‘No, scarcely at all—indeed, I am sure I can walk.’
‘You are not walking,’ said Mr. Derwent in a tone that admitted of no argument, and picked her up in his arms.
‘But my gown is quite wet, and your clothes—’
‘Are of no importance.’ He dismissed the condition of his elegant satin knee-breeches and embroidered waistcoat in a manner that would have earned him the severe disapprobation of his valet had that worthy been privileged to hear him.
‘You must be getting quite accustomed to my clinging moistly to you!’ she murmured archly.
Lysander did not answer; he did not dare. He was all too aware of her lovely face so close to his, her soft arm about his neck, her perfume titillating his senses, to do other than bear her resolutely into the saloon and lay her upon a deep settle as tenderly as if she was a piece of delicate porcelain rather than a well-developed, healthy young woman.
‘Which ankle is it, ma’am?’ he asked diffidently.
‘Th-this one.’ She thrust out a foot and he removed her slipper, carefully feeling the finely-boned limb for possible injury. ‘I assure you I can scarce feel it—and I am ruining the furnishings!’
Large drops of water were indeed dripping liberally from the ruched hem of her Mantua silk gown upon the velvet cushions of the settle, and from thence to his lordship’s handsome Aubusson carpet.
‘Your skirts are quite soaked, you must change your dress at once,’ he entreated her.
‘Would you strip me again, sir?’ she teased him.
To his intense chagrin Lysander found himself blushing in the most idiotish way, and hastily looked about for his sister-in-law.
‘Jane—why is she not here?’
‘You know, I am seriously beginning to wonder if dear Jane did not push me into that fountain quite deliberately,’ remarked her ladyship.
‘Deliberately? Why should she?’
‘I suspect she had her reasons,’ she said demurely. ‘If you will give me your arm, sir, I will attempt a little weight upon this foot.’
The ankle proved to be surprisingly unstable, so that he was obliged to support her with an arm about her waist, she leaning back against his shoulder.
‘My brother tells me you are speaking of returning to the Cape,’ he said, a note of desperation in his voice. ‘Is this true?’
‘Well,’ she appeared to be giving the question careful consideration, ‘Mama sent me here to procure a husband. I have fulfilled that requirement, even if I have since lost him. So there is no reason for me to stay, is there?’
After that, all Lysander was obliged to do was politely to agree with the lady, but for once his cool commonsense seemed to have deserted him.
‘Don’t go!’ he pleaded. ‘You can’t! I won’t let you!’
‘But, sir!’ she protested, all wide-eyed amazement. ‘Surely you must be happy to see so ill-behaved a—ninnyhammer, I think you called me?—go out of your life?’
‘If I did say that it was the most crassly stupid untruth imaginable,’ he owned, all contrition. ‘Kate, if ever you could think of marrying again, I—well, I should understand that, your affections having been given to another, our union would be of a formal nature. I cannot, I fear, offer you a title unless, which God forbid, misfortune should befall my brother.’
It was not, perhaps, a very splendid or graceful speech for a gentleman of such undoubted accomplishments, but for Kate the only thing that mattered was that he had said it. Though she had been reasonably sure of his devotion since that terrible moment when he had learned she was Wayleigh’s wife, yet always she had doubted her ability to hold his interest. And even now, he was only offering a marriage of convenience! Well, that was not at all to her taste and so he would discover.
‘From what Jane tells me, your son is like to be the next Lord Glendower,’ she reminded him.
Mr. Derwent silently censured his sister-in-law for giving so freely of her confidence.
‘If you could bring yourself to oblige me in such a way,’ he returned shyly, ‘I would be eternally grateful.’
‘And then must I yield you up to the attentions of such females as Miss Weston?’ The acid note in her voice was not lost upon him.
‘I swear to you, ma’am, to do nothing that might reflect adversely upon your consequence.’
She twisted round in his arm, her ankle strangely supporting her weight with no apparent discomfort.
‘Why are you offering for me, Mr. Derwent?’
‘To save you from bearing a dishonoured name, and—’
‘And?’ she said softly.
‘Because I adore you,’ he confessed and, perversely, she could have cried out in anguish at seeing his arrogance so humbled. ‘Forgive me, that has nothing to say to anything. It need not concern you.’
‘Oh, Lysander, Lysander!’ she whispered. ‘I do believe those dear grey eyes of yours see even less than do Lord Fontevin’s!’
‘You—Kate, Kate, my precious girl, you’re crying! What have I said to distress you?’
‘I never loved Timothy,’ she told him between sobs. ‘I—oh, Lysander!’
‘You could have told me that earlier!’ he said indignantly, when he had left off kissing her.
‘Perhaps,’ she admitted archly, ‘but I wasn’t very pleased with you!’
‘Barbara?’ he suggested, smiling.
‘Yes. Lysander, did you—?’
‘Kate! Try for a little conduct, if you please!’ he reproved her. ‘All you need to know is that I love you and intend to marry you!’
This display of masculine authority so cowed her ladyship that she yielded without further demur to his delightful lovemaking, even giving him every encouragement in his task, to their mutual content.
After she considered sufficient time had elapsed, Lady Glendower peeped in at the window, then stole noiselessly back to her husband’s side.
‘They are clasped in each other’s arms, standing in a pool of water!’ she reported
‘My God! My carpet!’ groaned his lordship, and poured out another glass of port to fortify himself against disaster, while his wife lay back in her chair and laughed in what he considered to be the most unfeeling way.
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