Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (24 page)

The music struck up, and the young ladies were again overjoyed
to note that Sir Simon made no attempt to vie for the pleasure of
leading Stephanie through the country dance. Their delight was
tempered, however, when the gallant young soldier did not seek any
other lady for a partner, instead charming the dowagers and gratifying
the gentlemen who sought him out for news of the war. The more mature
ladies smiled upon him and extolled his pretty manners. The younger
damsels, deciding that he must still be too weakened to dance, thus
found him more romantic than ever and sighfully watched him over their
fluttering fans.

Stephanie, meanwhile, was torn between triumph and tears. To
meet with outright admiration was something entirely new in her
experience and could only send her spirits soaring. Yet to be so near
the man she loved but not dare to look at him for fear of betraying
herself, to long to dance with him and know he would not seek her out,
to tremble with the consuming terror that tomorrow, or the next day, he
would go away, leaving her life a howling desolation, was to suffer the
depths of despair.

Her cousin, leading her from the floor after a country dance,
told her with boyish delight that she was become a Toast. "You're the
belle of the evening," he imparted generously. "Dashed if I ain't proud
of you! Jolly glad Miss Buchanan didn't come, or you'd have been quite
cast into the shade, but you're made, Stephie. No doubt of it. You can
wed whomsoever you choose now, and must be in—" His glowing laudation
faded into silence as, with a murmurous apology, Stephanie fled,
leaving him staring after her in utter bafflement for an entire five
seconds before the coy glance of Miss Broadhurst ensnared him.

Snatching up her pelisse, Stephanie hurried outside through a
rear door and wandered towards the rectory. The night air was bracing,
and in a minute or two she dried her tears, told herself sternly that
she simply could not go through life in such sodden fashion, and tred
down the narrow side steps into the vicar's pleasant garden. A dog
barked hysterically somewhere close by, and she was startled when a
small shape whisked through a cluster of poles from which untrimmed
chrysanthemums still drooped, crashed into the glass frame of a potting
shed, and lay in a still and shapeless huddle.

With a cry of sympathy, she ran to kneel beside the little
creature, heedless of the dirt that soiled her new dress, or the icy
hardness of the ground against her knees. The rabbit was inanimate to
her touch, and she gathered it up and held it tenderly, murmuring her
distress.

Lord Coleridge had not been the only person to note
Stephanie's abrupt departure from the Hall. Young Ivor St. Alaban's
eyes lit up as he watched her slip away, and, running a hand through
his curly locks and straightening his garishly striped waistcoat, he
followed. He had known Stephie Hawkhurst all his life and thought of
her as a jolly good girl, shy and quiet, but always willing to make up
a group if the numbers were not just right and never one to pout was
she left out. Not until tonight, however, had he thought of her as a
dashed pretty creature. All the other fellows had noticed her too, more
was the pity, but they'd not been as alert as he, fortunately. He had
to delay a moment while he sought out his frieze greatcoat, for he was
susceptible to the cold and had no wish for his teeth to chatter while
he flirted with the girl. At last, however, he stood on the rear
terrace, peering out. Stephie was heiress to a considerable fortune,
and did he play his cards right—

"St. Alaban, isn't it?"

The cool words brought him spinning around, his youthful face
reddening. There could be no mistaking that erect form, nor the proud
tilt of the sandy head. "Y-Yes, sir," he stammered. Buchanan had not
stayed for a coat. Was he guarding the chit for her brother? Good God!
In his enthusiasm he had completely overlooked the hovering menace
constituted by so notorious a duellist, a man said to be equally deadly
with sword or pistol! He'd best tread softly, for Hawkhurst would kill
the man who interfered with his sister as soon as look at him!

"Come out for a breath of air?" asked Buchanan mildly.

"That's r-right. Beastly hot inside, y'know."

"You do look rather flushed. That's the trouble with these
gatherings. One tends to become easily… overheated."

Wishing the ground might open and swallow him, St. Alaban
nodded, gulped something incoherent, and beat a hasty retreat into the
house, watched by a pair of amused blue eyes.

The boy, thought Buchanan, had pursued his quarry with all the
grace of a wild boar. Harmless, probably, but there might be others. He
began to wander across the lawn. Stephanie was so innocent and had no
knowledge of her charm, which was perhaps her greatest charm. It simply
would not occur to her that any man might desire her. He smiled
wryly—least of all, a
married
man with three
hopeful children! How shocked that pure-souled girl would be did she
guess how he had come to regard her. He'd not realized himself at first
what was happening. He'd thought her very kind and gentle, and somehow,
so easily, he'd begun to add to her merits: her soft, sweet voice, her
Biting little laugh and merry humour, her devotion to her family, her
unceasing willingness to help Kent with his drawing, or point out birds
and plants to him in the gardens. Never a sign of temper or impatience.
He sighed. How blessed the man who would win her. And how different his
own life might have been, had he found her first. But there was no use
repining. He had ruined his life and found his true love too late. He
had these few days, at least. He could store up some precious moments
against the dark emptiness of the years to come…

He had reached the steps leading down into the rectory garden
and at first thought Stephanie must have gone into the house. And then
he saw her. She had fallen! His heart leapt into his throat, and,
frantic, he ran to her.

"Stephie! My God! Are you hurt?"

The familiar voice sent arrows through Stephanie's heart.

The terror in that same voice made her tremble with foolish
hope. She looked up into the so-loved face bent anxiously above her and
said with more pathos than she knew, "Poor little bunny. A dog was
chasing it, I think, and I fear it has killed itself. See…" She held
the little shape up, sadly. "Is it not the dearest thing?"

Her face was touched by the new-risen moon, so that it seemed
to him to be encircled as by a halo. "The dearest… thing," he breathed,
never knowing how his heart was in his worshipful eyes.

But Stephanie saw and mesmerized, clasped the rabbit to her
bosom, gazing up at him. "Did you… want me?" she asked.

Did he
want
her!

Restored perhaps by the warmth of its tender cushion, the
rabbit gave a sudden leap for freedom. It was a small rabbit, but it
was frightened and, after the style of such creatures, had powerful
hind legs. Wherefore, Stephanie gave a little cry and threw one hand to
the torn lace at her bosom.

"Did he hurt you?" Buchanan dropped to his knees also and,
drawing her hand away, saw a speck of blood on the white lace. "He cut
you! Oh, my dear! We must take you to a doctor! You are—" And he froze,
horrifiedly aware that he had pulled back the ripped lace, that he was
holding his handkerchief against the scratches upon the sweet curve of
her white breast. He whipped his hand away and drew back, head down.
"Forgive me!
Forgive
me!" he groaned. "Whatever
must you think? I did not mean… I… I only—"

Her soft hand was upon his lips, staying that shamed
utterance, and he could no more have stopped himself from kissing those
fingers than have halted the moon in its course. Her forgiving hands
were seeking to raise his abased head, and, daring to look up, he saw
the light in her eyes—a light that banished all sensations, save love.

"Silly boy," whispered Stephanie yearningly. "Oh, my dearest,
silly boy. Did you think I do not… know?"

She swayed to him, all eager submission. His arms slipped
about her, and her face was uplifted for his kiss.

It was quiet and very cold in the deserted garden, but to the
two upon their knees, lip to lip, heart to heart, it might have been
balmy as a summer's day, and the air filled with lilting music.

Only one living being viewed this strange behaviour, and he
cared not—and proved it by departing the scene with the flash of a
white puff of a tail.

Hawkhurst placed one hand firmly on the latch of the drawing
room door, drew a deep breath, and walked inside. His grandfather, head
thrown back in a hearty laugh, the stub of a cigarillo in one hand,
eyed him with something very like cordiality for a moment, before
standing and putting out his hand. "I am glad you could spare the time
to say hello, Hawkhurst." His grip was firm and brief, as always.
Withdrawing it, he said, "Cannot say your presence was missed, however.
Was it, m'dear?"

The old gentleman levelled his guns swiftly, thought Euphemia.
And scanning Hawkhurst with the eyes of love, found him pale, but fully
in command of himself, his speech unslurred as he smiled, "And I cannot
allow you to manoeuvre my guest into so tight a corner, sir. How very
good to have you here. May we hope it will be a lengthy visit? If you
could spend Christmas with us, it—"

"Quite impossible, I fear. I have already accepted an
invitation to join Vaille and the Hilbys. I had intended to overnight
with you and leave in the morning. However, now that I have met your
most charming guest…" Wetherby took up his glass and raised it in a
silent toast to Euphemia, his eyes as warm, when they alighted on her,
as they were cold when turned upon his grandson.

"I perceive that I owe you a—" Hawkhurst's gaze also turned to
her, and his breath was snatched away. No wonder the Admiral was
dazzled. She looked magnificent! "—a debt of gratitude, ma'am," he
finished with an effort.

Wetherby slanted a shrewd glance at him.

"Not at all," Euphemia answered. "It was my very great
pleasure. But if to have acted as your hostess indeed constituted a
favour, it must be small indeed beside the debt we owe you, Mr.
Hawkhurst."

He bowed, told her she looked very lovely this evening, and
moved to refill his grandfather's glass. "Have you heard the news, sir?
Another grand victory for Wellington!"

"I have. I was in Waiter's when the word came. Pandemonium!
The Church bells are ringing in every town in England—as well they
should! But I have had news from this delightful lady that pleases me
also, Garret. You saved the life of her page, she tells me. How
gratifying, when Fate gives us a chance to mend our fences. Is it not?"

Hawkhurst said nothing. Only the hand that replaced the
stopper in the decanter paused for the space of a heartbeat before
completing that small task.

Euphemia was relieved when Manners appeared to announce that
dinner was served. The Admiral offered his arm at once, but, taking it,
she reached for Hawkhurst's arm also, saying laughingly that no lady
would be content with one escort when she might have two.

The old gentleman proved a charming dinner companion, and
Euphemia flirted with him outrageously, to his obvious gratification.
Mrs. Henderson had managed very well, and, although her efforts merely
added to the nausea of the master of the house, Euphemia was vastly
relieved. Wetherby was certainly enjoying himself, and she began to
hope his wrath might wear itself out before the meal was over. Twice,
however, he slanted barbs at his grandson, the remarks so carefully
worded they would have conveyed nothing to a guest unaware of the
tragedy that lay between them. Euphemia, knowing more than either of
them guessed, cringed at the acid behind the innocent-seeming words and
could well imagine the havoc they wrought upon the apparently calm
young man at the head of the table.

"I will tell you, my lord," she said laughingly, when Wetherby
commented upon the excellence of the food, "that it was very swiftly
and cleverly prepared by Mrs. Henderson. I doubt the Vicar served any
better fare."

"We shall soon know," murmured Hawkhurst. "Our party-goers
should be returning shortly."

"Oh, dear," she sighed. "I shall be in dark disgrace, I fear."

"In this house?" Wetherby gave a belittling shrug. "We do not
even admit the existence of such words, dear lady." His eyes flashed a
murderous anger, as he added, "And speaking of words, I must have a few
with you, Hawkhurst."

"Whenever you will, sir."

There was a note of strain in the deep voice now, and Euphemia
saw a faint gleam beneath the dark hair at his temples. That the
Admiral was a stern disciplinarian, she did not doubt. But, however
dearly he had loved little Avery, or the grandchild of his lost love,
however bitterly Hawk may have disillusioned him, four years was too
long to nurse so bitter a rage as this. Wetherby had suffered a more
recent provocation, and a major one, obviously. Well, they must not be
permitted a long talk now, not with the Admiral marshalling all his
forces against a half-disabled adversary. And therefore she sighed
plaintively, "I beg you will not linger too long over your port,
gentlemen, for I am never in my best voice after ten o'clock."

Hawkhurst shot her a startled glance. The Admiral, turning to
her eagerly, asked, "You sing, dear lady?"

"Indifferently well, I fear. But Caro Lamb taught me some
little Spanish songs that might interest you." She hesitated and,
summoning all her courage, said with a twinkle, "So long as you promise
never to tell my brother I sang them for you."

"Capital!" Wetherby beamed. "A promise gladly given. I vow I
never dreamed to spend so delightful an evening here. Entirely thanks
to your lovely presence. Hawk, you are a blind fool, do you not join
the ranks of Miss Buchanan's admirers!"