by Louise Allen
She had been a fool to think Quin would help her, or even understand. This was his world, of course he assumed she would learn to think of it as the natural, right, place to be.
‘You are quite correct, I am sure.’ Cleo smiled polite thanks for the advice and made herself eat a patty. It was exquisite, of course. So was the luxury she was surrounded by.
Quin lifted his hand from hers and gestured to a waiter for more champagne. ‘Give it time and you might even find a husband you can tolerate.’
Chapter Twenty
He intended it to be light-hearted, she could tell, and that was good because it meant he did not have the slightest suspicion that she could accept no other man, feeling as she did about him. With the realisation that she had been unjust to resent his secrecy had come the even more painful understanding that she could love him without reserve. I wish I could hate you, I really do. It would be so much easier if she did not ache for him, yearn for him.
‘Perhaps I will. Whether there is one who can tolerate me is another matter.’ Cleo smiled to show it was a joke and her cheeks felt stiff and unyielding. ‘Was that your Lady Caroline in the first dance of the set?’ She managed not to wince as she said it.
‘She isn’t mine. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.’
‘But she would be perfect, I am sure. And she seems to like you.’ This was like driving pins under her own fingernails. What was she doing? But perhaps it was best to be sure, to kill stone-dead any lingering, weakening hope. Hope that was entirely without foundation. After all, Quin did not even desire her enough to make love to her when she had begged him. ‘She is very lovely and assured. And you said the connection to her family could only be advantageous.’
‘Yes,’ Quin agreed, frowning at his champagne as if it had gone flat. ‘She has been her father’s hostess for the last year, now her mother’s health does not permit her to entertain much, and her languages are very competent. I heard her talking to a number of diplomats at a reception last year.’
‘You had better fix your interest with her before someone else snaps her up. I am amazed she is still unspoken for.’
‘Her mother’s illness took her out of society for a while or I suspect she would have been. As you say, I must begin my campaign. I have a set of dances reserved with her later this evening, which means I should call with flowers in any case. That will save me encountering her father accidentally on purpose and starting things off that way.’
‘Excellent,’ Cleo said and managed what she thought was an entirely creditable smile.
‘Miss Woodward?’
She looked up into the face of the man who had taken the next set, the man she had been trying not to think about all evening.
‘Dryton,’ Quin said with a smile that she recognised as one of his diplomatic expressions. Did he not like the earl either?
‘Lord Dryton,’ Cleo said, injecting as much warmth into her voice as possible.
‘I am sorry to disturb your conversation, Miss Woodward, but the orchestra is reassembling and I believe I have the pleasure of the next set.’
‘Of course.’ She gathered up her fan and reticule. ‘Thank you so much for a delightful supper, Lord Quintus.’
Quin rose as good manners dictated, but she had the odd feeling that he was squaring up to the other man. ‘It was entirely my pleasure, Miss Woodward. I will surrender you to Lord Dryton’s...safe hands.’
Was that a hint, a warning that Dryton was not safe, or simply some male sparring? Cleo put her hand on her partner’s proffered arm and left the supper room without looking back.
* * *
The evening wore on, the room became hotter, more crowded, the dancers less inhibited, even the chaperons became more relaxed. Cleo’s feet ached, her head was spinning, but she kept smiling somehow. ‘Here is Lord Quintus for his second set,’ her aunt remarked complacently. ‘You are doing very well so far, Cleo. Your grandfather is pleased, I believe.’
‘Thank you, Aunt.’ She looked up to see Quin was almost at her side. ‘Lord Quintus.’
‘Miss Woodward.’ He bowed to her aunt, took Cleo’s hand and led her on to the floor, through the crowd of couples forming up into sets, and across to the far side by the windows. ‘You seem a trifle flushed, Cleo. Would you prefer to sit this dance out? I can fetch you a glass of lemonade to that alcove by the open casement there.’
‘Thank you. Yes, I...I am finding this a trifle overwhelming. But is that not an indiscreet thing to do?’
‘A separate room or the terrace certainly would be.’ He guided her through a screen of ferns and palms to a bench seat. The breeze whispered through, cool and smelling of grass. ‘But here we are in full view, if only in glimpses through the greenery. It is quite unexceptional. One moment and I will fetch the drinks.’
He returned with two glasses of lemonade and they sat for a while, turning the condensation-dewed glasses in their hands, letting the fresh air blow away the mingled odours of too many hot, scented bodies.
‘I have not forgiven you, you understand,’ she said abruptly. It was as though the words were the continuation of a conversation. ‘You took me to him because you were ordered to and because you wanted his patronage. You sold me.’
Quin ran his hand over his mouth and chin as though to control the first words that came to him. ‘My orders were to establish the truth about the suspicions regarding your father’s correspondence. But my department needs the duke’s patronage. He is a very influential man and not one to cross. They had let him know the situation and he insisted that I bring you safely back to England.’
There was a bleakness in his eyes that belied the calmness of his tone. ‘I saw both as my duty and I hold by that still. To do anything else would have been to connive at your ruin, Cleo. I could not leave you there and I could not simply abandon you to your own devices here in England—you have seen enough of society now to know that would be impossible.’
‘You lied to me by omission.’ He was hurting too and that only fuelled the bitterness she felt. Cleo clenched her hand and felt a seam in her tight satin glove split.
‘If I had told you the full truth, you would have tried to escape the ship. I might have lost you in some port and never found you again,’ Quin said.
‘You could have helped me. Listened to me. Was that story you told me about your birth, your father, all lies too?’
‘No, it was the truth.’ He was maintaining his expressionless, diplomat’s face and yet it seemed to her that she could see the nerves beneath the skin, the flow of the blood in every tiny capillary as if she was flaying him alive.
So much pain... Hurt him more. ‘Then you should understand what it means to be an outsider.’
‘I do not want to be an outsider,’ Quin said. ‘I want to make my own life within this society. I will be my own man and to hell with who my father is or is not.’ He took up his glass and drank. ‘My true father behaved dishonourably,’ he said as he set the glass down again. ‘I have undertaken to serve the government and the king as a diplomat and I will not behave dishonourably in that duty. To have helped you to your ruin would be wrong in every way—for you, for your grandfather, for the diplomatic service and its reputation.’
‘So my happiness, my trust...’ My heart. My love. ‘Those weigh like a feather in the scales against your honour. Of course they do.’ Of course. He does not love me, he does not know I love him, why should he ruin himself for me?
‘My honour is all I have. It is what I am.’ He said it softly, but the words were like chiselled stone.
‘And women do not understand male honour, do we? I made the mistake of confusing...friendship with whatever it actually was between us. I am not sure of the word, but I was your objective and you...you were both our hunter and our judge.’
‘I hope I was your friend,’ Quin said slowly. He seemed to be picking his way through the words as if something in there was sharp and dangerous. ‘I hope I still am. Can you tell me why you are afraid?’
&
nbsp; He could see her fear? She had tried so hard to hide it.
‘Fear?’ Cleo stood up and set down her glass so sharply the fragile stem cracked. ‘I am not afraid of anything, my lord. Or perhaps I am. Yes, I am afraid of relying on others, of becoming weak. I can see that my fate is in my hands and mine alone and to repine about shattered trust or friendship that never was is foolish and weakening. The second dance is about to start. Shall we join it?’
‘As you wish.’ Quin stood. For a long moment she thought he would say more, but he merely offered her his arm and brushed aside the ferns so she could regain the dance floor.
* * *
‘I must say, this is promising. You have done better than I expected, Cleo.’ Her aunt surveyed the massed flowers decorating the drawing room. ‘Seven bouquets from gentlemen with whom you danced last night.’ She went from vase to vase inspecting cards.
‘Hmm. Willoughby, Axholme—the younger son unfortunately. Charles Bignor—hopeless, a complete fribble. Philpott, Drewe, Deverall.’
Quin sent me flowers?
‘Ah, this is excellent—Dryton. Now that is an alliance your grandfather would be most approving of.’
‘He has only danced once with me, Aunt. I am sure the flowers are the merest courtesy. I...did not like him very much.’
‘Hothouse orchids are never the merest courtesy, foolish girl!’ Her aunt seemed more amused at her ignorance than annoyed. ‘And what is there not to like, might I ask? He is a political ally of the duke, he has extensive lands, over thirty thousand a year, and I understand most silly girls find him good looking.’
He has hot eyes that seem to undress me and hands that wander just beyond the bounds of comfort and he is too smooth. And Quin does not like him.
‘Lord Dryton is a widower, with children.’
He had not told her that. In fact, he had said very little, only looked. And touched. She had felt like a slab of meat on the butcher’s block being assessed for freshness and flavour. She had learned about him by listening to the ballroom chatter.
‘And you are a widow. He has two daughters, he needs an heir.’ Lady Madeleine tapped the card against her teeth, lost in thought. ‘I must tell Papa, he will wish to be prepared if Dryton makes an offer. You will write to thank him for the flowers, of course.’
‘I will write to all the gentlemen,’ Cleo said. She went from bouquet to bouquet again, pretending to study the cards. Quin’s offering was a subtle and lovely blend of yellows and greens, a compliment to the colours she had worn the night before.
The card bore one line of strong black letters. In friendship. Quintus Deverall. ‘If you will excuse me, Aunt, I will go up to my room and do it now.’
* * *
The ball had changed something in her grandfather’s attitude to her, Cleo realised the following day. He had obviously been impressed by her behaviour, or perhaps by her attaching the interest of Lord Dryton. At breakfast he was positively unbending, offering a teasing remark about milliners’ bills.
Cleo decided she would see if the good humour extended to a relaxation of the bounds around her. ‘It is a lovely day, Grandfather. Might I walk in Hyde Park? I believe that is an unexceptional place, is it not?’ She looked earnestly at her aunt for guidance. ‘I would take Maggie and a footman, naturally. But perhaps you need me to assist with something...’
‘You are looking a trifle wan,’ her aunt said, putting down the letter she had just opened and regarding her, so Cleo thought, like a village woman sizing up the freshness of a piece of fish. ‘Yes, you may go. It will be quiet enough at this hour, but remember not to acknowledge any gentleman to whom you have not been introduced.’
‘Yes, Aunt.’ She had no illusions about being supervised, the footman would be instructed to take careful note of who she spoke to and what she did. But it was freedom of a sort and a way of testing the restrictions around her. A space to think and plan, but not to dream. Dreams were a deceiving weakness.
* * *
At last. Quin folded his newspaper and stood up from the seat amongst the shrubs of the Grosvenor Square garden where he had been pretending to read for the past hour.
Cleo’s unhappiness was costing him sleep and instinct told him more was troubling her than homesickness for the familiar, if uncomfortable, world of the desert encampment.
It was none of his business any more, he had told himself for the hundredth time last night. She was her grandfather’s responsibility now and if he interfered it would be deeply resented. And misunderstood.
He locked the gates behind him with the key he had borrowed from his friend Alderswick who owned the house on the corner, and followed Cleo and her small escort along Upper Grosvenor Street towards the park. It had been a gamble coming here, for she could have been spending the day inside or have driven off to some engagement, but the sunshine had made him optimistic and the decision had paid off.
It would not be wise to speak to her, naturally. Nor would it be kind for she was unsettled enough as it was, without presenting her with the source of her anger and resentment. But he needed to see how she looked.
Quin crossed Park Lane and took the track to the Riding House while Cleo, with Maggie and the footman behind her, strolled down to the small circular reservoir. It was frustratingly difficult to see her face at this distance. She had a charming bonnet with a brim that shaded her face, she was twirling a parasol, riders and trees kept getting between them... With a muttered oath Quin cut through behind her and took the direct path across the open park towards the end of the Serpentine, gambling that was where she was heading by way of the more shaded paths.
His luck was in again that day. Cleo passed him as he sat, newspaper raised, by the edge of the track along the Serpentine. She did not spare him a glance, he noticed through a slit in the fold of the newssheet. Her face was intent, as though she was thinking deeply and not noticing her surroundings and he recognised the way she held herself from the times in Egypt when she had been weary beyond words, but kept going by sheer will-power.
‘My lord! Oh, excuse me, my lord, for speaking.’ It was Maggie, of course, and he had been inexcusably careless, letting the paper fall as he stared after Cleo.
Cleo spun round. ‘Qui— Lord Quintus! What are you doing here?’
Nothing for it but to brazen it out. ‘Why, enjoying the sunshine as you are, Miss Woodward. Good morning.’ Maggie was beaming and the footman, who must know he was the man who had rescued the duke’s granddaughter from Egypt, obviously saw no cause for concern in Quin speaking to his mistress.
‘May I join you? I confess to finding the Parliamentary reports have little attraction in comparison to a walk in your company.’
‘Of course, my lord.’
He thought she had gone pale, and her smile was forced, but Cleo’s chin was up and she kept her tone pleasant. She had courage, his Cleo. My Cleo? Quin pushed the thought away, unwilling to examine that feeling of proprietary pride.
He offered her his arm and she rested her gloved fingers on it with perfect grace. ‘Something amuses you, Lord Quintus?’ He must have smiled.
‘I was thinking that those fingers, so prettily sheathed in pale primrose kid, are the same ones that cleaned my wound, milked the goat and hefted water jars,’ Quin said, jolted into honesty.
‘Yes. My aunt insists I retain my gloves at all times until the calluses have vanished.’ Her voice was cool.
Damnation. ‘I did not mean to refer to that. I admire the way you worked, the strength in those fingers. Their care.’ Their touch.
‘Really? But what I was doing was so unsuitable for a lady, was it not? I had to be removed from it, after all.’
‘That does not mean I do not value the way you lived your life under those circumstances. Your character.’
He expected a tart retort, that she would pull her arm free. Instead her fingers tightened convulsively and she made a small sound, horribly like a smothered sob.
‘Cleo? Damn this bonnet!’ Quin ducked
his head to see her face. ‘Cleo, don’t cry, please.’ I never meant to make you cry. Never. He glanced behind, but Maggie and the footman were chatting and laughing on the edge of the Serpentine, pointing at the antics of the ducks. No one else was near and there was a small shrubbery just ahead.
Quin guided her in and found it enclosed a small circle of grass, surrounded by benches. A child’s hoop lay forgotten. This must be a place where the nursemaids gathered with their little charges, but it was deserted now.
He guided her to a bench and she sat down without protest, even when he removed her parasol, snapped it shut and began to untie her bonnet ribbons. ‘That’s better, now I can see your face.’
‘I can’t think why you want to,’ she muttered. ‘And I am not crying. I never—’
‘Cry. I know. Here, have my handkerchief and remove the gnat from your eye or whatever it is that is irritating it.’
‘It would take rather more than a square of linen to remove you, Quin,’ she snapped with so much of her old spirit that he grinned despite himself. ‘Have you no work to be doing instead of lounging around in the park?’ Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him. ‘Oh, of course, you are working, aren’t you? You have been following me. No wonder Grandfather was so complaisant about allowing me out, he knew his spy was in place.’
‘You think I would— Yes, you do, don’t you? No, Cleo, I am not spying for the duke, my word of honour on it. I was following you, I admit. I waited in the square, hoping you would come out, but that was for my own...satisfaction.’
‘Very well, I know your word of honour is absolutely sacrosanct.’ She blew her nose and stuffed his handkerchief into her reticule. He could not tell if she was being sarcastic, but he guessed she was. ‘But how does spying on me give you satisfaction, pray?’
