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I am enchanting, she told herself firmly. I remind men of the daughter of a Greek nymph… She felt better already, then was jerked out of her reverie by Mrs Carlton saying sharply,
‘Hebe, dear! Your plate.’ The footman was trying to clear and replace the dishes with the next course. A family dinner was obviously not the place to practise enchantment. Hebe’s sense of the ridiculous got the better of her and she concentrated instead on the tale the Commodore was telling of a mishap with the flagship’s cook, a crate of chickens and the Rear Admiral’s wife.
The invitations for the party were duly sent out, and the Carlton ladies received back a gratifying number of acceptances, including a polite note from Major Beresford who expressed himself
delighted to attend. Sara bewailed the fact that she had invited quite half a dozen rival débutantes, but she knew perfectly well that if she appeared to snub them their mamas would cut Hebe off their invitation lists and that would be fatal.
But everything else about the party gave her total satisfaction, even, to her amazement, the conformable behaviour of her stepdaughter. Hebe accepted without demur her new gown for the evening, even taking an interest in such trifles as which gloves to wear and whether she should dress her hair with flowers, twisted ribbons or gauze net. Her only act of rebellion was her stubborn refusal to cut her hair, but even that was forgiven when she meekly submitted to a dusting of rice powder over her freckles and the merest touch of rouge on her lips.
Mrs Carlton found herself in such charity with her that she let her wear her own topaz set, which was a far prettier match for Hebe’s new gown of deep cream silk with a trim of deep amber ribbons at the hem, puff sleeves and neckline, than Hebe’s own modest pearls.
Hebe spent the day of the party in a flurry of activity, helping clear the long salon that would act as the main reception room, set out small tables in the breakfast room for those who would wish to play cards and dress the dining table just so with sun-bleached linen and fresh flowers for the buffet.
As she worked she had continued repeating her silent charm, I am enchanting, I am an enchantress, Alex Beresford likes me, Alex Beresford will think I look lovely tonight…
When she finally stood up and regarded her reflection in the mirror it suddenly seemed that perhaps she was not utterly deceiving herself, for the young lady who stared back appeared tall, elegant and, if not exactly pretty, well…
‘Very nice,’ said Sara Carlton, unwittingly plunging Hebe into gloom. But she soon recovered her confidence as the first guests began to arrive. She was so focused on the words she was repeating silently, and so alert for the first sign of the Major’s arrival, that she seemed a very different girl from the eager, friendly, uncontrived Hebe everyone was used to and took for granted.
Even the most self-obsessed débutante noticed the difference as they were greeted by a cool, calm, slightly distant Hebe in a gown that was all the crack and a set of topazes which made every brunette present quite green with envy.
As for the gentlemen, they were surprised not to be greeted with Hebe’s usual warm smile and anxious enquiry about whatever problem or affair of the heart that they had confided last time they had met her. She was very pleasant of course, but somehow none of them felt they were the centre of her attention.
That was an accurate perception, for Hebe hardly saw any of the faces that passed before her, although she said all the right things, bobbed curtsies to the more senior ladies, shook hands and generally acted as the daughter of the house should.
Then the clock struck nine and Major Beresford appeared in the doorway. Hebe swallowed convulsively, instantly convinced she was making a complete fool of herself and that he had not the slightest interest in her.
He shook hands with Mrs Carlton and exchanged a few words before giving way to the formidable figures of the Misses Andrews, two spinsters rumoured to be the richest women on Malta.
Hebe forced herself to look up and hold out her hand to him. He took it and said, ‘Miss Carlton, good evening.’ Then he lifted her hand and for one moment Hebe thought he was about to kiss it, an unconventional thing to be doing in this setting. Instead he turned it in his grasp and touched the inside of her wrist to his cheek. ‘A close enough shave?’ he asked, low-voiced.
The colour spread up Hebe’s cheeks but she left her hand in his until he lowered it. ‘Ye—yes,’ was all she could find to say, but it was an effort of will to clasp her hands in front of her and not reach out to touch again.
Mrs Carlton’s acute chaperon’s instinct made her turn, but all she saw was Hebe’s heightened colour and Major Beresford regarding her with a quizzical eye. ‘Major?’
‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Carlton, I am holding up the line. I was merely assuring Miss Carlton that I had taken the advice she gave me the other morning.’ With a slight bow he took himself off into the salon, leaving Hebe breathless and blushing.
There was a lull in the arrivals, for the rooms were almost full and Mrs Carlton would have the ultimate satisfaction of knowing that her party was a complete squeeze.
‘Hebe,’ she hissed, ‘I despair, I really do. Not only do you convince the man you are a bluestocking by discussing classical mythology with him, but now I find you have been giving him advice! It is a wonder if he does not consider you a bookish, managing girl.’ Hebe made no response, so, with a sigh, she turned towards the salon. ‘I think that most of our guests have arrived, let us go in and see how we can undo the damage you have wrought.’
Hebe took a deep breath and meekly followed her stepmother’s elegantly-gowned back into the reception room, a small, secret smile lighting up her face. Even the sight of Alex Beresford making small talk with a group of very pretty débutantes did not shake her inner confidence.
Unseen, her right hand crept up to touch her own cheek. The smell of limes and sandalwood reached her nostrils and she realised it was the cologne Alex was wearing. Through the gaps between the buttons of her long gloves his cheek had been so cool, so smooth, yet with the merest frisson from the stubble the razor must have cut through only a while before. Suddenly she shivered with a new, sensual awareness: but for Hebe the evening’s new experiences were only just beginning.
Chapter Five
‘I say, Hebe…I mean, Miss Carlton.’
Hebe turned to find Jack Forrester at her elbow, two of his friends by his side. Jack was the elder son of the Mrs Forrester to whose ball Mrs Carlton was angling to have Alex Beresford invited. He was a popular young man with both sexes, and although he knew Hebe very well from her friendship with his sisters, he had never sought her out before.
‘Good evening, Jack. Hello, Paul, William.’
Jack Forrester turned a shoulder as if to exclude his two friends. ‘Hebe, you are coming to Mama’s ball, are you not?’
‘Why, yes, I am looking forward to it.’ Now, what did Jack want? She scoured her memory, but could not recall that he had seemed very interested in any of her particular friends, so he probably was not hoping for her help to be alone with someone…
‘Will you dance a waltz with me?’ He misinterpreted Hebe’s startled expression. ‘Yes, I know. Dashing of Mama, is it not? She said some of the older ladies might not like it, but she was not going to have a dowdy ball for anyone. You do waltz, don’t you, Hebe?’
