Babe (27 page)
“Oh, dear! What is to be done about Ellingwood? I have as well as said I will have him, to show you a lesson.”
“Not to worry. I convinced him you are beyond his poor powers of handling. He was mighty relieved I had managed to escape him all day, I can tell you. You never saw such a frightened hare when I told him he might have to challenge Romeo to a duel.”
“Oh, he knows about the kidnapping, then.”
“Not at all, he thinks it was a dash to Gretna Green.”
“I hope he hasn’t told anyone. What story has your sister told at the ball?”
“You are ill.”
“If we hurry, we might be back in time for the last dance.”
“Long before it, but do you think you will look your best in polka dots?”
“Ah, my measles! I feel so much better now that the spots have blossomed that I forgot all about them. Romeo didn’t much care for them, did he?” she asked, and laughed softly.
“Romeo is an inveterate fool. And so have I been. I still am, wasting this precious opportunity. Evening star, I want to kiss you.”
“You’ll have to ask my guardian, Lord Clivedon,” she informed him in a prissy manner.
“Call me Laurence,” he said, reaching out for her in the darkness.
“Clivedon!” she repeated in a louder voice. “Don’t touch me. I've got the measles.”
“I noticed. And you will call me Laurence, or I shall wring your beautiful neck, as I have been wanting to all these days,” he said, putting his hands around her neck and tilting her chin towards him. “To hear you speak of that Greek puppy as ‘fascinating,’ and to see you planning to marry Ellingwood when you knew—”
“No, I was not at all sure!”
“Liar,” he mumbled in a caressing voice. “You have known ever since you stood me up two years ago.”
“I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t.”
“This is what would have happened, before the day was out, Aphrodite,” he murmured in her ear. Then he lowered his head and kissed her gently on the lips, a warm, tender embrace. “But, as two years have passed since then, and you are a confirmed jezebel, this is what will happen now,” he added ominously. He attacked her much more vigorously, with a ruthless embrace that left her breathless.
“Babe. Oh Babe,” he said in an unsteady voice. “I have been ten times a fool. Get rid of those spots at once, you hear? I’m going to marry you before you fall into any more scrapes.”
“I wish I could be rid of them. So lowering to have the measles at my age. But really, I feel fine, Laurence.”
“Only fine? You should be feeling ecstatic, like me. Am I slipping?” he apologized, and kissed her again. “Better?”
“Much better! That was Homeric, or do I mean Herculean?”
“Damn your eyes, you’re thinking of that Greek at a time like this.”
“I was only thinking how glad I am to be rid of him. He hated the Cotswolds, you know. Can you imagine anyone hating those hills? And I was thinking too, maybe we could go there for our honeymoon.”
“Persuade me,” he suggested, and showed her the best manner of doing so.
* * * *
Lady Withers’ hysteria was reaching an uncontrollable height by midnight, when her company was going in to dinner. She actually emitted a shriek—so tactless—when she was called to go abovestairs by her butler. She was assured as soon as she was in the privacy of the hallway that the sight awaiting her there was pleasant, however, and had settled down to babbling incoherency by the time she reached Barbara’s chamber. “You have found her, thank God. I pictured a runaway match with Gentz, or a fatal accident. Oh my dear, you are all covered in spots!”
“You noticed that, did you?” Laurence asked. “At least we have got our excuse for Babe’s missing her party tailor-made for us. Now we can announce the precise nature of her illness. Is she still ill, by the by?”
“Yes, and that pesky Lady Angela has asked a dozen times to be allowed to see her, just for a moment. She suspects, of course . . .”
“Excellent! Let her come,” Clivedon declared. “She’ll put an ad in the paper for us, and the world will know what happened.”
“I hope she catches them from me,” Babe said, and gurgled happily at the thought.
“Better slip into a dressing gown first, Babe,” Lady Withers suggested. “Oh, my dear! What did I call you? I beg your pardon, Barbara. It is my poor head . . . Clivedon, you can’t be here when Lady Angela comes up. You might just come into the ballroom and make an appearance, for the looks of it. With the two of you gone, you know, it looks so very odd. It has even been suggested the two of you were together. Lady Angela, I think, mentioned it . . .”
“The trouble is, I may be coming down with the measles myself,” he objected.
“What, are you ill, too?” Agnes asked.
“I feel strangely light-headed,” he lied happily.
“You both caught them from Boo, of course. I hope I am not next.”
“I have been out of commission all day, you recall, so my absence will surprise no one,” Laurence said. “I’ll just hide in the closet till Angela leaves. Bring us some champagne, will you, Sis?”
Barbara threw a dressing gown over her gown to hide it from Lady Angela, and closed the door of the closet on her room. She reclined gracefully on a chaise longue, and soon had the exquisite pleasure of seeing Lady Angela start back in fright and beat a hasty retreat from the room. She feared she had not got close enough for contamination, but resisted the impulse to go after her.
There were several who had no heart for staying in a house cursed with measles, but plenty of others who were willing to take the risk. The Ladies Anstrom and Nathorn and their nephew were amongst those who elected to leave. “Did you find her?” Ellingwood asked in a quiet aside on his way to the door.
“Yes, Clivedon got her back. She is abovestairs this minute.”
“Wasn’t sure Lady Angela wasn’t in on the cover-up,” he said, nodding in a commiserating way. “Where had the girl got to, anyway?”
“She had wandered into the garden, feeling warm, you know,” Lady Withers explained. He looked at her, disbelief written all over him.
“I see,” he said, and nipped smartly forward to hold the door for his wealthy aunts, who had no opinion of a lady who would be ill for her own ball.
Abovestairs, Clivedon opened the door onto the balcony that graced Lady Barbara’s room and took the champagne out to it. He lit a cigar as he looked out on to the street. “The little party is breaking up,” he pointed out, as several carriages were being brought around to the house front.
“Laurence—look—there is Mrs. Harkness getting into Balfour’s carriage. They are having an affair; I knew it.”
“Lucky dogs,” he replied, pulling her to his side to kiss her ear.
“No one ever talks about her. I don’t know why they all pick on me.”
“Jealous as green cows, every one of them,” he assured her.
“I think there was some jealousy in it,” she answered.
“Certainly there was, and there will be a good deal more when they read tomorrow that you have captured me.”
“Should we announce it so soon? I mean, after Ellingwood . . .”
“To hell with Ellingwood,” he answered, and setting aside their two glasses, he pulled her into his arms. Looking over the railing towards the street, she exclaimed, “There is Lady—”
“Never mind, love,” he said, and kissed her quite long, till he began to feel a little curiosity as to the unstated lady’s name. Glancing to the carriage, he recognized her and her escort. “That’s a new romance.”
“And she a widow with three children. It’s shocking,” Barbara said in a righteous tone.
“Shocking,” he agreed censoriously, and passed her his cigar.
Copyright © 1980 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Coventry
Electronically published in 2004 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
