be fatal," Marguerite said as she got to her feet. "But if these places are to blame for our changed nature, then will this trip be of any real help? We will have to return and in so doing, will not the problems also return? And, alas, we cannot return to Paris ..." Unless they intented to forfeit their lives to their love, she want wanted to add, but did not think Sir Percy would approve of her morbid humour. She went to him, took his arm, led him to a large window - mirror-like against the darkness -which overlooked the garden. She stood beside him and looked at their reflections for a moment in the glass panels. "Shall we always be like this?"she asked. Marguerite had made no attempt to adjust her appearance and there was no doubt in Percy's culture they wouldn't be regarded as disgusting objects. It was when she noticed her tear stained cheeks that she turned away to dry them.

"Is it possible for true love to die? So easily without a fight?" She began and stopped herself, she already had her answer to that question. "It is obvious that you don't trust me... and after tonight I'm not entirely sure I can trust you." She turned to leave. "You never even asked me if the accusations were true, Percy. And if I wanted to hurt you, I could tell you they were... but I would be lying. Chauvelin came to me for letters of introduction and that is all I would give him." She open the door to exit and paused. "If you think the trip to Scotland will help, then we can speak of it in the morning when your head has cleared. Otherwise, if you insist on 'protecting' me, I'll be out in the garden." With that she walked out.

<Percy>

�Perhaps we have both changed," Marguerite said and for a moment Percy brightened hopefully. Would she simply tell him - everything? Who was she really? Why was she spying for Chauvelin? How much simpler it would be for him to help her if they might start from here. She took him by the arm and led him to the window where, by a trick of the light, they saw not what lay beyond the glass, but what was frozen within it. They had become a macabre portrait of their slivered marriage, Marguerite�s upswept hair more than half tumbling over her shoulders. And Percy . . . a rumpled scarecrow. Automatically Percy shifted his posture - manners had been thrashed into him until he could stand straight and still for two hours at a time.

�...alas we cannot return to Paris...� Her winsome look seared against the backdrop of tragedy before him sobered Percy as nothing else had. Marguerite was wretchedly unhappy. When he thought of how she�d suffered in Paris he couldn�t conceive of her ever wishing to go back; how could she? Or had it been the hell of Paris that had driven her to this mockery of a marriage? She asked him if he had ever loved her - but he might ask the same of her. She had said the words when overcome by passion. Had he not been responsible for saving Armand�s life, would she have kissed him? �Je t�aime.� Perhaps she�d never meant the words as anything more than a thank you for returning her greatest treasure - her brother - to her.

Marguerite�s abrupt movement startled him as she stepped away from his side. Now they were playing divine tragedy on the mirrored stage. She, reed-slender with her back to the audience (as he�d watched her so often from the box).

�Is it possible for true love to die...without a fight?...you don't trust me...I'm not entirely sure I can trust you.� Her flowing torrent of words were like hammer blows to his pounding head. Recriminations. Oh she was good! He was watching her from over her head, in the reflecting glass, marvelling at how she played high drama with an economy of movement. It was in the stoop of her shoulders, the limp hand that fluttered with her words, a suddenly powerful wrist firing a phrase straight into his face.

"What...is this?" he began to ask, but she had taken over the scene. He was a mute spectator.

�You never even asked me if the accusations were true, Percy.� There it was, the crux of her anguish - and his. No husband in his position wished to wear the horns of a cuckold. In the upper reaches of society reputation was worth more than his considerable. fortune. Had Marguerite gambled 100,000 guineas and lost it would hurt him less than facing society beside his lying, unfaithful wife. He watched her exit into the dark garden and shrugged as the door slid shut behind her.

He needed to believe her - lying or not - he needed that much at least to sustain his will to live. Scotland would be the answer. He must separate her from Chauvelin!

Impulsively he rushed to the door, flung it open, and saw humped black shadows disappearing into utter darkness. She hadn�t bothered to take a lantern. Cat-like she expected to see her way in the dark.

"Marguerite!" The air was cold. Damp. How far could she go in muslin? Something silver sparkled just beyond the rose garden. Movement. Lord she was light on her feet!

"Wait!"

The moment she stepped out, she was shocked by the intense cold -- invigorated by it! revived by the shocking contrast! The warm stifling air of the drawing room was behind her... the air out here was plentiful, exhilarating! She was once again in control of her senses and chided herself the fool for allowing that control to slip so. She wandered through the dark garden allowing her senses to be assaulted by the fragrance of jasmine and heliotrope, she easily navigated her way in the dim light from distant windows -- how many times had she wandered through this garden? The escape of shopping was limited, lunches and salons yielded only so much of a distraction... but this garden offered her a place for peace and reflection. It reminded her of the fairy tales she used to read with Armand... she hoped it would not be too long before she saw her brother again.

She would have to play her part better if she was to interact with Percy again, she had made it too easy for him to break it down. Had she exhibited so little control on the stages of Paris she might still be a member of the chorus. She had to be stronger, she was Marguerite St . Just, not some wilted English rose that lived for the beck and call of her husband.

"Marguerite!" Marguerite thought she heard Percy call her. "Wait!" She quickly slipped down a side path to give herself a moment to smooth out her gown and adjust her hair, there was no point in looking the part he expected her to play, and there she waited for him to appear.

"My lord husband, I did not expect to see you again this evening," she said as he appeared. "Am I to assume that you will yourself serve as my escourt? If so I pray you walk beside me, that way you can give me your full protection."

<Percy>

He overtook her beneath a chestnut tree. Without speaking his shifted out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

"I will accept the blame for all that has gone wrong. Back on the first day of your life in England, I hadn�t considered what marriage would mean to both of us. The changes, I mean. How many times did you say to me Paris is not London ? You threw that in my face nearly a dozen times! For my presumptuousness. When I wished to set a course that you would not follow. On that afternoon when I was exasperated and accused you of not playing by the rules. �What rules! Paris is not London.� Those words have been more true here."

He was explaining himself badly. The feeling he wished to convey didn�t melt into words and syllables easily. "Society has expectations. Looking at you - God, how I love you! - there are times when I feel like nothing else matters. But here, so many things get in the way. Obstacles. Rules. You�ve danced a minuet - you know what it means if one person turns too quickly. We�re measuring the steps of a minuet while everyone around us is twirling in a galliard."

Marguerite�s eyes glittered in the last of the light. He wished he could see her more clearly. Did she understand what he was trying to say. He reached, fumbling for her hand, lost in the folds of his large coat.

Marguerite was frozen to the spot. "God, how I love you!" The words echoed through her head, awakening a part of her that desperately demanded to go to him and hold him in her arms and to forget. That part wanted him to repeat those words, to be sure that they were in fact the one he had spoke. And had he spoken them a few moments before in all likelihood she would have run into his arm and cried over all the time they had lost... but that seemed so long ago and Percy�s mood vacillated so frequently, any moment the arguing and coldness would resume. Never had anyone hurt her so much as Percy had, even St. Cyr had never struck so deep a wound and she had no intent of making herself so ready a target.

She pulled Percy�s coat a little tighter around her as she peered through the darkness in the hopes of looking into his eyes, she had not realized how bitter cold it was until Percy had wrapped the coat about her. He sounded so sincere, but she could not completely let down her guard again. She felt his hand make a clumsy attempt to take hers, and so she slipped her hand out from beneath the folds of the coat into his searching hand. "There will always be obstacles, Percy," Marguerite said and gave her husbands hand a gentle squeeze. "But London is not Paris ... Paris is not Paris anymore... What is there for us to do?" A sad little laugh accompanied this. "Will you walk with me for a few moments, Percy? I would so like to see the stars!" She saw him glance up at the overcast sky and thought she saw the outline of a skeptical ___expression on his face through the darkness. "Ah, you think me foolish! But the stars are out there though the world hides them from us at the moment. I can imagine they are there beyond the veil that conceals them. Armand and I would out when we were young and look up at the stars and realize how very much bigger the world was they could be imagined in the day. When we lived in Paris we would walk from the theater at night and watch the stars shine above, though not so brightly as when we lived in the country. The stars are so bright here when they are not hidden form view... but I am being silly and sentimental!" She laughed. "Perhaps we should return to the house instead before you catch your death!"

<Percy>

�What is there for us to do?� Marguerite asked him with the trust of a child. Not that he could tell her. He pulled her arm through his and strolled with her through the falling night. She spoke about the stars and he paused with her to wonder.

"True, they do look bigger in the country but that�s because of lantern smoke. One often can�t see the stars at all in London with the heavy fog that rolls off the river. If you think this is a lovely sky, you should see it up towards Edinburgh where Sir Andrew�s family lives. More than stars, there is a place where a man can find perfect peace."

Peace for me. Safety for you. Perhaps we could try again far away from the dictates of a society so extreme in their expectations that the slightest inconsistency was ridiculed and bludgeoned into conformity - or spat upon and rigorously cast out.

"Kiss me under the stars as you used to," Percy whispered into her hair.

She was caught up in the moment, she would tell herself later, her reason had been clouded all evening and her emotions were all too close to the surface. She could never love someone who had hurt her so... and yet when she looked up into his eyes... She rose on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck, his head to bent down to meet her. The first kiss was a mere peck upon his lips, the one that followed was filled with more passion, as though its intent was to draw forth his soul and her own. She might have been truely happy if not for that lingering pain in her heart, that ache that would not allow her to forget herself again. She kissed him now, but it was a stage kiss -- passionate in appearance but the heart was no longer in it, the kiss was now a lie. When she finally broke away she was trembling, she lightly stroked his cheek and placed a tender kiss upon it... long ago she had struck that cheek for his hideous accusations. The pain was real enough, it would not allow her to forget. "Forgive me, milor," she told him. "I am not feeling quite myself this evening."

She pulled his coat tightly around herself and looked off towards the river rather than to look into his eyes. "I will trust your judgement. Let us go to Scotland and try to find the perfect peace you spoke of." She gave him a melancholy smile, though she was not sure that the trip would do them any good at the very lest she could use it as an excuse to escape the pressures that Chauvelin heaped upon her.

Chauvelin. He still had a very powerful card to play against her in the form of Armand. "I pray you forgive me for my forgetfulness! I have written Armand and asked that he come to visit... Would it be possible to postpone our departure until then?"

<Percy>

A simple action, a kiss, and yet complicated beyond all reason. How could it have become so difficult for a husband to receive a kiss from his wife? The woman had the heart of a prickly pear � oh, she hadn�t forgiven him. Whether it was one tiny grudge she held over a forgotten promise or a thoughtless word � or whether it was the base insult he�d tossed at her that had earned him a bruised cheek � her kiss was emotionless. He who had been stricken dumb by Marguerite�s incendiary kisses could read the difference with ease.

"Scotland or Persia or the Red Sea, madam," he said coolly. "I will follow you wherever you wish to go. If you prefer to venture no further than the rose garden, c�est la vie."

Armand Saint-Just. Perhaps the presence of a friendly male would do something towards tilting the balance in Percy�s favour. Marguerite was used to taking Armand�s advice and Percy grinned with the conspiratorial thought that he stood high in Armand�s favour.

Bitterly he suppressed his anger at Marguerite�s inability to show him any sign of kindness or favour, then, even as he gritted his teeth, he wondered � had he really lost? True, her kiss held little beyond her sweet breath, but she had not tugged free of his grasp and run away. He knew better than anyone how to warm the lady�s blood. Impulsively he tried again.

As he pulled her into his arms, Marguerite�s low-cut gown revealed a vista of snowy breasts before he crushed her against his lacy shirt front. The heat of her presence filled him with tingling awareness that made the fine hairs rise on her arms. Before she thought to struggle, he pressed his lips against hers. A gentle contact � not rebuffed. A more insistent touch � returned. With his brazen tongue he extended her an invitation to part her lips for him. Accepted!

He felt his blood coursing through his body, heard it humming in his ears as their tongues entwined. Marguerite�s sigh raised his temperature to a dangerous level. Percy squeezed her tighter and the kiss continued. He was afloat in a world that was all sensation. How was it that the contact of lips to lips could be felt all the way to the ends of his hair? When the kiss ended he couldn�t hide the triumph in his eyes. He�d vowed to make her fall in love with him � and he had! The love was there, buried beneath the rubble of broken promises and betrayal, but hot-blooded Marguerite couldn�t remain ice while in his arms.

"I have never known a moment like this," Percy breathed against Marguerite�s alabaster temple. "I wish it would never end."

Never end. Never end. Never end. Never end, never end, never end . . . In one rapid movement Percy scooped Marguerite into his arms. "I intend to remind you why you are married to me," he panted through his teeth. Passion had darkened his eyes nearly black and he held her fast in his arms.

Marguerite clung to Percy, her heart racing and her breath coming forth in heavy gasps. �I have never known a moment like this� I wish it would never end,� she heard her husband whisper. Why should it end, my love? She wanted to ask him, but in a moment he had swept her off her feet and held her tightly. She wrapped her arms around his neck, attempting to pull him closer, if such a thing were possible. She kissed his neck, his cheek, drawing a path to his lips with her kisses and once there hungrily devoured them � it had been so long since they had been so close and how she missed it!

Her kisses trailed back over his face until she stop to give his ear lobe a playful nip, her eyes fell upon a light shapeless mass shrinking behind them. Percy�s lovely coat! It must have fell when he kissed her, how strange she hadn�t noticed before � but then again the air didn�t seem so cold anymore.

"I intend to remind you why you are married to me."

She kissed him again and looked up into his eyes which gleamed with passion� and triumph. Had he made a game of her? If so, his skill could rival that of David Garrick! In his arms it was difficult to think of anything save being close to him, kissing him� She had to get away from him and think, she couldn�t trust herself to think rationally� and the longer she was in he arms, the less she attempted to resist. Had she been in better form she might have used his passion to her advantage, but she didn�t have enough control over herself much less assert any over her husband. Amid all the desires that screamed at her to give into desire, one voice said firmly � no. �Perhaps we shouldn�t�� Marguerite said, and struggled to her arms and lips concur.

<Percy>

A sweet armful was his Marguerite as Percy took his bearings between apple grove and stable. The stars were diamond chips against a velvet sky as his darling clung to his neck and continued kissing him as he strode purposefully toward the more secluded part of the garden. There was nothing shy or awkward about him now.

At one point he stopped abruptly � "Whoa!" and made an awkward side-step. "Nearly trod into something very nasty." Then he laughed his inane, self-conscious laugh. "Good thing I didn�t drop you in it, hmm?"

The destination was a rose garden, a bower of glossy dark green leaves and roses of all colours. (Not that the colours were easily made out in the dark!) Percy saw it in his mind: a hedge of yellow blooms formed the wall and barred the wind�s entry. Creepers of red filled in the trellised entrance. Within the bower had been fashioned exquisite corners for contemplation; a broad stone bench that caught the afternoon sun where one could listen to water play in a fountain, a wrought iron chair situated beneath a tree weeping branches of white flowers, a gently rising hill often graced with a heavy horse blanket used for picnicking.

"Oh ho! Look at this!" The square of black was scarcely discernible on the grass. "Aitkens neglected to send a footman after your luncheon, my dear � oh but how fortuitous for us now as long as the blanket isn�t damp with dew."

Percy�s heart pounded faster as he fell to his knees on the blanket, then stilled. "I don�t want to put you down. It feels far too good holding you like this." He licked her luscious lower lip before kissing her once more.

Yes! Yes! Yes! This is what marriages was supposed to be! Passion, not war! Love, not hate! -- no � that tiny voice inside of her much more soft, yet firm -- no! She couldn't trust him, she should leave before she did something she would regret... and yet how easy is it to give up one's fondest wish? Her fingers were working quickly to undo his cravat and and shirt � oh what that woman could do with her lips and tongue could make a sinner of a saint!

She knew she had to get away from him -- should slap him again that would put an end to it! But her hands would not strike, they stroked and messaged. She could feel her husband carrying her away with quick, purposeful steps, with half an ear she heard his banter, but thought his tongue was best used for more than silly innate comment. She knew how to silence that tongue! She brought his face to hers and silence his tongue with her own.

They came to a stop and she felt her husband sink to his knees. "I don�t want to put you down. It feels far too good holding you like this." Kissing her once more.

When their lips parted, Marguerite looked around them in an almost dreamlike state, there was no doubt what Percy's intentions were once he set her down. A distance memory surfaced in her mind -- a day long before she had become Lady Blakeney, before she was Marguerite St . Just, the darling actress -- she was merely Marguerite, a girl in the chorus only recently raised from props mistress. There was an girl... Claudette! Boasting of her lastest conquest. "Remember, dear Margot, a woman on her back is at a distinct disadvantage if she can't keep her emotions in check! The key is control, you're lost if you can't get that!" The key was control, she had to gain some sort of control, if only long enough to clear her head, when all she want to do was to lose herself in her husband's embrace, to feel the heat of him against her...

Marguerite made one more weak stab at trying to break the hold her emotions and her husband had over her. She pulled herself slightly away from him and focused on the roses just over his shoulder. "Percy, we shouldn't do this... it is too soon. As you say I am moody and feeling most unwell... Let us go back inside..." She strained to keep her emotions in check, fought desparately! But these attempts were weak at best, because she could not subjugate her soul into believing it. Percy continue to hold her tightly to him, even he didn't believe her protests.

She could scarcely remember why he upset her... words spoken so long ago. She remember that there was pain involved... her heart! But it was far to fickle... one moment it hated, the nexted it loved, the next it was rent to pieces, the next it was filled to overflow with passion. She felt the pain would return if they stopped. So, why stop? Why give up on this sliver of happiness in an unhappy marriage? -- no � Another approach, "I dropped your coat in the garden, Percy... please, let me go fetch it..." Just a few minutes away... just enough time to think...

<Percy>

A cold breath of reason blew out the flames of his passion with an icy breath. �My . . . my coat?� he asked slowly. A man with a hundred coats and the ability to purchase a thousand more didn�t waste time thinking about coats. A woman in the arms of her lover didn�t either � unless she was playing a game with him. The smell of the earth rose to meet him and at last he felt the chill in the air. The ache of his failure filled him as his lust for her evaporated.

Moody. Unwell. The words spilled from her � excuses! There was a sudden tautness in his throat, quickly swallowed. He must not show her any weakness.

�Certainly I�m not in the habit of forcing a woman against her wish.� His tone was harsh as he got to his feet with his burden still held tightly in his arms. Walking stiffly, his frustration held firmly under control he felt himself growing colder and emptier with each step.

Impulsively, he said, �Earlier this evening you asked me if I had ever truly loved you. Why you ask me, in light of our days, astounds me. You have everything you could desire and my whole heart besides! It is I who should ask, did you ever truly love me? I was sure of it one night just before we married � do you remember that night at least? Surely in light of tonight you remember!�

The words poured out like blood from a stab wound � he might curse himself later for betraying his feelings to her, but for now he couldn�t stop himself. His hurt was equal to his anger � at himself and at her. He�d given her the sword to cut him, given her the freedom to torment him. Why was she determined to make him unhappy? �I don�t recall you saying you loved me once � not once � since I slid the ring on your finger. Why did you marry me, Marguerite?�

�Certainly I�m not in the habit of forcing a woman against her wish,� Percy said harshly and got to his feet so quickly that Marguerite threw her arms around his neck for fear that he might drop her. No! Don't leave me! she wanted to cry as she felt his passion fade before her, her own face flushed with her own. Twice this evening she had denied him. Percy proffered her the olive branch and she let it slip between her fingers -- what a fool she was! She clung onto him desperately, burying her face in his neck, vainly trying to grasp those last few dying embers. She began distinctly to feel the night air chill her to her very soul and there she felt that dull ache of her tattered heart pound more forcefully.

That tiny voice inside of her that had so forcefully commanded her to stop now told her that this was for the best... was it? She might have been happy if even for a few moments! After all is not the sight of a mirage satisfying until the deception is unmasked? Alas two more victims to her pride.

�Earlier this evening you asked me if I had ever truly loved you. Why you ask me, in light of our days, astounds me. You have everything you could desire and my whole heart besides! It is I who should ask, did you ever truly love me? I was sure of it one night just before we married � do you remember that night at least? Surely in light of tonight you remember!� Remember? How could she not? She had never experienced so much joy, nor felt so perfectly at peace! Everytime she saw him, every encounter with that cold, aloof persona that masqueraded behind his face she remembered! She was haunted by that night! The happiness and bliss it promised mocked her!

�I don�t recall you saying you loved me once � not once � since I slid the ring on your finger. Why did you marry me, Marguerite?�

"I love you and trusted you and you left me!" her lips betraying the secret that she hid even from herself. "When we were together I felt safe... I thought, more than anyone else, that you would never hurt me..." she voice barely a whisper, she wanted to tell him of the pain he caused her, but she was determined to keep some of her dignity intact. "At first I thought it was like one of those stories where some enchantment was placed on you and I could revive you with a kiss," she smiled bitterly. A thought struck her! no. There was little further her heart could sink. no! It had worked before...

She pulled herself as close to him as she could, drew his face to hers and pour her soul into one passionate kiss.

<Percy>

Struggling with reason, he found himself suddenly plunged once more into the realm of tenderness with Marguerite�s magic kiss. How close she had come to touching the essence of his truth. �I loved you and trusted you and you left me� � the plaintive tone clinging to the cracks in his heart weighed heavy. He was guilty of that much, he had to admit.

Shifting her body in his arms to place her back on her feet, he kissed her again, holding her so that she slid down the length of his body with agonising slowness. He�d chosen this spot with cold recklessness; Marguerite�s shoes came to rest squarely on his sapphire coat. Money was power, attracting women like filings to a magnet. His presence in London society had brightened the eyes of many an ambitious mama, but he�d rebelled against taking some be-dimpled, simpering maid to wife. They wanted his money; no one looked twice at the over-tall Baronet with the lazy eyes and saw the man beneath the finery. He was nothing but a bank statement to them.

He�d chosen instead a woman who tried to understand him � not much, but somewhat. She was too polite, or too in awe of his title, to delve deeply. He on the other hand had trailed after her like a panting dog. He�d come to the conclusion that she was no different than any of the ladies he knew who married for money.

�I love you and trusted you and you left me!� A heart-rending plea. She had loved him � he was certain of that. Trusted him? Possibly.

"This coat that you value so highly is nothing to me," he motioned to it as Marguerite stepped off of it. "Someone like you, who has seen how little value anything on earth holds, must understand that all a man has is his heart, his soul and his principles. This afternoon, as I listened to the gossip telling me how you have given yourself to Chauvelin at the least and any number of others in the bargain, I suddenly realised how wrong I was to have married you."

Marguerite�s gasp silenced the last trill of birdsong in the garden. It was as if night had fallen with a thud, silencing everything.

Marguerite gasped at her husband's words, she had opened up her soul to him and he tore it out as he had her heart. It would have been a greater kindness had he opted to drop her in the river, at least there the chill would have premeated only the flesh. Thrice that evening his words had wounded her, with each successive blow cleaving deeper and deeper. The first had wounded her pride, the second was a grievous wound that did more that slice her heart, it tore it still beating from her breast, this last struck at her very soul!

Why was he doing this? Was it his intent to torture her? But he was not the only one to blame, she had turned him away at the moment when reconciliate seemed possible -- and, more importantly, she had been fool enough to present her soul defenseless and exposed before him! Betrayal after betrayal... how many during the brief span of their marriage? and how many before it? she knew her husband attempted to deceive her, would leave her for days and weeks at a time... Perhaps it was time spent in the arms of a mistress, it was not uncommon amongst his kind. So wrapped up in his own deception that it was simple to see those qualities in others! She had been weak, allowed the past to cloud her judgement, believed that lust was love... and did herself in. All this talk of reconciliation... was it all lies? It was fairly clear what Percy was after this evening, and when it came to carnal desire all men lied.

She had been silly and sentimental, picturing the magical evenings of her youth... this night wasn't magical. It was cold and dark and cruel, it hid the truth under a blanket of darkness. Had it been day would she have been so easily swayed? The night eclipsed the flaws in her husband's scherade -- had she not seen the look of triumph upon his face after that kiss! She wanted to scream at him, heap vindictivity upon him, but remained silent. "Remember, dear Margot... the key is control..." the laughing memory repeated. She was regaining her control.

The night was turning bitterly cold and the silence broken only by her breath, Percy stared down at her in judgement. Ah, but had she forgotten her greatest weapon against this giant? She failed to use her greatest asset, that mind which had matched wits with some of the greatest thinkers of the day, on that battleground she would be fighting an unarmed man! She stooped and collected the trodden coat at her feet and wrapped it around herself, it gave her a few seconds to think and would help prevent her teeth from chattering through the words to come -- how cruel was she willing to be? she thought in those brief moments. She told herself earlier that she was willing to demonstrate how lethal a woman could be -- and her tongue had in fact already killed. Could she administer the fatal blow?

"We were both wrong," she finally replied bitterly, trying the mask the tremble in her voice as a result of the cold. She wanted more than anything to prick his pride as he had wounded her, not a killing blow, but a nick for good measure. "I have stated my piece regarding your accusations, milor... but I must ask you what is so upsetting for you? Are not affairs popular in your circles? You did not seem so opposed were it the Prince... or did you fear to find yourself wanting should I endeavour to make a comparision?" Her brain filled with little dagger to hurl at him, but she couldn't bring herself to throw them.

"If this marriage causes you such grief, your faith gives you leave to end it. Was that not the reason it was established? to give your king leave to take another?" Marguerite spat out, startled by her own words. What had made her say that? Was it the thought of Percy in the arms of another? And now that the idea had been brought forth, would he want to go through with it? Her stomach churned, she couldn't bring herself to hear his response, clutch his coat tightly around her she fleed back to the house and the safety of her room.

<Percy>

Marguerite was gone. Safely back in the house. Someone would have seen her enter just as someone had seen them depart. Someone always saw when there were servants in the house. No sooner would milady slam her bedchamber door in her pique than one of the Blakeney footmen would resume his position. Percy had caged the lioness. He sighed feeling bereft. It had been a night for revelations.

He dragged himself back across the terrace. Insignificant light falling on the stones from the window painted grotesque shadows until he reached the still open door and stepped inside. A figure in grey was lying fresh logs on the fire. Percy took in the broad buttocks and anonymous white cap. In a house containing over 60 servants, he had to pause to remember every scullery or parlour maid�s name before speaking.

"Betty Rogers, is that you?" he asked. The face that glanced over the shoulder was indeed the doughy countenance of Betty. "When you�re done with the fireplace, ask Mrs. Perry to attend me. And when she comes I want a cold supper in this room. I will assume milady will take supper in her boudoir."

"Yes, milord," Betty said, lowering her knowing eyes. Ah, the servants � speculation was rife. Starting with his demand that Marguerite be watched at all times. . . suddenly Percy sat down hard in the nearest chair. Lord � what about the rose garden? It would have been within his orders for Henshaw, Jones or Capper to spy on him while he and Marguerite...it was probable that everything was already known in the house, the word flying from ear to mouth.

And the word would be that Sir Percy had come to his senses about the French madame he had brought home already married. �You can�t marry Marguerite Saint-Just! Lord, Percy, a woman who reduces you to stuttering stupidity as she does is the one you take for your mistress.� � Tony had said that and how Percy had resented him for it, especially knowing that Tony admired her himself.

Nervously, Percy reached for his pocket, only to discover his coat was missing. Damnation; he�d left his snuffbox in his coat, now gracing the icy shoulders of his frigid wife. The minute Betty left the room, Percy dove at the snuffbox on the hearth.

"You sent for me, Sir Percy?" Mrs. Perry, the housekeeper entered the drawing room. Her hair, a swirl atop her head showed signs of hasty repinning. Lord, he�d misjudged the time and the woman had been preparing to retire.

"Lady Blakeney is most distraught, Mrs. Perry," he explained in sober tones. "There is a watch on her door � for her protection. She must be cared for with all attention." Percy paced as he gave orders, striding back and forth before the woman. "I�d prefer that she be attended by sensible, older women only. Rather than Jane Ebbrell, I want Matilda Boulter or Ann Davis, and by no means is she to speak to Eliza Sumpter."

Giggling, simpering young romantics, especially young Sumpter. Marguerite could bribe the chit into any sort of foolish action. "I need to ensure that milady is treated with all kindness, but firmly. Were you aware that she leaves the house unattended?"

Mrs. Perry blanched at that statement. "Yes," Percy shouted. "Imagine it. My wife has been strolling the streets of London as if she were a common actress."

"But, Jane Ebbrell was assigned to attend Lady Blake..."

"Assigned and not fulfilling her duty. Boulter or Davis, Mrs. Perry; no one else must serve my wife!"

Not a minute after she had closed the bedroom door behind her, Marguerite heard Jamieson silently resume his station. She slowly crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, still pulling Percy�s coat tightly around her shoulders. She stared before her at nothing in particular and bit her thumbnail, her mind pouring over the script of the evenings events -- why couldn't it all be a dream? She loved him! How did she fail to realize that? Love would explain the pain and emptiness she felt, but why did this realization come so late? too late.

Under the chestnut tree, he had seemed so sincere... the coat... the awkward attempt to hold her hand... the apology, or what seemed very much like an apology... and those words! Those beautiful words! "Looking at you - God, how I love you! - there are times when I feel like nothing else matters." How long ago that was, and yet so little time had past. In so little time she had run the gamut of emotions contempt to hate, love to despair, desire to fear. It left her exhausted and confused, she was too tired to feel anything beyond exhaustion, numbness.

Her train of thought was interrupted by a soft rap on her door. �Come in,� she said and unconsciously smoothed her hair back. A short, rather stout woman with her hair hastely pinned under her cap entered with a tray.

"Sir Percy, order a supper be brought, milady."

"Thank you," what was her name? "... Mrs. Davis, but I have no appetite. If you will aid me in changing, I will require nothing more for the evening." She rose with great effort to her feet, her limbs heavy with fatigue. She slid Percy's coat off her shoulder and tossed it into a corner, as Mrs. Davis set down the tray and attended to the removal of Marguerite's restrictive garment and into loose, flowing nightgown. Marguerite swept across the room to her vanity, seated herself before it, and proceeded to comb her hair. As she did so she looked at her reflection in the looking glass -- pale face, eyes darken by the tears she had shed earlier that evening and those still eager to be free. What a ridiculous object she must have appeared to Mrs. Davis! She took a kerchief and dabbed at her cheeks and eyes, watching the woman's reflection collect her discarded garments. Were all the household servants aware of her husband's contempt for her?

As she tied her hair back, she noticed the woman moving to collect the coat she had tossed into the corner. "Let It!" Marguerite told her firmly. "That coat means nothing to Sir Percy. Leave it where it is." The woman gave the back of Marguerite's head a puzzled looked, but took the clothes and tray and left.

When Mrs. Davis left Marguerite rested her face in the palms of her hands and sighed, "... you have given yourself to Chauvelin at the least and any number of others in the bargain..." he told her, ignored her denials. And he? how many times did he wake in another woman's arms? How many others were stirred to passion by his kiss? She made herself ill to think that on those many length travels he spent his time in another's bed.

With some effort she rose and set about extinguishing the lights, she paused when she came the the spot where the rumpled blue coat fell. She picked it up off the floor, what an unusually gesture for her to command Mrs. Davis to leave it, but then what did it matter to Percy. "This coat that you value so highly is nothing to me." It meant nothing. He had wrapped it around her under the chestnut tree as an act of kindness, attempted to mend some of the damage done. He was the man she had once known at that moment, how many more opportunities would they have like that? or was that her last chance? "I suddenly realised how wrong I was to have married you." Did not that English king she had mentioned earlier have two wives beheaded for infidelity, the accusation he accused her of. If he divorced her and sent her back to France , he would accomplish the same thing.

She held the coat close to her heart, the coat that meant nothing to Percy meant something to her... it was that proof that the man she loved still lingered somewhere in that aloof exterior. She carried the coat with her to the bed and continued to hold it as she settled herself in for the night, curling up into a ball in the center of the bed. It was a single act of kindness, without it she might have ignored his word but the physical proof was there... a single act of kindness in her weary world.

<Percy>

I�ve been cursed and tortured, Percy told himself, and deserving of it all. Hadn�t Tony warned him against marrying vivacious Marguerite? "No man can live with a woman who has the power to walk all over him in her heeled shoes. I can assure you, it will the biggest mistake of your life to marry her." Egad, wasn�t he the greatest fool of all time � equal to the Prince of Wales in stumbling through romances?

The rattle of dishes alerted him and he schooled his __expression to reveal none of his pain as Davies entered with a tray bearing wine, port and glasses. He was followed by the chit, Ebrell, and a supper tray.

"You," he growled, stabbing a finger in her direction. Put that tray down and remain with me." He saw her flinch, colour, drop her eyes, before taking a position before the fireplace, hands wringing against her apron.

"Davies, I forgot to tell Mrs. Perry that I wish Lady Blakeney to take all her meals in her rooms until further notice. Tomorrow I shall breakfast with her at nine."

"Very good, sir."

"Oh, and have Cotter ensure that the corridor upstairs is kept lit all night. Especially in the front wing. We need to be able to see if we�re to ensure Lady Blakeney�s comfort, hmm?" He was pretending control. As Davies departed, muttering Blakeney�s instructions as he went, Percy turned on Jane Ebrell.

"You! You should be dismissed for your carelessness." He watched the girl�s eyes flood with tears. "My wife is not some spaniel you can allow to run free. In future you will take charge of the rooms in the nursery wing. I want every room dusted and aired. Windows washed. Floors scrubbed. Everything."

The nursery wing � the words felt alien on his tongue. The very thought of a baby in the house made him nervous. How would he know if the child his wife was growing was his?

"Marriage makes it mine," he muttered, turning away from Ebrell. "We�ll have no scandals here." Surely it wasn�t too late to turn the tide of this marriage he�d contracted. Seating himself before the tray, he lifted the lid on his plate. "Hell, if Lord Melbourne can do it, so can I." Fork in one hand and knife in the other, Percy devoured the cold supper.

Melbourne had eloped with a married woman, seen her divorced and taken her to wife. Titled daughter that she was, her quality was undeniable. She had been worth the ensuing scandal and once the dust had settled, society had accepted her back into the fold. Percy would do the same for Marguerite. Keep her away from Chauvelin or Grey or whomever it was she was flirting with. Let time pass. A trip to Scotland would help silence talk and when they returned he would circulate with Margot on his arm as the tamed wife. Docile. Charming. Legitimate. As would be the child.

With a glass of port in his hand, he left the drawing room, heading toward the stairs. It was not too late to stem the tide and for Marguerite he would change the tide if need be. At the foot of the stairs he paused at a vase and plucked a rose from the bouquet. Up the stairs he went, passing the form of Ebrell curled in a corner, crying into her apron. He deposited his empty glass beside her without acknowledging the maid. At the top of the stairs he deliberately turned left toward the front wing of the house and not to his own suite. Cotter was replacing stubs with fresh candles across the hall and Jamieson leaned against the door leading into Marguerite�s sitting room.

"The key, Jamieson." The footman unlocked the door. "Sit over there," Percy motioned to the chair across the hall next to the table where Cotter worked. The door closed behind him. The key turned in the lock once more. Percy blinked into the shadows of the sitting room. He dropped into the first chair and as he undid his shoe buckles, he marked the outline of his wife�s bedroom door thoughtfully.

Sleep did not come so quickly to Marguerite -- her eyes had closed, her breath had become more heavy and regular, but her mind was not so quickly set to rest. A play was acting itself out in her mind, which she played opposite Sir Percy, but whether she was cast as the protagonist or antagonist was difficult to determine for want of a script. As her mind gradually drifted from reality into dream, the players appeared more animated filled with eloquaint dialogue. Soon she was merely a spectator to the tragedy.

A faint click, like the locking or unlocking of a door, brought her back to her senses. Did her overactive mind imagine it? A soft creak... a door or perhaps a tree outside? A soft hustle of sound... footsteps? She sat up in her bed, held her breath and listened intently, every muscle tense, every sense strained on what lay just beyond the door... The click of a key and lock -- unmistakable! Someone was on the other side of the door -- but were they trying to leave or lock themselves in? The only ways out were through the window or through the door in that room. Whomever it was was intent on being silent, or very nearly so, but she distinctly discerned movement. A maid, perhaps? No, she had dismissed them and the hour was to late for them to have any business in there in the dark. Jamieson? Even Percy wouldn't be so crass as to station a man there. Percy? It was unlikely that a man of his station would creep about his own house in the dark, like a thief. But who?

A memory from earlier in the evening. �Truly, I hadn�t meant to tell you this; only to spare you possible injury should anyone wish to make an example of you what with tempers flaring and times so testy.� Percy's own words to her when she asked about the need of a guard. She wasn't entirely sure of their truth then, but now... Was some irate John Bull prowling about her sitting room intent on doing her harm? Was there only the one for that matter? She had heard and seen things during her career in Paris which painted vivid pictures of what fate might be in store for her beyond that door.

If it was some malcontent, then they had come through the door which meant that calling for Jamieson's aid would be of no avail, it was more likely to provoke her visitors. But she couldn't just sit there helplessly cowering and awaiting her fate. She needed to defend herself in case they did enter... a letter opener? It was in the next room with them. What was there? She scanned the dark room, her eyes remarkably acute in the darkness. Most things were to heavy to lift or too light to be effective. She could barricade herself in... but that would require moving towards that door -- something she was unwilling to do without being armed. And hiding would only postpone her fate...

Think, Marguerite! Think! she told herself. You were never so helpless as an actress in Paris ! but Armand was there! There had to be something here... silver... hat pins! They were only handy at close range, but they could make nasty work of a foe! They were on her vanity.

She crawled out of the covers with catlike stealth, put Percy's coat on and rolled up the massive sleeves to free her hands. What would they do to her if they entered? Beat her? Kill her? Or something else far more degrading? She shook violently as she quietly crept across the room, hand clamped over her mouth to stifle the sound of her ragged breath. She had seen what men could do to women and they could enter at any moment! She was terrified by the helplessness she felt.

She had never remembered the distance from her bed to the vanity being so great. Please don't let they come it! Please don't let them come in! she prayed. When she reached the table she almost betrayed herself with an exclamation of relief, quickly stifled. She grabbed the collection of pins, wincing at the soft tingle of metal they produced, and edged to the door, terror building with every second. There was a table near the door -- with enough effort she could slid it in front of the door and impend their progress, then she could scream to wake the entire household if necessary. She just had to keep them from entering until then.

<Percy>

A smell of cold ashes filled the room and Percy realized that it was so dark because no fire had been laid. He sighed. Apparently, the servants were registering their silent disapproval of his foreign bride in their slip-shod inattention. He slid his feet out of his shoes and ripped his cravat free of its knot. As he got to his feet it dropped into a puddle atop the shoes. Percy held the rose loosely between his fingers as he glanced into the tiny alcove where Marguerite's personal maid should be asleep and found the bed had been stripped. No one had ever been there for her. His lips thinned in disapproval. Mrs. Perry had a great deal to answer for.

Tiptoeing toward the bedroom door, Percy yanked on the taffeta bow holding his queue and freed his hair. He took the rose between his teeth so that he might have both hands working on the buttons of his breeches as he reached the doorway � and paused. A figure was outlined in the vanity mirror backlit by the window. Marguerite was not asleep.

"My love," he said very low. "I thought you would be asleep. Are you not well? I shall..." He motioned toward the empty maid�s alcove. "Why didn�t you tell me that you�d been left unattended, my dear?"

Marguerite heard soft shuffling sound approach the door and instinctively stepped back towards the vanity � heart pounding, her small fist clenched around the pins. A thought occurred to her� what if she screamed and no one come? Then she would have to stand firm and protect herself as best as she could, they would not find her so ready a victim. A she watched as the door slowing opened and a large, supernatural shadow entered the room. It paused was it saw her. �My love, I thought you would be asleep. Are you not well? I shall..." the shadow asked softly.

�Percy?� she whispered. An irate Englishman of a different sort, but at least a devil she knew well enough! She was transfixed to the spot, staring at the apparition. His hair was uncommonly loose, his clothes undone, but it was unmistakably Percy.

"Why didn�t you tell me that you�d been left unattended, my dear?"

She breathed a sigh of relief as the terror dissipated. Her hand relaxed and the hat pins fell one by one at her feet, tinkling softly as they struck each other on the floor. She ran to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest. �Oh, Percy! I can�t tell you how grateful I am that you�re here!� And she was. �I thought�� she began, but found herself choked by the words. How foolish of her to jump to such conclusions! Or was it? She remembered a few night before she married when she had experienced similar fear, fear of hearing boots on the stairs, a knock on the door, and the words �Open in the name of the Republic!� If it could happen there, why not here? Did the St. Cyrs experience such terror before their end?

She held her husband tightly. �I�m so glad you�re here!� she repeated.

<Percy>

She was in his arms. A trembling rabbit. What had happened in the hour since she�d fled the garden? As he felt her shivering in his arms he recalled the slices of cold ham and apple he�d eaten. He�d witnessed no sign of any supper in Marguerite�s sitting room. No fire. No lit candles. Abruptly, he scooped her into his arms. "No wonder you�re shivering!" He deposited her on the bed, feeling the silk of his coat covering her. She was huddled in his coat. A sudden black rage descended over him as he dropped a kiss on her forehead.

"Under the counterpane," he ordered her. "At once, now!" Back he went through the bedchamber, through the sitting room to the door and flung it open. Jamieson was sprawled in the chair, waving his pocket watch before his face, his eyes following it back and forth.

"Jamieson, wake up the house! Edwards. Perry. Gadzooks � I will have answers! Wake the cook and tell her I must have tea for milady and hot food. There is no fire in these rooms. No lights. No flowers. What is going on around here?"

Jamieson was on his feet and heading for the stairs before Percy finished shouting. Up and down the hall moving shadows suddenly stilled before returning to life. Percy left the door open as he returned to Marguerite. A flurry of muttering followed him.

His wife�s figure was a small rise beneath the counterpane, her eyes liquid in the shadows as he slid beneath the covers and pulled her back into his arms. "You�re cold clear through. First in the garden with no shawl and now in this room with no fire. Lord Margot � what you must think of me." He kissed both her cheeks, then crawled back out of the warming nest to pull the bedcurtains closed around them.

"One advantage of this old bed," he said, his grin warming his voice as he joined her under the blanket once more, "is that it was built for a room with no fire. I shall make all this up to you, I swear it." Odd�s fish � was this why the woman was so testy?

As he rested his chin atop her head and rubbed his long, slender hands up and down her back he felt her cling to him. Still shivering. Clinging. Beyond the bedcurtains he heard the bustle of feet, the tap of tongs on wood. Light moved into the room as a branched candelabra was set on the dressing table.

"You�ll have supper my darling, and that will help a little. I�ll have Ann Davis installed in your chamber and you must call on her for anything you wish. Anything! You understand?" More furious whispering filled the room beyond the curtains. Finally, the rattle of dishes announced the hurried arrival of supper � the lord only knew what could be heated and prepared at this hour! Marguerite�s shivers had finally subsided.

Marguerite laid there in Percy�s arm, holding on to him for fear he might disappear. She was still trembling, despite the fact that she knew she was safe. But the emotion had been so real, and when she heard Percy�s voice she could have sworn she she had never heard anything so wonderful. And now he was here, holding her so close that she could hear his heart beating � steady, rhythmic, soothing. Beyond the curtains of the bed she could hear people rushed about, whispering, saw lights come to life � a strange new world was being born just beyond the thick curtain.

"You�ll have supper my darling, and that will help a little. I�ll have Ann Davis installed in your chamber and you must call on her for anything you wish. Anything! You understand?" She nodded and eventually felt her tremors dissipate. She heard a rattle of dish, and felt her husband�s muscles tense in preparation to move.

�Don�t go,� she whispered. �Please let us stay like this a few moments more.� Percy�s muscles relaxed again. �I want to keep this moment a little while more.� The evening had proven to her how quickly happiness could flee if you didn't hold it tightly enough.

<Percy>

"But your supper, darling!" Already he was pulling away. He made a pile of pillows for her, then slipped through the bedcurtains and was gone. A slender hand outlined pink in the light grabbed the bedcurtain from the other side, pulled it open a foot and Marguerite was viewed like a jewel positioned atop a heap of velvet cushions. She pulled the sheets tighter over her shoulders as she warily scanned the servants crowded in her bedchamber. A bowl of lukewarm broth with a slice of uncooked onion floating in it was passed to her with great ceremony by, Mrs. Boulton, the cook. An absurd picture was Mrs. Boulton, with her mob cap yanked over a head of hair tied with curling rags. She�d donned her apron over her dressing gown. With a sullen expression dared Marguerite to complain about this bowl of hastily prepared supposed-soup. Behind her, Ann Davis, ignoring Marguerite�s full hands, looked chagrined, with a cup of tea in her hand.

Percy rounded the bed and came into view; everyone�s eyes turned towards him. He was without his cravat, his shirt was hanging about his knees and his hair floated beyond his shoulders, yet despite his wild appearance, he commanded respect.

"This woman is my wife and your mistress. She is more valuable to me than the famous Blakeney emeralds." There was a collective gasp and then Percy blistered the servants with invective, his anger fuelled by his own neglect of Marguerite. Was this treatment the direct result of his being so frequently away? His extended stays in France had reduced the time he'd meant to spend with Marguerite. He'd returned to find her first silent, then distant, and finally, this return had shown her hostile.

Percy�s hasty retreat startled Marguerite, dispelling a part of that sense of ease which being in her husband�s arms instilled. When the bed curtain was opened to reveal a sea of disgruntled faces peering in at her pulled the bed sheets tighter around her in slight confusion. Perhaps her previous fear had been more justified than she realized, and they regarded her as her people regarded another foreign bride. What was Percy�s motive in thus making her a spectacle? A bowl of broth was placed into her hands and she had some difficulty trying to find a place to set it as Ann Davis was trying to pass her a cup of tea. How often she felt that she reacting the uprising of her own country only finding herself in the position of those she argued against. There was no revolution here� yet. However if one should arise, it was very easy to extrapolate her fate.

When Percy came into view she felt some relief and awe in the fact that in his disheveled state, Percy still seemed to exude power and authority. �This woman is my wife and your mistress. She is more valuable to me than the famous Blakeney emeralds." The servants gasped, at which point Percy launched into a series of vicious admonishments and the servants cowering before him. Marguerite waited in silence, wishing that she were somewhere other than in the center of attention, and yet slightly aroused and exhilarated by this new facet of her husband�s personality. She had known that Percy could masterful, expected unquestioning obedience� but this wild creature was noble. Passionate. Provocative. He acted as her defender, and watched his powerful figure move and gesticulate emphasizing his displeasure. She turned her head slightly as if to note the patterns on the counterpane, when in fact she was trying to conceal the smile that was creeping over her lips. She watched him out of the corners of her eyes, god how she loved him!

When Percy returned to her side, Marguerite felt almost giddy at the sight of him. So noble and handsome, his eyes filled with love, she almost wept for joy. She sat up and took a hold of one of his slim, strong hands into hers. �Anything?� she asked softly, pressing the hand to her lips. �A few moments of your time is all that I would ask for, dearest, if it�s not too much to ask. I know that you are weary, but it would mean very much if you could stay if even for a little while.� She kissed his hand again and pleaded to him with her eyes to stay.

He gestured for him to sit on the bed beside her. �You can tell me of your trips to Scotland , or any amusing little adventures that you�ve had while shopping, or something clever you�ve come up with while tying your cravat.�

<Percy>

"Must we talk? Talking is vastly overrated when one is alone with a lovely woman and a bed fills the room." As Percy spoke he snuffed most of the candles in the room, then hustled Marguerite into the bed and pulled the curtains closed.

When they were settled, he pulled her close to him and kissed her once more. "God, how I love you," he told her, speaking into the darkness where all he knew of her was the warmth of her silken flesh. And he did love her, he was certain of that at least. Wife of his heart and mother of his child. (Was she?) Or was the child Chauvelin's?

He kissed her harder, wishing he could bruise the thought out of existence. Of all the men she could have cuckolded him with, why Chauvelin? Did she yearn to hear French compliments whispered in the dark? It may surprise her to hear those honeyed words spoken by him. His hands snaked up her thighs under the nightgown and he felt her earnest little fingers struggle with the buttons of his breeches.

"Allow me," he chuckled, swatting her hands aside. But as he slipped out of the breeches and kicked them away beneath the covers, the thought of honeyed words reminded him sharply of St. Cyr. The night when the republicans had taken St. Cyr, he had lain in these same arms, the arms of the murderess of St. Cyr. The murderess of the marquis, his wife, son, 3 daughters and a baby grandson. The blood that had been spilled was so close to the king that Percy had shuddered with the idea. Louis XVI's cousin. Next in succession after Orleans (he who was know called Egalite) and his ilk.

Marguerite�s hands tugged in his hair as she fused her lips to his. In the swirl of black his emotions tossed back and forth between his desire to protect her � wife of his name � and the horror he felt whenever he thought of St. Cyr�s baby grandson. Until that day he hadn�t realised that Robespierre guillotined babies.

As Percy quickly worked the buttons of his breeches, Marguerite's hands did not remain idle. In the dark sensation was everything, Marguerite's eager hands explored every muscle, every dimple, every inch of warm rippling flesh that she could reach without parting her lips from his. It had been too long since she explored this lost world of pleasure, and like an old familiar trail she was quick to remember which paths led to points that send Percy's blood boiling. Those dexterous hands had not forgotten, had not lost one iota of that skill, she noted, as she felt Percy respond vigorously. Her lips were too busy to shout out the words that her heart was singing. "I love you! My God, how I love you! Please don't let this ever end! I love you!" her heart screamed out, and will all her soul she wanted him to feel those words. They were never more true then now, for until now she had never allowed herself to realize the depth of her love for him, she had denied love until the signs were to great to be ignored. She loved him. And each time he uttered those words to her, she loved him more. When their lips finally did part, her were never far from him. She kissed cheeks, his throat, his chest. She did not want to let him go. Would not let him go! The sacrifices had been too great to relinquish him so readily. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and held on with all the strength her body could muster and whispered into his ear, "I love you, Percy", before devouring his lips again.

<Percy>

"My God . . ." he gasped. She�d come upon him so suddenly, this wildcat transformed from his decorous little wife. It was a moment of illusion. He was of two minds, but his heart was undivided. This was the love of his memory. Love. Percy thrust his disturbed thoughts aside to bask in the delights of his angel-wife, the perfume in the cloak of her hair covering his arms as she slid atop him.

"Oh God!" Is there a God? How could there be when doubts made him unable to penetrate her witch�s soul? She had always been a devil. A temptress. Deftly he turned her so his fingers circled one nipple, his tongue the other. She cried out, flattening herself in the bed, arching upward to press into his flesh. Tomorrow he might argue that he was not in his right mind to visit the devil in her lair . . . but for now the soft heat of her soaked into his mind and silenced the last of his doubts.

Marguerite soon found herself incapable of coherent words, all she was aware of was that she was in the arms of the one loved. His every touch was ecstasy � what that man did with his tongue! She clung to him, pressing him close to her, how she love him! She had no intention of losing him again. If only this moment could last forever!

I love you! I love you! she thought as she covered his face, neck and chest with kisses. He�s gasps and exclamations bringing her blood to a boil. He loved her! He had to. How could anyone make her feel this way if that was not the case? She would not lose his love again. She would go to Scotland if it would mend that horrible rift� she would return to Paris if need be regain the love they once shared. What was life without love? A far worse death than the guillotine could offer. This rift was of her making� her foolish pride, her thoughtless words... a repressed memory � the consequences! An involuntary shudder passed through her� quickly dissipated by her husband�s attentions. In his arms it was hard to image anything wrong in the world.

Marguerite smiled to find her husband lying beside her, for a moment she thought it had been a dream -- one that started out as a nightmare and transformed into a most wonderful, wonderful dream. Perhaps that nightmare marriage had been just that... a nightmare. She opened her eyes and watched Percy's chest steadily rise and fall, she looked up to see his face in quiet repose, he appeared so at peace. She wondered what fanciful dreams were passing through his mind at that moment.

A mischievous smile passed over her lips, it was time for her husband to awaken, the morning was too perfect to spent it in reflection. She propped herself up on her elbow and kissed his navel, messaging it lightly with her tongue, then worked her way up his torso and neck. When she reached his chin, she saw his lips struggling to suppress a smile, while his eye remained closed. She smiled. She kissed him lightly and waited for him to respond, then kissed him more ardently -- tongues intertwining. When they broke contact she was breathing heavily. "Did I wake you?" she smiled impishly.

<Percy>

He opened his eyes and fell into the liquid eyes of his adoring wife. Were these the same ice-blues that could freeze him with a glance?

"God, I�m glad it�s you. At first I thought I�d died and gone to heaven and that His Serene Highness of the Clouds had a very wanton angel on his staff."

He wanted to make her laugh � how he loved her rich, throaty laugh � he wanted to stay in this charmed moment for the rest of his life. But, of course, he couldn�t. He had to be in London this morning...

"Milady has about half an hour if I correctly judge the curve of the light from the window before we will have this chamber filled with contrite servants. I ordered breakfast at nine."

Through the bands of pain squeezing his skull he remembered that much of last night. Too much brandy in recent weeks had made him a bit absent minded at times, but he remembered plotting the breakfast after the night of love. He also remembered his orders that she be watched constantly. Anyone may visit, he had said. If she left the house, she must be accompanied by Davis, a woman in her mid-thirties who was plain of face and not inclined to chatter. Surely Marguerite wouldn�t take a maid on a tryst. With his order, he should have put a halt to whatever trysting or spying his wildcat wife had taken on.

"Wildcat," he purred into her ear. "I remember you. In particular I remember an afternoon . . ." As he whispered to her, he enjoyed the changing light in her eyes and the colour that flooded her cheeks. "I should demand that my uncle of Exeter table a motion in the next sitting of government that all Englishmen marry Frenchwomen." She was responding to his kisses. Less than half an hour.