His grace said placidly: “I find myself quite unable to tell Miss Challoner anything of the kind.”
“What, have you been one hour in her company and not seen how infinitely above me she is?” the Marquis cried hotly.
“By no means,” said the Duke. “If Miss Challoner feels herself able to become your wife I shall consider myself to be vastly in her debt, but out of justice to her I am bound to advise her to consider well before she throws herself away so lamentably.” He regarded Miss Challoner blandly. “My dear, are you sure you cannot do better for yourself than to marry Vidal?”
A laugh escaped the Marquis. He drew Miss Challoner closer. “Mary, look at me! Mary, little love!”
“I am of course loth to interrupt you, Vidal, but I desire to inform Miss Challoner that there is no reason why she should accept your hand unless she chooses.” The Duke rose, and came towards them. The Marquis let Miss Challoner go. “You appear to be a woman of so much sense,” said his grace, “that I find it hard to believe you can really desire to marry my son. I beg you will not allow the exigencies of your situation to weigh with you. If marriage with Vidal is distasteful to you I will arrange matters for you in some other way.”
Miss Challoner gazed down into the fire. “I cannot ... I—the Duchess—my sister—oh, I do not know what to say!”
“The Duchess need not trouble you,” said his grace. He walked to the door, and opened it. He glanced back, and said languidly: “By the way, Vidal’s morals are rather better than mine.” He went out, and the door closed softly behind him.
The Marquis and Miss Challoner were left confronting one another. She did not look at him, but she knew that his eyes never wavered from her face. He made no movement to recapture her hands; he said slowly: “Until you ran away with Comyn, I never knew how much I loved you, Mary. If you won’t marry me, I shall spend the rest of my life striving to win you. I’ll never rest till I’ve got you. Never, do you understand?”
A smile trembled on her lips. “And if I do marry you, my lord? You’ll let me go my own road? You’ll not come near me unless I wish it? You’ll not fly into rages with me, nor tyrannize over me?”
“I swear it,” he said.
She came to him, her eyes full of tender laughter. “Oh, my love, I know you better than you know yourself!” she said huskily. “At the first hint of opposition, you’ll coerce me shamefully. Oh, Vidal!
He had caught her in his arms so fiercely that the breath was almost crushed out of her. His dark face swam before her eyes for an instant, then his mouth was locked to hers, in a kiss so hard that her lips felt bruised. She yielded, carried away half-swooning on the tide of his passion. But in a moment she struggled to get her hands free, and at once his hold on her slackened. She flung up her arms round his neck, and with a queer little sound between a sob and a laugh, buried her face in his coat.
Chapter XIX
miss challoner appeared at the breakfast hour next morning rather shy, her face delicately tinged with colour. She found both the Marquis and his father in the parlour, and an elderly dapper little Frenchman whom she discovered to be his grace’s valet.
The Marquis carried her hand to his lips, and held it there for a moment. His grace said in his bored voice: “I trust you slept well, child. Pray be seated. Gaston, you will take my chaise immediately to Dijon, where you will find her grace.”
“
“You will bring her to this place. Also my Lord Rupert, Miss Marling, and Mr. Comyn. That is all, Gaston.”
There had been a day when Gaston would have been appalled by such an order, but twenty-five years in Avon’s service had left their mark.
“
The Marquis said impetuously: “I’ll make that fellow Hammond marry us, Mary, at once.”
“Very well,” said Miss Challoner equably.
“You will be married,” said his grace, “in Paris, at the Embassy.”
“But, sir—”
“A little coffee, my lord?” said Miss Challoner.
“I never touch it. Sir—”
“If his grace wishes you to married at the Embassy, my lord, I won’t be married anywhere else,” stated Miss Challoner calmly.
The Marquis said: “You won’t, eh? Sir, it’s very well, but it will cause a deal of talk.”
“I rather think that it will,” agreed Avon. “I had no time on my way through Paris to arrange the details. But I have no doubt that my friend Sir Giles will have done so by this time.”
Miss Challoner regarded him in frank wonderment. “Is my grandfather in Paris then, sir?”
“Certainly,” said his grace. “I should tell you, my child, that officially you are in his company.”
“Am I, sir?” Miss Challoner blinked at him. “Then you did meet him at Newmarket?”
“Let us say, rather, that he came to find me at Newmarket,” he amended. “He is staying in an hotel which he has hired for some few weeks. You, my dear Mary, are at present keeping to your room, on account of some slight disorder of the system. The betrothal between yourself and my son is of long, though secret standing. Hitherto”— his grace touched his lips with his napkin, and laid it down. “Hitherto, both Sir Giles and myself have refused our consent to your marriage.”
“Have you?” said Mary, quite fascinated.
“Obviously. But Vidal’s banishment to France so attacked your sensibilities, my dear child, that you seemed to be in danger of going into a decline. This induced Sir Giles and myself to relent.”
“Oh, no!” begged Miss Challoner. “Not a decline, sir! I am not such a poor creature!”
“I am desolated to be obliged to contradict you, Mary, but you were certainly on the brink of a decline,” said Avon firmly.
Miss Challoner sighed. “Well, if you insist, sir ... What next?”
“Next,” said Avon, “the Duchess and myself came to Paris to grace the ceremony with our presence. We have not yet arrived, but we shall do so in a day or two. I imagine we are somewhere in the neighbourhood of Calais at the moment. When we do arrive we shall hold a rout-party in your honour. You will be formally presented to society as my son’s future wife. Which reminds me, that I cannot sufficiently praise your admirable discretion in refusing to go about when you sojourned with my cousin Elisabeth.”
Miss Challoner felt herself bound to say: “There is one person who met me at the Hotel Charbonne, sir. The Vicomte de Valme.”
“You can leave Bertrand to me,” interposed the Marquis. “This is all very well thought of, sir, but when does our marriage take place?”
“Your marriage, my son, takes place when Miss Challoner has had time to buy her bride-clothes. I shall leave you to decide the rest. My ingenuity falls short of planning your wedding trip.”
“You surprise me, sir. I shall take you into Italy, Mary. Will you come with me?”
“Yes, sir, with all my heart,” said Mary, smiling at him.
His hand went out to her across the table. The Duke said drily: “Delay your affecting demonstrations a moment longer, Vidal. I have to inform you that your late adversary was, when I left England, on the road to recovery.”
“My late adversary?” frowned his lordship. “Oh, Quarles! Was he, sir?”
“You do not appear to feel any undue interest in his fate,” remarked Avon.
The Marquis was looking at Mary. He said casually: “It makes no odds to me now, sir. He can live for all I care.”
“How very magnanimous!” said his grace with gentle satire. “Perhaps it may interest you to learn that the gentleman has been—er—induced to make a statement which obviates the need for your exile.”
Vidal turned his head, surveying his father with candid admiration. “I should like to know how you induced him to make such a statement, sir, I admit. But I did not leave England for fear of the runners.”
Avon smiled. “Did you not, my son?”
“No, sir, and you know it. I left at your command.”
“Very proper,” said his grace, rising. “I have no doubt I shall be weak enough to command your return—when
