Suddenly, she felt she could bear it no longer. It was a stupid, wretched party, and she could not think why she had ever come at all. She felt the tears threatening; and hastily mumbling an excuse to her aunt who was deep in conversation again, hurried to the ladies’ retiring room.
No one was there, even the waiting maids being absent for the moment. A closet door stood ajar. Blinded by tears, Susan rushed into the small room, pulling the door shut behind her. Then she buried her face in her hands and gave way to her grief and chagrin in a stormy outburst of weeping.
THE WINE GOES TO SUSAN’S HEAD
After a while, she felt better, and determined to leave the party at once. It was absurd to stay for a moment longer in a place where everything had conspired to make her feel miserable. She crept stealthily from the closet, in case there should be someone in the room beyond. Finding no one there, she bathed her face at the wash stand, and carefully smoothed her rumpled hair before the mirror. The pale blue-green muslin gown which she had chosen with such care to set off her black hair and creamy skin was now a trifle creased. She straightened its folds, and adjusted her silver gauze sash. Then she shrugged her shoulders. If she looked a sight, what did it matter? There was no one to care, and, anyway, she was going home.
“But not before supper, dearest!” protested Mrs. Fyfield, when this announcement was made to her. “I declare, I have a prodigious appetite — and, besides, it will look so rude! Of course, I do realize that you have not found much pleasure in the evening so far, on account of not knowing many people, and having no partners. But I think, if you had not gone away, you might have remedied that; for after you had gone young Mr. George Eversley came over, and inquired where you were. If you stay but a moment, my love, I am sure he will come again and lead you out to dance.”
“He may come fifty times,” said Susan, vehemently, “but he will not lead me out! No, nor his brother, either!”
Mrs. Fyfield stared. “You mean the Beau? Well, I must say, my dear, that I think that scarcely likely, for he has danced with no one but the Radley girl all evening. Not but what it was uncommon civil of him to come and speak to you, earlier on—”
“Oh, vastly!” said Susan, curling her lip, which had started to tremble ominously.
“Well, so I think, for there are a good many guests here, and most of them a deal more important than we are.”
“I agree, and that is why I say they can go on very comfortably without us,” retorted Susan. “I mean to go, Aunt, whether you wish to accompany me—”
“May I ask where you mean to go?”
The cool, amused tones made Susan spin round quickly to face the speaker. She knew it was Beau Eversley.
“I am going home, sir,” she said, abruptly.
He raised his brows. “So soon? I was about to solicit your hand for the next dance.” He turned to Mrs. Fyfield. “What do you say, ma’am? May I lead your niece out?”
“Oh, to be sure!” answered that lady, in gratified tones. “So obliging of you, Mr. Eversley — I am sure that Susan will be delighted, for she has not danced yet all the evening, and when one is young, you know, it is agony to sit out a single dance! But away you go, and I shall be quite content to chat with my friend here for a while.”
He took Susan’s hand, and, mesmerized by his smile, she allowed him to draw her a little way towards the dancers. Then she stopped, roughly pulling her hand from his light clasp.
“Whatever my aunt may say, Susan will not be delighted!” she exclaimed, heatedly, the colour flooding her face. “I’m going home, Mr. Eversley — I don’t wish to dance.”
“No?” He studied her flushed face, amusement in his eyes. “Do you know, Miss Fyfield, I am sorry to say that I cannot think you are a very truthful young lady?”
“I — I don’t know what you mean—”
“I mean,” he said, with a smile that robbed his words of offence, “that when we first met at Horry Walpole’s you gave a reason for your presence there that seemed to me — shall we say improbable? And now you want me to believe that you have no wish to dance — again, improbable.”
“You may believe what you wish,” retorted Susan, compressing her lips defiantly.
He bowed. “Thank you. I intend to do so, but it is reassuring, of course, to have your permission.” His tone changed. “Come,” he said, coaxingly, “what is all this about? Are you having a slow time of it? I am sorry for that, and we will do our best now to remedy it — but we must take our places, for the dance is beginning, as you see.”
“Oh, you treat me as if I were a child!” she burst out, her lip trembling.
He took her hand purposefully. “Come, ma’am, we are going to dance together now, and afterwards I intend to take you in to supper. I warn you—” as she looked rebellious — “I shall brook no denial. I am quite capable of carrying you bodily on to the floor, if need be.”
“Oh!” She tried to sound indignant, but ended by breaking into a laugh. “Oh, you are — outrageous, sir!”
He looked down into a pair of brown eyes, which had suddenly begun to twinkle.
“And you are — charming, ma’am,” he said, mimicking her.
She caught her breath as their glances met, and once again the colour flooded her cheeks. But she had no time to feel embarrassed, for at once he guided her expertly into the cotillion, and she was occupied for the next few minutes in watching her steps.
After that, it was all like a dream. The music, the movement, the nearness of this man who had always seemed as far removed from her as though he inhabited another planet, the touch of his hand in hers — all were intoxication to Susan’s senses. She danced as if she were floating on a cloud, or had wings on her feet. She was altogether oblivious of everything except his presence; she failed to notice the covert glances, the nudges and whispers that passed round among the spectators, and even the dancers themselves.
Not so the Beau: he was too used to being the subject of gossip not to guess that tongues would be wagging at his expense. To be dancing with someone new and quite unknown in society — and a little schoolroom miss at that! This was a new start for Beau Eversley, indeed; but, whoever she was, she had better watch out for herself. That was more or less what the old Tabbies would be saying, he conjectured cynically. How disappointed they would be if they knew the truth; if they realized that for once the Beau was not pursuing his own selfish amusement, but trying to oblige a sister of whom he happened to be particularly fond. He frowned at this stage in his thoughts, his attention caught. Oblige Georgiana? Was that truly the case? He had to acknowledge that there was a little more to it than that. He had started out to oblige Georgy, it was true, but now his aim was to give some pleasure to the child at his side. He fancied he was succeeding, too. He glanced down at her. She was gliding through the dance as if her feet scarcely touched the ground, the pale oval of her face uplifted, her eyes dark and mysterious. She was a child, of course, not yet eighteen- — and yet, he thought suddenly, she was a woman, with all a woman’s mystery and allure. Perhaps he need not feel so self-righteous about the gossips. It might be that, as they had supposed, he was in reality pursuing his own selfish amusement, after all.
To go in to supper on Beau Eversley’s arm was to perpetuate the dream through which Susan thought she must surely be moving at present. Both events had been quite outside even her wildest flights of fancy. In a daze, she found herself sitting next to him at the long, flower-decorated table which was loaded with expensive food calculated to appeal to every eye and palate. It was quite wasted on Susan, for she had no idea what she ate, and very little understanding of what was going on around her. On one occasion, she noticed her aunt smiling at her from a seat lower down the table; on another, Georgiana, seated at the head of it, leaned forward and caught Susan’s eye with a knowing look which momentarily broke through her abstraction, causing her to blush and look down hastily at her plate.
But, for the most part, there might have been no one else present but h
erself and Beau Eversley, caught up in a whirl of bright stars which must eventually burst into flame.
“You are very silent,” remarked the Beau, presently. “Are you still displeased with me?”
She shook her head, and turned a contrite look upon him. “I beg your pardon, sir — I fear I was impolite—”
“Perhaps I prefer you to be impolite,” he said, smiling. “It gives you animation. Besides, one meets polite young ladies everywhere. There’s nothing remarkable about them.”
“But if every female answered you rudely, Mr. Eversley,” she replied, dimpling, “then you would wish to meet one who was polite.”
“Assuredly.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow, his eyes twinkling at her. “Am I not a contrary character?”
A footman passed behind them to fill their glasses with champagne, and Susan fell silent.
“Tell me,” said the Beau, in a careless tone, “what exactly was the explanation of your sudden outburst in the ballroom?”
She coloured slightly. “I would rather not talk about that,” she said, in a low tone. “As long as you have forgiven me for my lapse of manners, pray let us forget all about it!”
“Of course,” he replied reassuringly. “All the same, it would be a pity if you were to attach the smallest significance to the words of a selfish young blockhead whose one abiding passion in life is cards.”
Susan shook her head, and picked up her glass, seeking a way to change the subject.
“What is this, sir?” she asked, in a voice that was not quite steady. “It doesn’t look like lemonade.”
He laughed. “The taste isn’t the same, either. It’s champagne. If you haven’t had any before, you may not care for it very much. You must drink Georgy’s health, presently, but there is no need to take more than a sip, so don’t worry.”
She conveyed the glass to her lips, and doubtfully tasted the champagne. Then she turned towards him with a delighted expression.
“Oh, I like it!”
Before he could intervene, she had tipped up the glass and drained it.
“I did not realize how thirsty I was!” she declared, naïvely. “And now I have none left to drink Georgy’s health! Do you think I might have some more?”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “If I had realized you were thirsty, I would have ordered some lemonade for you instead. At the risk of being thought a dead bore, I feel I must warn you that it is wiser not to toss off champagne in just that careless style. However, we must hope for the best.” He signalled to the footman, who approached bearing the champagne bottle. “The lady will take a little — a very little — more,” he instructed.
A small quantity was poured into Susan’s glass.
“May I beg you,” said Beau Eversley, smiling down into her slightly crestfallen face, “this time to treat your wine with a little more respect?”
“Oh, yes — I had no notion — you see, I have never had anything but lemonade or ratafia, before!”
This soon became apparent, for in a few moments she began to giggle. The Beau looked at her sharply. She turned a brilliant smile and a pair of dancing eyes towards him.
“Oh, dear, I do seem to be doing all manner of outrageous things this evening!” she exclaimed, slurring her words slightly. “But isn’t it odd — I don’t care the least little bit in the world, now! I cannot ever recall feeling so — so carefree and g-gay!”
“That is capital,” he replied quietly. “But I beg you to moderate your voice a little. There are always unkind people who are ready to gossip, you know, and nothing sets them off like the sight of a young lady — er — too evidently enjoying herself in company with a man.”
Susan nodded with careful solemnity. “I w-will be very discreet,” she whispered, placing a finger to her lips, “for I must not make people gossip, I know. They talk of you already — you and an actress called Ma ria—”
Although she was feeling more than a trifle hazy, his quick frown penetrated her consciousness, and made her break off abruptly.
“I must ask you to recollect what you are saying, ma’am,” he said, sharply.
She opened her eyes wide. “Oh, now you are cross! Do you think I am — what is it you gentlemen say? — bosky? Oh, dear! What if I am?” She giggled again, though this time more quietly, then went on, “But I really cannot bring myself to care. And if you do not like to speak of—”
She stopped again, as he directed a warning look at her.
“But I dare say you are right,” she continued, in a lively tone, but not quite so loud as before. “I must not tease you. All the same, I wonder would you object to telling me if — if you are in love with — with Miss Radley?” She gazed at him earnestly, as though trying to bring his face into focus. “I have a most — particular reason — for wanting to know.”
“I think you should go home, Miss Susan,” he said gently.
“So soon?” she protested, pouting at him. “But I have not yet drunk Georgy’s health — and you haven’t answered my question.”
“I think you have drunk sufficient for tonight,” he said, firmly. “Georgiana’s health is not so greatly threatened as your own must be if you remain.”
He glanced down the table to where his father sat, and was relieved to see that Viscount Eversley was just about to rise and propose the toast of the evening. After that, it would be possible to take Susan away without causing comment. He was quite indifferent to gossip himself, but had no intention of doing anything to draw it down upon the innocent child at his side.
Fortunately, his father’s speech was short and to the point, and Susan showed no disposition to fidget or interrupt, as he had feared she might.
When the moment came to rise and drink Georgiana’s health, he placed a firm hand under Susan’s elbow. He was relieved to find that she was able to stand without swaying.
“Only one small sip!” he directed, in a forbidding undertone, as she raised her glass with the rest of the table.
She turned a look of sparkling defiance on him in answer. For a moment he contemplated taking the glass away from her; but once again he hesitated to bring her to the attention of the rest of the company. Then she shook her head slightly with a reassuring glance, taking only the tiniest sip before setting down her glass.
“You see!” she said, as they resumed their seats. “I obeyed you, after all.”
“It will pay you better to do so always,” he answered, grimly. “And now we may go. It will no longer occasion any remark.”
She shook her head vigorously, and set her dark curls swinging.
“Not until you answer my question,” she insisted.
“As I have no intention of doing so, we had better be prepared to sit here until you fall asleep,” he countered.
“I do not feel sleepy in the least.”
“Perhaps not. That will come presently. You would be well advised to leave before it happens.”
“I see what you are at, but it shan’t succeed, I promise you.” She shook an admonitory finger at him. “You shall answer my question — and I intend to sit here until you do.”
“Then you are likely to sit here alone,” he said, in a brutal tone, “for I have no intention of remaining.”
“You — you could not do that — it would be ungallant—”
“I do not feel particularly gallant at the moment.”
“I don’t suppose you do,” she said, slurring the sibilants slightly. “Now if I were only Miss Radley — or M-Maria McCann—”
“If you were only my sister,” replied the Beau, tightening his lips, “I should know how to deal with you.”
“Tell me what I want to know,” she insisted, leaning towards him in a way that almost threatened her balance, “and then I’ll be quite willing to leave — when — whenever you wish.”
He glanced covertly around him. At the moment, no one appeared to be paying any particular attention to his indiscreet companion. When they had first sat down at the table together, he had noticed that eve
ry eye was upon them. Most people had finished supper, and were now leaving the table. If he could only persuade Susan to leave quietly and go straight home with her aunt, there would be no harm done beyond her being pointed out by the gossips as Beau Eversley’s latest flirt.
“Very well,” he said, capitulating. “If it will keep you quiet, I may inform you that I am not in love with anyone.”
“Not even with M-M—” she stumbled, even in her present carefree mood hesitating to repeat the name that had offended his ears.
Deliberately, he chose to misunderstand her. “No, not even you,” he said, laughing. “Not as far as I know.”
Her glance wavered for a moment. “But I did not mean — I was not going to say—”
“I have answered your question,” he said, rising. “And now you must keep your part of the bargain. Are you ready to go home?”
She rose with a nod, and accepted his arm.
Most of the company had returned to the ballroom, but some now began to leave the party. With characteristic speed and smoothness, Beau Eversley united Susan with her aunt, and whisked them through the necessary leave-taking. He himself escorted them to their carriage, bowing over Susan’s hand when he had seen her safely curled up in a corner.
“Goodbye, Miss Indiscretion,” he said, in a low tone for her ears alone.
“So obliging!” enthused Mrs. Fyfield, from her own corner. “Such a delightful evening! I fear we did not thank Lady Eversley and your charming sister half enough! But then, we were obliged to rush away — as you say, Susan is monstrous tired, which is not to be wondered at, for she is not accustomed to late nights, evening parties and such like entertainments — but I am sure she enjoyed herself prodigiously.”
“The pleasure has been all on our side, ma’am, I assure you,” replied the Beau, with another bow. “Goodnight.”
He carried Susan’s limp hand briefly to his lips, before stepping back and closing the door of the carriage.
The Clandestine Betrothal Page 6
