INK

Marguerite paused as she recognised her husband's knock on the door of her dressing-room: "Come in, Percy… I shall never understand how you contrive to appear just as I am about to ring for Louise to help me dress!"

He made her an elaborate bow and said, mock-serious: "Perhaps my lady would be pleased to avail herself of my services instead of her maid's?"

He smiled at her, his eyes full of mischief, then his glance fell on the chair where the gown lay which she had chosen for the evening: "Ah, the new peacock silk; I am looking forward to seeing you in it, my dear; the blue is so beautiful and will set off your colouring to perfection."

He loved these times preparing to go out; they were fast becoming a ritual in the intimacy which was continuing to develop between them, when he would choose and dress Marguerite in the jewels she would wear for the evening, carefully threading earrings, fastening bracelets and necklaces, luxuriating in her perfume, the feel of her skin under his fingers, the soft curls at the nape of her neck. Sometimes the careful preparations would lead to other things and they would arrive at their engagement even later than fashion dictated, and rather warmer than could easily be accounted for, which led to amused speculation outside their immediate circle: surely the Blakeneys, hardly newly-weds now after all, could not still be taking pleasure in congress with each other? (Not that there were many women who would not gladly have exchanged places with Marguerite, whose handsome, entertaining – and very wealthy – husband they almost universally adored; nor were there many men who would have disagreed with Sir Percy's oft-repeated assertion that he had married the most beautiful woman in Europe; but all the same, it was a topic of not a little surprise and curiosity.)

Marguerite was already dressed in shift and petticoat and would need help only with the fastenings at the back of the gown; Percy rather regretted that, always à la mode, she more often wore the new, looser high-waisted gowns these days than the stiff bodices which had required corsets beneath, so he seldom had the opportunity now to lace her into her corset, which had almost proved his undoing more than once; perhaps, he hoped wistfully, the fashion might change back again soon…

Marguerite appeared to be quite unselfconscious – despite her delicacy she had a confidence which most women her age could not have matched – but she knew the effect it had on Percy to take part in this ritual: it was sometimes almost torture for him, and yet he delighted in it. This evening they were due at a ball to mark the marriage of Lady Alicia and Lord Bathurst and they could not risk arriving after the Prince of Wales, as had so nearly happened on one embarrassing occasion recently; so Marguerite deliberately continued her preparations and forced Percy and herself to concentrate on getting ready. While he watched, she took up the gown and stepped into it, arranging the folds and smoothing the silk; it showed her slender figure to advantage and, although he had been right about the peacock blue setting off her colouring, Percy found the way the silk clung to the curve of her hips was altogether much more interesting. She turned and presented her back to her husband so that he could fasten the gown; his hands, as always, were deft and quick, and then there remained only her jewels to put on. She relied completely upon his impeccable taste, trusting him to choose the pieces which would complement her dress and suit the occasion – but as she often did, she also wanted to wear one of the ornaments he had given her before she had found out about his double life, and tonight she put in her hair a comb which glittered with rubies in the shape of small red flowers.

He took her hands, deliberately holding her away from him, and gazed at her; she looked so beautiful that it almost took his breath away. The peacock-blue silk shimmered around her and made the smooth pale skin of her arms and bosom seem even whiter, and her hair was a true crowning glory, making him relish the thought of the moment at the end of the evening when she would unpin the mass of curls and let it fall down her back…

It was raining hard when they left the ball several hours later and owing to the crush of guests, coaches and horses outside, despite Percy's best efforts their clothes were quite wet when he handed her into the coach for the journey home; he wrapped her carefully in the rugs but she was soaked to the skin through the thin silk and she was soon shivering. He did not drive tonight, but travelled inside with her, holding her close to help keep her warm. When they arrived he would not allow her to alight until her maid had brought a heavy cloak, and then he insisted on carrying her upstairs, where he carefully seated her on the sofa by the fire in her dressing-room. He put fresh wood on the fire himself and soon it was ablaze again. He left the room while Louise helped her mistress out of the wet gown and into a thick wrap before bidding her goodnight. Gradually Marguerite began to feel warm and drowsy.

There was a tap at the door: Percy had returned, bringing brandy. "Are you beginning to feel warmer now, my dearest? I am sorry you got so wet; I hope you'll not catch cold – or worse. I shall heat some brandy; it will keep the chills away I think."

The brandy, warmed in the glasses by the flames, did Marguerite good and she seemed to revive, but as she leant against him, Percy realised how late the hour was and how tired she must be. "Let me help you finish preparing for bed, dearest" he said gently. She stirred and slowly stood up, letting the wrap fall to the floor; she turned her back to him and he began to unfasten the chemise; she felt the ties loosen to just below her waist – and then there was a pause. Several seconds passed. Then, finally, he spoke: "Well, I'm demmed." Another pause… She hardly dared to breathe; he could hardly believe his eyes.

There, an inch or two above the swell of her neat derrière, and showing black against the ivory skin, he saw, outlined in dark ink, his own name, the tail of the "y" ending in a small, five-petalled scarlet flower. Fascinated, but puzzled, he stroked the skin: she half-turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, trying to read his face.

"Margot!" – she sighed with relief; he would not have called her by his fondest name if he were displeased – "How utterly delightful!"

"You like it then? I'm so glad; I had begun to wonder if I had misjudged."

"It is quite enchanting, my dear! You are full of surprises. How was it done? And when?"

"Oh, Percy, it's beginning to be quite the fashion amongst the ladies at present!" she said excitedly – "a secret fashion, rather shocking! It's properly called a 'tattou' "(the French way she pronounced it made her lips pout, which he adored), "but they call it an "ink". It's done with a needle – it will last all my life! – and of course I needed someone's help to arrange it; I had to ask Louise; you know I would normally turn to Andrew for help, but on this occasion I thought he might not be the most appropriate person to ask!" and she began to giggle. "If you had come home SOONER I would have had to think of some excuse to stop you from seeing it before it healed – but I think now that all's well?"

"Yes, dearest, all's more than well; it is very pretty, and rather exciting, but it must have hurt a great deal!" He knelt and kissed the smooth skin under his name.

"A little," she said firmly, "but I thought of the scar on your wrist, and how painful it must have been when they branded you; but you made them do it so that you could help me, and you will carry that mark in your flesh until the end of your days and it will remind you every time you look at it of those times, and of me ― and I wanted to do the same!"

He kissed the ink again; it really was exciting, and the thought of her forever carrying his name on her skin wherever she went, and hidden from all eyes but his, was quite delicious, quite arousing ….

THE END