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.”
He commandeered a wastebasket and began to brush the wood shavings across the coverlet. Kent snuggled down obediently and grinned as, after the fashion of such perverse objects, the shavings bounced more back than forwards, only a few falling into the basket. Hawkhurst grunted, seized the coverlet, and attempted to shake off the debris. Wood chips flew in all directions. Small, mirthful gasps were coming from the invalid. Flashing him a frustrated glance, Hawkhurst strove once more.
“Here!” Soft but capable hands removed his grip. He knew at once who it was, and his heart quickened to find that vivid face so close to his own. “Hello,” he drawled. “Still ‘luring,’ ma’am?”
“Hold the basket,” said Euphemia coolly, “and stop.”
He watched her flip the remnants deftly into the basket he held and said with a fine boredom, “Stop … what?”
“You know very well.” She straightened, in her eyes a warmth that devastated him. “Now, if you will be so kind as to restore this to the corner. And you, young man,” she bent fondly over the merry-eyed child, “should be asleep. Where is the abigail?”
Hawkhurst, replacing the wastebasket, offered over his shoulder, “Gone to fetch some hot milk.”
“So you
had to come in and thoroughly wake him,” she scolded gently.
“Wherefore I shall now depart, very properly set-down.” He bowed, strode to the door, and turned back to wink at the boy. “Becoming accustomed to it,” he said wryly.
* * *
THE GALLERY was icy cold and very dark but held no terrors for Stephanie, who enjoyed robust good health despite her slender frame and pale complexion. She walked to the south window and gazed unseeingly over the wintry scene lit by a new moon. The snow had been very light, and was already vanishing, but she could not remember it ever having been quite this cold in December.
He was married. “Safely wed and with three hopeful children.” And, from a small remark Euphemia had dropped in the bedchamber this evening, his wife was very beautiful. She would be, of course. While she herself … how had Aunt Carlotta phrased it? “Another drab little country dowd…” The moon swam suddenly, and she closed her eyes, feeling the tears slip down her cheeks and knowing herself a hopeless fool, and hopelessly lost.
“Thought I’d find you up here!”
She gave a gasp, and one hand flew to wipe frantically at those betraying streaks.
“It’s much too cold for you to—Hey! What’s all this about?”
He stood before her, his angelic blue eyes peering at her anxiously. He was everything she had ever hoped to find in a gentleman—kind, gallant, sensitive, and—oh, so very good looking. She tried not to imagine him in all the glory of his regimentals and, more devastatingly, recalled him sprawled on that sofa, Dr. Archer working over his poor shoulder, and never a sound from his lips until his dear head had sagged back, the eyes closing, and his face so deathly white. And because such thoughts made her heartache unbearable and the tears beyond controlling, she swung away and pressed both hands to her mouth, fighting desperately to hold back the sobs.
“Now this will never do,” said Buchanan, quite forgetting that weeping women horrified him. “Has that ca—er, has your aunt been railing at you again?”
Stephanie could not speak, but her shoulders shook, and, stepping closer, Buchanan drew out his large handkerchief. That wretched woman had done this, and just when the poor little chit was commencing to look so happy—she’d been positively aglow this evening. How anyone could distress so sweetly-natured a girl was beyond understanding. If it was up to him, that sharp-tongued harpy would be given a scold she’d recall for many a year to come! He dabbed gently at the wet cheeks, murmuring consolingly, “Never let her wound you, Miss Stephie. She probably don’t mean it, y’know. Cannot help but feel sorry for poor old Bryce, must have led a dog’s life.” He checked as her tragic eyes blinked at him, and a smile flickered valiantly through the tears. Poor little thing! He knew a strong compulsion to take her in his arms and comfort her but, deciding in the nick of time that this might be constituted improper, said instead, “Now, what did she say? I’ll lay you odds—I mean, I don’t suppose it was near as bad as you think.”
She smiled in earnest at these kind but clumsy efforts and lied, “It was my—brother.”
Buchanan was surprised. It had seemed to him that Hawk fairly doted on the chit.
“He wants to give me a … a proper come-out. And I…” She gestured helplessly.
A come-out? The man must be all about in his attic! Her name would close every door, and as for vouchers to Almacks—never! He would have to have a careful word or two with Garret Hawkhurst. “I can readily see why,” he lied kindly. “But—do you not wish it?”
“No, oh, no!” She turned away again and said brokenly, “How should I know how to go on … with all those—those beauties, and debutantes? I would look a … perfect fool.”
She’d look a damn sight more desirable than the rest of ’em put together! he thought staunchly. She’d make some lucky man a gentle, devoted, loving wife, and she’d a sight more sense than most. She’d be dashed good with children too, for he had seen her several times with Kent, always so tender and sweetly patient. Her head was bending lower, and, comprehending that despite his busy thoughts he had said nothing, he responded impulsively, “You’d be splendid, and the man who looked twice at anyone else must be a regular chawbacon— Er, well, what I mean is—”
She faced him, laughing shakily. “How very kind you are, Sir Simon.”
Buchanan again dried her tears with care, and told her she was not to worry. “Mia will manage everything.”
Stephanie nodded, but her teeth bit hard at her underlip. This, she thought miserably, was one thing even Mia could not manage!
EIGHT
HAWKHURST did not put in an appearance at the breakfast table, and Euphemia found herself with only Coleridge Bryce for company. The boy looked glum, and her efforts to cheer him met with brief smiles, followed by a clouding of his hazel eyes and a stifled sigh. Euphemia left him to his thoughts for a while, then said casually, “Oh, I must tell you, I met your friend Gains while I was riding yesterday, my lord, and—”
“I wish you will call me Colley, ma’am. All my friends do. But I’d not thought Chilton would ride in this weather. He’s been a trifle down pin.”
She expressed her regrets and explained it was Maximilian Gains she had encountered. “He seemed a most pleasant gentleman.”
“That’s like Max.” Genuine regret was in his pleasant face. “He is the very best of fellows. He and Hawk was inseparable as boys, you know, and I think Max might … If only … But, Hawk cannot—” He ceased this disjointed utterance and said apologetically, “You will be thinking me a fine idiot for spilling the wine in that foolish way last evening. But, Jove! you surprised me, ma’am!”
“I suspect I surprised everyone,” she smiled. “And I wish you will call me Euphemia, or Mia. Indeed, I feel almost like one of the family.”
“How I wish you were! Hawk is like another man since you came. And as for Stephie! Why, only last night Hawk marvelled at the change you have wrought in her. She is becoming positively pretty!” He reddened, and gasped, “Oh! Not that she was plain before! I did not mean—”
“Of course, you did not.” He looked horrified, and, liking him the more for it, she thought, How little he resembles his Mama. “To tell you the truth, Colley, I have not yet discussed fashions and such with Stephanie. You are very fond of her, are you not?”
“Oh, well, she’s a jolly good sport. None of your missish airs and vapours, you know. Two years ago I was tossed heels over head near the old ruins and fractured my leg. Awful mess, but Stephie stopped the bleeding, covered me with her own cloak, for it was coming on to rain, and rode for help—just like any fellow!”
Stifling a smile at this boyish endorsement, Euphemia admitted she was not surprised. “She is the dearest girl. The kind who would always be ready with sympathy or understanding.”
“Yes.” He sighed and said wistfully, “If only Hawk would be—” Again biting back his unguarded words, he took another muffin, only to become even redder in the face as he encountered the half-eaten one already on his plate. His embarrassed glance at Euphemia met with such a merry chuckle that he could only shrug and say a rueful, “Lord, what a clodpole I am!”
“No, no. Merely troubled. And if I dare presume to guess—you do not wish a pair of colours, is that it?”
“Hawk thinks I am afraid, but I’m not! Indeed, I would love to go, for I think it would be grand to fight with such fine fellows as Richard Saxon and Leith and Colborne. You know them all, I fancy?”
“Very well. And a young man could find no finer inspiration than to look to any one of them. But, if you do not wish a military career, surely your cousin would agree to another? A diplomatist perhaps? Or—have you given any thought to the law?”
“Oh, yes. Hawk would be delighted did I choose such a course,” he nodded bitterly. “’Tis only my own choice disgusts him. He says it is unmanly nonsense, that I claim an interest merely to keep from being packed off to Spain. But do not, I beg of you, speak for me, for it would but serve to make him despise me even more!”
&n
bsp; He looked so dejected that she leaned closer and said earnestly, “Surely your cousin would not be so unkind as to—” She broke off as Colley’s horrified gaze lifted and, turning, was dismayed to see Hawkhurst standing in the open doorway.
He had obviously come in from riding, for his hair was windblown and his whip still under his arm. His face was a mask of rage, his eyes murderous slits.
Strolling to the table, he drawled, “Inciting the troops to riot again, Miss Buchanan…?”
* * *
A HUMP under the bedclothes, Stephanie yawned, “Nine o’clock? Is something wrong?”
“Wake up, you lazy girl!” laughed Euphemia, ruthlessly pulling back the comforter. “This is my day to incite the troops, so you may as well be next!” She paused, and for an instant her brow puckered, as she recalled poor Colley’s frantic attempts to explain the situation and Hawkhurst’s white-lipped fury. Odd, but she was perfectly sure that rage was directed neither at her nor his cousin, and had in fact been provoked by something that had occurred earlier, something a great deal more serious. She became aware that Stephanie had slipped back into slumber and, tugging at the blankets, cried, “I vow you are just like Simon, half asleep until after breakfast! Do hurry, Stephie! I can spare you only an hour or so, for Dr. Archer will be here at eleven. Your room is warm as toast, and here is your faithful Kathy with all the fal-lals I asked her to fetch. Up, you lazy girl! Up!”
Thus it was that the befuddled Stephanie was whisked through the business of bathing, helped into her underclothes and petticoat, a kimona wrapped about her, a sheet bound tightly about her throat, and herself seated at her dressing table—all before she had time to draw a breath, or so it seemed.
Some Brief Folly Page 13
