Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (16 page)

Hawkhurst, meanwhile, had wandered over to where Bryce stood a
short distance from the fire. "And a poppy-flowered waistcoat!" he
murmured ironically. "The icing on the cake! Tell me, Colley, does our
redoubtable Miss Buchanan mean to make a beauty out of you, also?"

"I knew you would laugh!" Coleridge reddened. "If you must
know, Hawk, these trousers are all the crack up at Oxford. Brought 'em
down with me!"

"So
that
is why you were rusticated!
Egad! Cannot say I blame the Dean!"

His lordship's rustication had stemmed from quite another
cause, and one he had no intention of divulging. His jaw setting
stubbornly, he retaliated, "Were it a
scarlet
jacket you would approve! But because I've a flair for art, you mock
and sneer and—"

"Flair for dandyism, more like! Now hear me well, my lad. I
shall not embarrass you by demanding that you immediately go and remove
that ridiculous collection of horrors with which you have chosen to
deface yourself. But do you ever come down to dinner wearing it again,
I shall personally eject you!"

Coleridge felt impaled by that grey stare. Hawk meant it, all
right. And seeking vainly for some devastatingly sophisticated retort,
he was obliged to fall back upon the ages-old response of oppressed
youth, "
Why
must you persist in treating me as
though I were still a child in leading strings?"

"The answer to that," said Hawkhurst acidly, "is too obvious
to require utterance." And he strolled to his aunt's side, leaving
Bryce trembling with passion.

Since all of this had been conducted in very low tones, and
since Dora had chattered merrily throughout, several times bringing
Buchanan and her niece to laughter, it appeared to have escaped notice.
Buchanan, however, could guess what had transpired and, eyeing
Hawkhurst admiringly, wondered who was the genius who tailored him. The
dark-brown jacket was very plain, save for brown-velvet rolled revers,
but fit like a second skin. His cream-brocade waistcoat and fawn
pantaloons were impeccable, and his only affectations were his signet
ring and a fine topaz in his cravat. Beside his quiet elegance, Bryce
with his fobs and seals, and rings, a snuffbox held in one hand and his
handkerchief in the other, looked a total buffoon.

Pondering thus, Buchanan became aware that Miss Hawkhurst
watched him. They had spent much time together during the past few days
and had become so comfortably at ease that formalities had been
abandoned, and they were more like lifelong friends than comparative
strangers. He drew his chair a little closer and pointed out in a low
voice, "Colley has good stuff in him, Miss Stephie. He'll likely
develop into a splendid fellow."

"I am sure of it. I do hope your own brothers appreciate
having so understanding a gentleman as the head of the family."

He grinned. "Doubt they ever give me a thought, save when they
are in need of the ready! Gerald—he's at Cambridge, you know—has his
head full of schemes to right the world's wrongs, while Robert, the
young demon, yearns to turn back the clock to the naughty and
infinitely more appealing days of our grandfathers."

She gave an appreciative little laugh. "And you are so kind
and doubtless indulge them terribly. Tell me, does Gerald affect the
fashions my cousin Bryce admires?"

The very thought of his brother making such a cake of himself
was sufficient to arouse Buchanan's ire. "He most certainly does not!
Why, if I ever caught him so much… as…" He broke off. Stephanie's head
had tilted, and her eyes were bright with mirth. He glanced to
Hawkhurst and smiled ruefully. "You wretch! You trapped me neatly! And
how did you know I was entertaining such critical thoughts of your
brother, pray?"

She lowered her lashes and, her smile fading, murmured, "You
have… very expressive eyes, and—"

"Oh, my! Am I so late, then? I
do
apologize. The cook was apoplectic when I was obliged to tell him to
set dinner back an hour!" Lady Bryce swept into the room, impressive in
a purple lace robe over a pale lavender slip. Tall plumes swayed in her
velvet turban, and a fine amethyst-and-pearl necklace was spread across
her bosom. "I have kept everyone waiting, I perceive," she sighed, as
she surveyed the ladies and the three young men who had stood at her
coming. "How very,
very
bad mannered in me!"

Feeling about an inch tall, Buchanan stammered, "I am afraid
my sister is not here yet, ma'am."

"The prerogative of a guest," said Hawkhurst. He motioned to
the butler to leave and, pulling a chair closer to the fire, urged, "Do
sit down, Aunt Carlotta. You are all gooseflesh."

She cast him a resentful glance, but seated herself. Her son,
dutifully bringing her some lemonade, filled her vision for the first
time. She gave him a small shriek and almost dropped her glass. "Good
heavens!
What on earth are you wear—"

"Impressive, is it not?" Hawkhurst interposed, occupying a
chair between her and Dora. "I have told Colley that I do not feel his
shoulders require so exaggerated a style, but these new fashions are
all the rage at the University, and the young Bucks must try 'em."

The awkward moment passed. Coleridge breathed a sigh of relief
and shot a grateful glance at his cousin. Lady Bryce was very willing
to drop so embarrassing a subject and launched into an animadversion
upon how furious the cook had been, and the general impertinence of
servants these days, only to stop in mid-sentence, her mouth widening
into an expression of mingled awe and incredulity.

Buchanan followed her gaze and was as one turned to stone.
Hawkhurst, equally astounded, sprang to his feet, while Bryce, in the
act of refilling his aunt's glass, glanced up and froze.

Euphemia's arrival having been every bit as spectacular as she
had hoped, she paused in the doorway, one hand upon the frame,
surveying the silenced gathering with an arch smile. "Am I…" she
enquired throatily, "… late?"

A total stillness answered her. She moved with a decidedly
sinuous glide across the floor.

"Good… God!" breathed Buchanan, tottering to his feet.

"Good… evening, ma'am," said Hawkhurst in a strangled voice
and advanced to greet her.

She extended her hand. It was not easy, but she managed it.
She was fairly covered with jewels. In addition to the diamond choker
clasped about her throat, she wore a triple strand of large pearls and
an opal pendant. A great ruby brooch was pinned to one shoulder of her
decollete, pale-orange, silk gown, and on the other a fine emerald pin
clashed wickedly. The tiara in her hair, of diamonds and sapphires, was
"complimented" by shoulder-length pearl and ruby earrings that sparkled
and flashed as she turned her head provocatively. Every one of her
fingers was beringed, sapphires vying with amethysts, diamonds, opals,
and emeralds. From wrist to elbow, both arms were weighted down. There
were bracelets of gold, jade, and silver; cunningly wrought gold
filigree encrusted with glittering gems; loops of pearls, and, next to
a splendid ruby bangle, one of garnets. The overall effect was as
blinding as it was vulgar.

Having opened her fan, Lady Bryce plied it very slowly,
staring in open-mouthed astonishment.

Aghast, Buchanan started forward. A slender hand touched his
arm, and he looked down into a face aglow with mischief. "Were
you
…
party to… ?" he gestured feebly towards his sister.

Stephanie nodded and whispered, "I had to borrow most of it,
but I did not dream how delicious it would look."

Hawkhurst, bowing over Euphemia's hand, choked, "I can scarce
find… room to… to kiss it, ma'am."

"Then at least hold it up," she murmured. "I think my poor arm
is about to break!"

With a muffled snort, he pressed a kiss into her palm and,
straightening, his eyes full of laughter, threw up one hand and
acknowledged, "A hit! Bravo!"

"Is that all you can say?" she demanded indignantly. "Are you
not thoroughly lured?"

"I am," he gulped, "utterly undone. I—I bow, ma'am! Piqued,
repiqued, and capotted! I own it!"

"Colley!" shrieked Lady Bryce.

Coleridge jumped, looked down, and groaned, "Oh, my Lord!"

Dora peered over the side of her chair and, shaking her head,
sent a small shower of hairpins into the puddle of Madeira. "Whatta
waste… Wha' drefful waste!"

Bryce ran for the bellrope.

Recovering sufficiently to escort Euphemia to a chair,
Hawkhurst bowed her into it. "I think," he said,
sotto voce
,
"it will stand the weight."

"How very ungallant of you, sir," she tittered, rapping his
strong hand lightly with her opal-studded fan. And, crossing one knee
outrageously over the other, thus revealed her bare feet clad in gold
Grecian sandals. On three of her toes, diamond rings winked in the
light of the candles, as she swung her foot.

Hawkhurst let out such a whoop of laughter as his family had
not heard issue from his lips for five long years. Staggering to the
side, he collapsed into an armchair and lay back, wracked with mirth.

His Aunt Carlotta frowned from his disgracefully abandoned
display to the disgusting vulgarity seated beside her. His Aunt Dora
laughed merrily with him. His cousin Bryce, a delighted grin curving
his mouth, observed him with new hope, and Buchanan, holding the hand
an hilarious Stephanie had involuntarily extended, watched his sister
in bewildered amusement.

Triumphant, Euphemia was also somewhat disconcerted. It was,
she thought, remarkable that laughter could so completely change a
grim, acid-tongued cynic into a warm, likeable, and rather
devastatingly attractive man.

The notes of the harp hung like liquid drops upon the air,
faded, and were gone. The applause rang out, and Euphemia, divested of
her finery, jumped to her feet, clapping wholeheartedly. Whatever her
failings, Carlotta Bryce played like an angel. Looking up as she
straightened the instrument, her ladyship was flushed with pleasure,
and the eager audience crowded in around her, full of acclaim and
requests for more.

Hawkhurst wandered across the music room to perch on the arm
of his sister's chair and place one long finger under her chin, lifting
her face. He had never before seen her so radiant. However she had
managed it, Miss Buchanan had changed the shy child into quite a taking
little thing. "Happy?" he smiled.

"Oh, yes! Is it not lovely for us to have such pleasant
company? How I wish they could stay for the holidays!" A shadow touched
her bright eyes, but she said quickly, "Well, they are here now, at all
events." Her brother was silent, and, scanning his expressionless
features, she asked, "You are not angry? I mean, Euphemia told us how
you had teased her. And indeed, to hear you laugh so, was wonderful."

"A fine spoil-sport you think me," he chided. "I deserved it
and must only admire so excellent a set-down." He flashed a glance to
where the candlelight was making Miss Buchanan's head into a shimmer of
gold, as she bent to compliment his aunt, then averted his eyes
hurriedly. "She is a scamp, but a very delightful one. However, were I
her brother—"

"But," she interposed gently, "you are
not
her… brother."

A small pulse beat suddenly at his temple, and one hand
clenched, but his drawl was lazy as ever. "I have been thinking that
perhaps you should have a Season, little cabbage. I have supposed you
to be happy here and thought you did not wish—"

"That is not true, Gary," she again interrupted.

He stiffened, a wary light coming into his eyes. He well knew
that this quiet, calm girl missed nothing of what went on about her.
And because he had long feared her perception, he was silent, waiting.

"You thought," she corrected in her soft little voice, "that I
would be made to suffer because of your reputation. That I would be
humiliated. You sought to spare me that. Oh, yes, I knew it, my dear."
She reached out her hand to him, and, taking it, he bent suddenly to
press it to his lips. "And I
was
content." Her
eyes lifted from his crisp, dark hair to gaze sadly across the room at
two other heads now close together, one having glowing coppery
ringlets, and the other slightly curling hair of the paler hue that is
called "sandy."

Hawkhurst straightened, but before he could comment she went
on, "I have no longing for a Season. All I could ever want from life
is… here." But her eyes evaded her brother's while a slight flush
touched her pale cheeks.

A woman, seeing that look, would have at once taken warning.
But, for all his scandalous
affaires
, Hawkhurst
was still a mere man and said slowly, "Yet I begin to think you are
missing a good deal. You should be shopping for the… er, ribands and
trinkets and pretty things you women so delight in."

She smiled at him lovingly. "And what of you?" His eyes became
veiled at once, and she tightened her grip on his hand. "Oh, Gary dear,
how much longer? Surely he has got over it? Surely you could tell—"

"No!" The exclamation was harsh; something very like despair
flashed briefly in his eyes, then was banished. She had drawn back in
dismay, and he patted her hand and murmured, "My apologies, Stephie,
but you do not understand." He stood. "I'm going up to see the boy. We
will talk of this again." And he left her, his tall figure moving
swiftly to the door before the others had taken their places to await
his aunt's next rendition.

He found Kent still awake and was greeted by the boy leaping
up in bed to thrust a small carving at him. He sat on the side of the
bed and turned the wooden bear curiously, reminded of something… "This
is very good," he murmured absently. "I knew you had a knack for it." A
cool hand pushed at his brow in an attempt to smooth the lines away. He
grinned and was dazzled by the answering smile that lit the small,
peaked face. "Looked a grump, did I? So will Mrs. Henderson, when her
maids have to clean up all these shavings! I'll be lucky if she don't
cut up stiff with me! Now you lie down, sirrah! And I shall endeavour
to tidy up this mess."