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But he rose soon, and politely thanked her, insisting she close up all her apparatus. She did so, discoursing at some length on the phenomenon he had been examining. Then she went off at a tangent, talking of Tycho and Kepler, and the age-old debate about the planetary paths in relation to the sun. Delagarde was quickly out of his depth, but found himself making a supreme effort to keep track, putting a question where his own scanty knowledge prodded an incomplete memory. He closed the French windows when she had shut up the telescope, and remained standing by them, watching the animation in her face as she stood talking, the features still clear by the starlight coming in through the glass.
In some vague comer of his brain, he heard what she said, but the words passed over his comprehension as that hush once more invaded his mind. He stared at her as if mesmerised, and the intent absorption of his look penetrated at last through Maidie’s concentration.
“—not fully established until Isaac Newton’s Principia, and people continued to believe the Ptolemaic theory for quite centuries, even after Copernicus…”
Her voice died, the thread of what she was saying slipping away from her. She stared back into Delagarde’s face, softened by some trick of the light, and her bones melted. A memory flashed into her head.You are not a man. She had said it. When had she said it? Only tonight? She took in his slightly dishevelled air—cravat half untied, both coat and waistcoat unbuttoned, revealing the silk shirt beneath and the veriest glimpse of flesh. His black locks fell forward on to his lean cheeks. As she stared, the depths of his brown eyes seared her, and she felt him very much a man. She had the strangest notion that something—she did not know what—must surely happen now. Then he spoke.
“What about Copernicus?”
A bare whisper, only just penetrating the silence which dragged between them like a blanketing mist. Maidie felt her throat go dry, and she swallowed.
“I have forgotten.”
Delagarde reached out, but his hand stilled, poised in the air. His face changed, as if some recognition broke into his head. He snatched his hand back, and his voice cut harshly across the dreamy atmosphere.
“I should not be here!”
He turned abruptly and walked quickly out of the room.
Maidie watched him go, stricken with a savage sense of loss.
Chapter Eleven
April dawned two days later, and Maidie reappeared in society for Lady Hester’s own party in Charles Street.
The first intimation of change came when she found herself still standing at the head of the stairs, alongside her hostess and Delagarde, some fifteen minutes after the last arrival might have been expected.
“What in the world does this mean, Laurie?” asked Lady Hester during a temporary lull. “I am sure I did not send out as many invitations as this.”
Delagarde was frowning. “I thought it was odd. Didn’t you say this was to be a small party?”
Maidie had her own puzzlements. “What I should like to know is why everyone is being so friendly towards me.”
“Why should they not be?”
“But, Delagarde, I do not know the half of these people. Besides, neither Lady Wingrove nor Lady Pinmore has before taken the least notice of me.”
Lady Hester was about to answer, when she was distracted by a new arrival. “Lord, it is Selina! You are perfectly right, Maidie. Something very peculiar indeed is going on.”
Astonished, Maidie watched the ascent up the staircase of Lady Rankmiston, magnificent in bronze satin, accompanied by her youngest son—“the only one unmarried”, whispered Lady Hester out of the comer of her mouth. Maidie heard a muttered curse from Delagarde, and turned to look at his suddenly grim profile. What he meant by it she could not begin to guess—and she was certainly not going to ask.
She had awoken yesterday to the memory of the Viscount’s visit to her bedchamber, and had suffered a severe attack of embarrassment. That it might all have been a dream she knew to be a vain hope, and she could only ascribe her conduct to the fact she was not yet quite well. How could she have been so lost to all sense of propriety and decorum? She shuddered to think of the Worm’s reaction, and had not dared to mention the matter to Lady Hester. She had met Delagarde but briefly since, hideously conscious of the blush mantling her cheeks, and had been relieved he neither referred to the incident, nor lingered in her company. It had taken all her resolution to appear as normal tonight—a betrayal of Great-uncle’s code she felt deeply but could not help. She was becoming the most adept of shams. Only the fear Lady Hester might question and probe if she faltered had enabled her to face the Viscount with an assumption of poise.
But this unprecedented surge of visitors to the house succeeded in driving the memories to the back of her mind, and she forgot them altogether as she received the most gracious of greetings from Lady Rankmiston.
“That settles it,” said Lady Hester, when Delagarde was escorting that lady on to the saloons. “There can be but one explanation.”
Maidie looked expectantly at her. “What is it, dear ma’am?”
Lady Hester turned to her, her countenance expressive of a measure of exasperation. “Word of your fortune must have got out, Maidie.”
“Oh, no!” Then she thought about it. “Or—well, perhaps it is not such a great matter. I always meant for it to be known. It was only Delagarde who insisted upon secrecy.”
“I fear, my dear, you will very soon be regretting such an accident, if I am right.” Lady Hester tutted. “Three of our most inveterate fortune-hunters have managed to secure an entry, for I know I did not invite them.”
Maidie frowned, conscious of a lowering feeling in her stomach. Why, she had no notion, for it had always been her intention to allow one of that fraternity to win her hand. Somehow, the prospect of being pursued by interested suitors no longer seemed so desirable.
“But how is it possible for them to come if they were not invited?”
