Lady Massey received him in her rose and silver boudoir two days after the announcement of his betrothal. She was dressed in a negligee of lace and satin, and reclined on a brocaded sopha. No servant announced him; he came into the room as one who had the right, and as he shut the door, remarked humorously: “Dear Caroline, you’ve a new porter. Did you tell him to shut the door in my face?”
She held her hand to him. “Did he do so, Marcus?”
“No,” said his lordship. “No. That ignominious fate has not yet been mine.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Her fingers clasped his, and drew him down to her. “I thought we were being very formal,” he said, smiling, and kissed her.
She retained her hold on his hand, but said half quizzically, half mournfully: “Perhaps we should be formal—now, my lord.”
“So you did tell the porter to shut the door in my face?” sighed his lordship.
“I did not. But you are to be married, are you not, Marcus?”
“Yes,” admitted Rule. “Not just at this moment, you know.”
She smiled, but fleetingly. “You might have told me,” she said.
He opened his snuff-box and dipped in his finger and thumb. “I might, of course,” he said, possessing himself of her hand. “A new blend, my dear,” he said, and dropped the pinch on to her white wrist, and sniffed.
She pulled her hand away. “Could you not have told me?” she repeated.