The audience had seemed very pleased with the play. Of course, her wonderful family had heaped praise upon her. Rosalind had even said that Sarah Siddons would be envious of her performance.
But then, Lord Harveston.
Hewas what really was taking up her thoughts. That one sentence—if she ever felt in danger, she ought to call on him.
The look in his eyes when he’d said it!
It had been the most impossibly romantic thing she’d ever heard or even imagined.
She had, of course, imagined all sorts of things a gentleman might say to her. Such things as her eyes penetrated the depths of his soul, or her voice was a silken balm to his heart, or her person inflicted deadly longing upon him and he was considering doing a violence to himself.
But that phrase, that had been…she was not certain what it had been. It felt as if that one sentence had moved her closer to him, though the distance between them had not changed.
It had almost felt like a kiss, or at least what she imagined a kiss would feel like. It had marked her out as someone particular to him. Someone he worried about.
She did not know why he should worry, but it was exceedingly gratifying that he did.
That was the thing that was on her mind. How gratified she was to know she was worried about by Lord Harveston.
In the beginning, they’d got off on such the wrong foot! Now, though, there was something between them. She could feel it. She also noticed that she was fast becoming less concerned about finding her Corinthian.
Though, if therewassomething between them, something that could lead to…
Each time Cordelia got to that point in her thinking, her mind clouded over.
What was she to think of it? That it could be possible that someone like Lord Harveston wished to pursue someone like herself? He was an intellectual, she was decidedly not.
Oh, she had proved her womanly judgment well enough, but he knew piles and piles of facts she’d never even heard of.
And then, what of herself? Could she really be satisfied with the differences between them? Would she always feel a bit outclassed? Would she, sometime in the future, regret that she’d not married a Corinthian?
Married.
She’d thought it. The word her mind kept clouding over. There it was.
Cordelia did not know if he would ask. She did not know if she were completely wrongheaded in even imagining it. But her womanly judgment said that he very well might.
If that was so, she must be prepared with an answer. When one was proposed to, one could accept or decline. She had not ever heard of a lady saying she did not know.
She must begin to know her own mind more clearly.
*
“Do not goout there, Mr. Tattleton,” Mrs. Huffson said, holding him back by the sleeve with one hand while her other hand held the door to the garden shut.
Tattleton could not quite discern what had occurred, but he could deduce two things: one, something had happened in the garden, and two, Cook was distraught over it.
The fellow was head in hand, weeping and banging his fist on the counter, while Charlie patted him on the back to console him.
“It’s the goat, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Aye, I’m afraid so,” the housekeeper said.
“Is he dead?” Tattleton asked, a glimmer of hope in his voice.
“Oh no, definitely not dead,” Mrs. Huffson said.
There was a sudden pounding on the door, though there was no person to be seen through the glazed window.
