long he lingered.
The women that intrigued the Marquis were usually a little older than him.
They were always amusing and inevitably beautiful and well aware of their own attraction.
The Marquis actually had more to offer than most of the other younger gentlemen in the Social world.
He had therefore passed from boudoir to boudoir gaining a great deal of most enjoyable experience.
But above all he became determined that he himself would not marry until he was very much older.
Although he would never admit it, he was deeply shocked that all the women he made love to should be so blatantly unfaithful to their husbands.
It was always quite obvious that he was not the first beau who had eaten their husband’s food, drunk his vintage wines and slept in his bed.
At the back of his mind the Marquis became more and more aware that this was something he would never tolerate in his own wife.
At the same time it was quite impossible to resist the invitation in a pair of lovely eyes or the soft movement of two red lips that told him what he wanted to hear.
With all his experience in London, Isobel had been his first widow.
Now, as he was walking home, he realised how by only a hair’s breadth he had managed to escape the trap she had set for him.
As he looked back over his affaire-de-coeur with Isobel, he was sure that she had intended to marry him from the very first moment they had met.
Now he could fully appreciate the little things she had said that had seemed of no significance at the time.
If he had been intelligent, he would have read the warning signs.
‘How can I have been such an idiot?’ the Marquis asked himself again as he turned into Grosvenor Square.
His house, which had been in the family since the Square was first built, was the largest and most fashionable in Mayfair.
He knocked on his front door and the night footman hurried to open it for him.
The Marquis now walked into the hall that was lit by only two candles on the marble mantelpiece.
“Any messages for me, Henry?”
“Only some letters, my Lord.”
They were lying on a table and the Marquis looked at them.
“They can wait for Mr. Foster in the morning.”
“I’ll put them on his desk, my Lord.”
The Marquis walked up the stairs.
As usual he had ordered his valet not to wait up for him, but everything was ready for him in his room.
He undressed, but instead of getting into his bed, he walked to the window and pulled back the curtains.
Now the first rays of light were flickering over the roof and the last evening star was fading with the darkness. There was the soft hush in the air that always comes before the dawn.
The Marquis was thinking only of himself and the soft voice of Isobel suggesting that they should be married.
The idea horrified him.
How could he possibly marry any woman he could not trust and who would be unfaithful to him the moment he left home?
He had always hated the idea of being tied down – of taking a wife as was expected of him because it was so important he should produce a successor and heir.
He felt as if marriage would imprison him.
It would take away his freedom, which, although he had not thought of it often, was very precious.
He had seen so many of his dear friends captured and compelled to live a life that was entirely different from anything they really enjoyed.
The longer he participated in the Social world, the more he considered that its rules and regulations were ridiculous.
Debutantes and all young girls, he had found, were treated as if they were treasures and they went nowhere without a chaperone.
Nevertheless, if they managed to sit out too long with a young man at a dance, the parents could accuse him of ruining her reputation and then he would be obliged to offer her marriage.
If anyone danced two consecutive waltzes together, every chaperone in the room would start whispering loudly and excitedly to those sitting nearby!
Such a daring procedure spelt out the stirring word
The women that intrigued the Marquis were usually a little older than him.
They were always amusing and inevitably beautiful and well aware of their own attraction.
The Marquis actually had more to offer than most of the other younger gentlemen in the Social world.
He had therefore passed from boudoir to boudoir gaining a great deal of most enjoyable experience.
But above all he became determined that he himself would not marry until he was very much older.
Although he would never admit it, he was deeply shocked that all the women he made love to should be so blatantly unfaithful to their husbands.
It was always quite obvious that he was not the first beau who had eaten their husband’s food, drunk his vintage wines and slept in his bed.
At the back of his mind the Marquis became more and more aware that this was something he would never tolerate in his own wife.
At the same time it was quite impossible to resist the invitation in a pair of lovely eyes or the soft movement of two red lips that told him what he wanted to hear.
With all his experience in London, Isobel had been his first widow.
Now, as he was walking home, he realised how by only a hair’s breadth he had managed to escape the trap she had set for him.
As he looked back over his affaire-de-coeur with Isobel, he was sure that she had intended to marry him from the very first moment they had met.
Now he could fully appreciate the little things she had said that had seemed of no significance at the time.
If he had been intelligent, he would have read the warning signs.
‘How can I have been such an idiot?’ the Marquis asked himself again as he turned into Grosvenor Square.
His house, which had been in the family since the Square was first built, was the largest and most fashionable in Mayfair.
He knocked on his front door and the night footman hurried to open it for him.
The Marquis now walked into the hall that was lit by only two candles on the marble mantelpiece.
“Any messages for me, Henry?”
“Only some letters, my Lord.”
They were lying on a table and the Marquis looked at them.
“They can wait for Mr. Foster in the morning.”
“I’ll put them on his desk, my Lord.”
The Marquis walked up the stairs.
As usual he had ordered his valet not to wait up for him, but everything was ready for him in his room.
He undressed, but instead of getting into his bed, he walked to the window and pulled back the curtains.
Now the first rays of light were flickering over the roof and the last evening star was fading with the darkness. There was the soft hush in the air that always comes before the dawn.
The Marquis was thinking only of himself and the soft voice of Isobel suggesting that they should be married.
The idea horrified him.
How could he possibly marry any woman he could not trust and who would be unfaithful to him the moment he left home?
He had always hated the idea of being tied down – of taking a wife as was expected of him because it was so important he should produce a successor and heir.
He felt as if marriage would imprison him.
It would take away his freedom, which, although he had not thought of it often, was very precious.
He had seen so many of his dear friends captured and compelled to live a life that was entirely different from anything they really enjoyed.
The longer he participated in the Social world, the more he considered that its rules and regulations were ridiculous.
Debutantes and all young girls, he had found, were treated as if they were treasures and they went nowhere without a chaperone.
Nevertheless, if they managed to sit out too long with a young man at a dance, the parents could accuse him of ruining her reputation and then he would be obliged to offer her marriage.
If anyone danced two consecutive waltzes together, every chaperone in the room would start whispering loudly and excitedly to those sitting nearby!
Such a daring procedure spelt out the stirring word