Lady Sherry and the Highwayman by Maggie MacKeever

expression that she had practiced long before her mirror and that suited her lovely, roguish face well. “You make me sound like a scheming sort of female. Truly I am nothing of the sort. True, my pockets are a teeny bit to let, but I do not wish to make a fuss about trifles, and you will not mind seeing the bailiffs camped outside the door.”
    Lord Viccars was indeed experienced in the arts of dalliance, and thus well-qualified to translate. “You’ve been plunging deep again. How much this time?”
    “Not so very much, Andrew!” Marguerite gazed beseechingly at him, allowed a delicate tear to trickle down one perfect cheek. Now he would come and take her in his arms and tell her not to worry her pretty little head about anything. Then she would make pretty, apologetic promises that both knew she wouldn’t keep outside of a week.
    He made no move toward her. Marguerite allowed a second tear to follow the first. She knew Andrew did not approve of her passion for gambling, but it was the national vice and she did not see why she should abstain. After all, she did abstain from granting certain favors to other gentlemen, much as they might promise and plead. Marguerite was no common drab such as were found in the brothels around Piccadilly and in the flash cribs near Haymarket. She was a femme entretenue, kept exclusively by one protector and entirely at his disposal, which was sometimes a trifle inconvenient, since it was the fashion for gentlemen to spend as little time as possible at home. Andrew did not plague her in that manner, forever underfoot until she was hard-pressed not to shout at him to go away. He was very generous, his latest present having been a fashionable landau. He also possessed a title, the advantages of which Marguerite was not one to discount.
    Just now, he was looking very stern. He had warned her several times of the consequences if she continued to gamble. What would she do if he did truly did cast her off? Marguerite had gotten into the habit of living far beyond her income. She had a passion for quality in everything and a position to maintain. “Mon cher, you are angry with me,” she murmured as she toyed with the fastenings of his waistcoat. “It was only a mere two hundred pounds. Will you forgive me if I promise never to do it again?”
    Andew cherished no illusions about his mistress. She was extravagant and undisciplined, a creature of excess; her promises had no more true value than the caresses she lavished on him. When the time came, she would go from his arms to the arms of another without regret.
    Nonetheless, he enjoyed her company. In Marguerite’s presence, Andrew felt no obligation to say anything other than what he felt. Seldom had he encountered one of the muslin company who trod the downward road to perdition with such élan , and he admired that in her. “Save your promises for someone who will believe them. I’ll stand your banker this time, Marguerite, but the next time you land yourself in the basket, you must extricate yourself. Since we both know how you will do so, it will then be time for us to say adieu.”
    Marguerite ignored this warning with its ominous suggestion that Lord Viccars knew of the gentlemen who clamored to take his place. She flung her arms around him. “ Merci! How kind you are to me, and what a horrid wretch I am to tease you so. I vow I will make it up to you, mon chou. I mean to be very, very good. Vraiment! You will see.”
    Andrew had scant interest in the goodness of his mistress just then. Her heady perfume invaded his nostrils and stirred his senses, as did the warm little body pressed so ardently against his own. Marguerite was never so passionate as when she’d cut a successful wheedle, which was no doubt why so many gentlemen had let her lead them up the primrose path.
    He was not responsible for all the elegancies displayed in this villa. Many of them Marguerite had brought with her. Andew gazed upon a Grecian urn that he did not