Free Polly by M.C. Beaton

expected, more the way she fancied a pleasant country house would be with its charming little rooms, wood-paneled walls, and cheerful fires crackling away to dispel the autumn chill.
    She busied herself with the teacups with all the professional ease of a West End hostess and then settled back and looked inquiringly at her escort. “Have you heard from Peter?” she asked shyly and then blushed in case the marquis would think the use of his brother’s christian name too familiar.
    “I heard only the other day,” he said. “Peter seems to be working hard, which is unusual.”
    “I had several postcards from him,” said Polly brightly, helping herself to a watercress sandwich.
    The marquis, who did not know that Polly had not received a postcard for some time, silently cursed his brother.
    To change the subject, he questioned her about her work at Westerman’s, and then baldly asked her how much she earned.
    “I now earn fifteen shillings a week,” said Polly proudly. “Mister Baines gave me a raise.”
    The temptation was too much. “How then,” said the marquis, “can you afford that very charming dress you are wearing?”
    Polly’s face hardened. “If you will cast your mind back, my lord, perhaps you will remember that I informed my mother that I had inherited Miss Carruthers’s wardrobe. Even in Shoreditch your questions about my salary and my clothes would be considered impertinent!”
    “You must forgive me,” said the marquis, smiling into her eyes in a way that suddenly made her feel breathless. “My friends will tell you that I am terribly rude.”
    Polly looked at him cautiously. He did not seem nearly so terrifying when he smiled like that. She said, laughing, “Don’t do it again or I might hit you with my umbrella. And it would never do to strike my future brother-in-law, you know. Oh, look! They have
madeleines
on the second tier. I love
madeleines
.”
    “Very fattening,” he said lightly, while his brain recovered from the shock.
    Polly laughed again. “Not nearly so fattening as those éclairs on the top. I’ve never seen such huge—why are you looking at me like that?”
    The marquis sighed. “Your announcement—that is your remark that I was to be your brother-in-law—startled me. Did Peter actually
propose
marriage?”
    “Yes,” said Polly, and then hesitated. “Well… that is… he said almost the same thing. He said that he would return at Christmas and that we would make plans for our future together. What else does that mean, if not marriage?”
    “My dear,” said the marquis slowly, “in Peter’s language, it probably means a maisonette in Saint John’s Wood.”
    “Oh,” said Polly, relieved. “But you must not worry. Saint John’s Wood is a very pretty suburb, and although a maisonette may not seem very grand to you—”
    “My dear girl,” snapped the marquis, “by Saint John’s Wood, I mean that Peter is suggesting setting you up in a love nest as his mistress.”
    He watched the painful blush spreading over Polly’s face and cursed himself. Why, the girl was innocent! Contrary to what was portrayed in current romances, the modern young lady seemed to have forgotten how to blush.
    “How cruel you are,” said Polly in a whisper. “How cruel and
snobbish
. You are just like your awful mother. Duchess, indeed! She behaved exactly like these stuck-up shopgirls I meet at the hostel and you, my lord, are no better. Peter loves me. He… he
kissed
me.”
    The marquis groaned. “Miss Marsh. You are indeed a very kissable girl. But Peter is practically engaged to some girl out in Bengal.”
    Polly looked at him in dismay. Then her vanity came to her rescue. She had never met any girl or any woman who was as beautiful as herself.
    “Tommyrot!” she said roundly, gathering up her gloves and reticule. “You’re ashamed of me, that’s all!”
    He politely got to his feet. “I am not in the least ashamed of you, Miss Marsh,” he said in chilly accents.