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A wash of distress almost caused her to burst into tears. Was it all false? The protestations of friendship; the amusement which had not given offence because of the kindness behind it; the care and attention, the support which had meant so much against Delagarde’s impatience. All, all of it, only done for gain? She could not believe it. But then, what did she know of these people, acquainted with them as she had been for such a short time? Was she but a gullible fool to be so taken in? No, it must not be true. She did not wish to believe it. For if it were true, it meant not only that Lady Hester’s liking for her was a sham—the unkindest of shams, too—but it must mean also that Delagarde—
Here her thoughts clashed so strongly with her feelings it was a moment or two before Maidie could regain the smallest control over the heaving sensations in her breast. Seizing the handkerchief she had tucked under the pillow, she mopped her eyes and blew her nose. Then, as the image of its earlier use leapt into her mind, she sat bolt upright in the bed and flung the handkerchief from her.Hishandkerchief. No, she would not use it!
Agitation drove her to thrust aside the curtains about the four-poster, and slip out of bed. Moving to the French windows, she dragged the drapes to one side and gazed through the panes at the darkness outside. The night was not very clear, but one or two of her friends up there winked at her between the clouds. Her tumultuous emotions began to subside. Yes, there was Betelgeuse, and there Rigel, the brightest and furthest points of the magnificent constellation of Orion. The Hunter’s belt and sword were not visible tonight, but by the time she had located Aldebaran, the jewel of the Taurus stars, Maidie had recalled how unimportant were these worldly considerations, set against the wonders of the celestial sphere. Great-uncle had taught her that, and he was right.
Nevertheless, as the cold began to penetrate too insistently through her nightgown to be ignored, and she redrew the curtains and scurried back to bed, she drifted back to the uncomfortable thought which had thrown her into disorder.
What if the boot were on the other foot? She had no notion—for she was mistress of her own designs, was she not?—of entrapping Delagarde. But suppose it were Delagarde who had conceived the notion of entrapping her? True, he had scorned the suggestion. Had even mocked at her, as if she had indeed harboured the suspicion. Which she had not. At least, not until now. She did not know yet if she truly suspected him. No one could accuse him of having the slightest fondness for her. Indeed, she dared say his distaste of her exceeded her own for him.
But it would not preclude his determining to marry her. Had not Great-uncle pointed out that marriage, in the class to which they both belonged, had nothing to do with fondness—or even mere liking? Arranged marriages, Great-uncle had said, were quite the thing. It was common for couples to be wed without acquaintance, or, even if acquainted, to have met only in such restricted circumstances they could not possibly know anything of each other’s character. Which was what had persuaded Maidie to conceive of her scheme. Her marriage was to be one of convenience. All too likely Delagarde felt the same. What could be more convenient to him than to become possessed of her forty-five thousand pounds?
Maidie was disappointed. She had not thought it of him. But when she considered the way he set so much store by her public conduct—and had he not insisted it was his own reputation for which he trembled?—she might be pardoned for supposing him to be seeking to mould her into conduct befitting his future Viscountess.
These unsatisfactory cogitations left Maidie with a brooding headache, and an air of wary uncertainty, which caused her to shy hastily away from Delagarde when she encountered him in the downstairs breakfast parlour.
He was already at the table, but rose on her entrance, and watched her frowningly as she scuttled to a place at the corner furthest away from him. Beyond bidding her good morning, he made no attempt to engage her in conversation until Lowick, who had returned from Berkshire, bringing with him a formidable retinue and a mountain of supplies necessary to the equipping of the London house in a manner suitable to entertaining, had served Maidie with a plate of ham supported by two baked eggs and several slices of bread and butter.
Delagarde, having laid aside his morning paper, watched Maidie sipping tea for a moment or two. He waved away Lowick’s offer of a refill from the coffee pot, and signed to the butler to withdraw.
“Do you care to drive out with me this morning?” he asked Maidie, as soon as they were alone.
She cast him a suspicious look. “Why should you wish to take me driving?”
“Why shouldn’t I? The day is fine for March, and it is quite the fashion to be seen driving in the park. You are here to be seen, are you not?”
“Yes, but why should you take me?”
“Who else should take you? Until, at least, you have acquired for yourself a court of beaux.”
Maidie eyed him. “Well, I shall not do that if I am constantly to be seen in your company.”
Delagarde stared at her. “Have it as you will. Why you should be so churlish about it, I am at a loss to understand. I was only trying to be helpful.”
“I did not mean to be churlish,” Maidie said, looking away. “I have the headache.”
“Don’t trouble yourself to make excuses. I am becoming used to your ways. I dare say familiarity will inure me to them altogether, and I shall not even notice.”
“No, it won’t, for you will not have any opportunity to become familiar. I shall be gone from your house much too soon for that.”
His eyes narrowed. “Good! Though I fail to see why, having been so anxious to gain access to my house, you should now spurn it in this ill-bred fashion.”
“I am not ill bred!”
But she flushed, and looked down at her plate, biting her lip. Delagarde looked her over in a good deal of surprise. What ailed the wench? He watched her picking desultorily at her food. Perhaps she really did have the headache. He studied her profile. Was she not a little pale? And where was the direct gaze that so much characterised her? She could scarcely look at him. He had just begun to wonder if there were anything seriously amiss, when Maidie suddenly raised her head again. Something in her grey eyes touched him. A hint of pain? But before he could formulate a question, Maidie spoke.
“Am I—?” Uncertain, low-voiced. “Do I indeed seem to be ill bred?”
Delagarde was quite unable to withstand the plea. He smiled. “Not ill bred, Maidie. Merely outspoken.”
“But you do nothing but complain of my conduct. You said I was ill mannered.”
“And so you were. But not intentionally. I doubt if your worst enemy could accuse you of saying the things you do say with any intent of malice.”
A little sigh escaped Maidie. “That is something, I suppose.” In a stronger voice, she added, “But I must say I do not see why what I do should make any difference to your reputation. It cannot, after all, be as pure as all that.”
“I did not say it was pure,” Delagarde said, laughing. “I should be the last man to claim as much.”
“Then why should you—?”
