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Maidie felt her cheeks flame, but she found herself unable to move from the spot, her gaze riveted upon his deshabille, a slow pulse beating in her throat. Unconsciously, the tip of her tongue ran over her lips, and her eyes rose, locking with Delagarde’s.
For a timeless moment, he could not drag his eyes away, and the ruffle of his heartbeat threatened to choke him. Then she spoke, and the breathy quality of her voice sent heat fleeing down his veins.
“I wished—I wished to speak to you.”
Delagarde was scarcely aware of replying. “Very well. I will join you directly in the green saloon.”
“Yes…”
Maidie shut her eyes, turned, and walked out of the dressing-room, closing the door behind her. For a moment, she stood there, her breast heaving, unable to think or move. Then, like an automaton, she at last shifted away, her legs seeming of their own will to seek the relative security of the green saloon.
For a few bemused moments she could not remember why she had bearded Delagarde. She crossed to the window and stared out without seeing anything at all. Her cheeks still felt hot, and she put up her hands to soothe them. Belatedly, it came to her she had behaved with a sad want of decorum.
What had possessed her? The vision of the Rankmiston boy’s face rose before her mind’s eye, and memory came flooding back. But gone was the righteous indignation which had driven her to that disastrous impulse. She ought to be angry, she had every right. She was indeed thrumming with emotion. Only it was far from anger.
Without thought, she reached out and her fingers came in contact with the cool glass of the window-pane. It stung. Oh, God, was she yet so hot inside? So hot—and desperate. For it came to her all at once that if there were any truth to the suspicions put into her head by Adela and Eustace, she had no defences. For if Laurie chose to seduce her, he would find her resistless.
“I dare say I should have expected I would be receiving a visit from you.”
His cool tones, coming unexpectedly from behind her, made her jump. A flush swept through her, and her pulse vibrated like a violin. Why had he to be so prompt? She needed a moment to compose herself. But there was no compassion of time. She must face him immediately. Drawing a breath, she turned.
He was fully dressed, and impeccable. His cravat was neatly tied, and the dark blue cloth coat over a silk waistcoat of brighter blue mercifully concealed the disturbing masculinity of his figure. The dark eyes, when Maidie dared to meet them, looked rueful.
“You met the Rankmiston boy, I take it?”
“Yes.” She glanced away again, recognising some sort of apology was in order. “I—I did not think. I lost my temper, and—”
“And flew to find me so you might instantly complain of my conduct.” He laughed lightly. “As well I had completed the preliminaries of my toilet.”
Maidie flushed again, and turned away. “You need not tease. I know it was not becoming conduct.”
Delagarde moved to the mantelpiece, wondering how he could ease her evident embarrassment. His own experience had shocked him, for he had felt acutely her response to his maleness. It had made him, for a few hideous moments, recall vividly his great-aunt’s assertion he ought to consider marriage. But that was nonsense—merely a reaction to the discovery Maidie had feminine instincts. He must not allow it to weigh with him. Nor with Maidie herself. He adopted a tone of deliberate calm.
“Come, Maidie, it was not as bad as all that. We inhabit the same house. Such accidents are to be expected. After all, it is not so long since I saw you in your dressing-robe.”
An unfortunate reminder. The last thing Maidie needed at this precise moment was to recall that night: star-gazing with him in her bedchamber. More to deflect this line of conversation than anything else, she threw herself headlong into the protest she had gone to his dressing-room to make.
“What do you mean by telling this Oliver you are my trustee?”
“I did not tell him so. But if you are asking whether I am responsible for his believing I am your trustee, then, yes, I am.”
This confession succeeded in seizing Maidie’s attention. She stared at him, moving into the centre of the room. “How is that possible? What did you do?”
“I had my friends Riseley and Corringham put it about, with the proviso you need my permission to marry.”
“You had them…” She faded out, shaken.
Delagarde eyed her. There was something in her face he could not read. He had expected indignation and protest, that she might lose her temper. She had, apparently, only to be taken aback by that unsettling encounter in his dressing-room. But now she was regarding him with—suspicion?
“What is the matter? It is only what you suggested at the outset. We could scarcely go on in the same way with your fortune known.”
Still she said nothing, only staring at him with a queer look in her eyes—as if she was repelled. He took an involuntary step towards her.
“Maidie, I have done it for your own protection. I know you think you can manage your own affairs, but believe me, your very innocence puts you in danger. In all honour, I cannot allow you to throw yourself away on some philandering wastrel, some worthless trifler who will fritter away your inheritance.”
At last Maidie withdrew her intent gaze from his face. She felt oppressed, beset by doubts. Finding her knees weak, she made her way to the little striped sofa and sat down, gripping her fingers tightly together in her lap. She could not look at him. She tried to gather her thoughts, and made the unpleasant discovery it was as painful to believe him as to doubt him. In either case, Delagarde’s concern was with her money, not with her. Whichever it proved to be, there was one grievance which he could not justify. She recalled it with a slight resurgence of the indignation she had felt in the first place. She looked up at him again, lifting her chin.
“Whatever you may think of anyone who wishes to marry me, you have no right to refuse permission without even referring the matter to me. How could you know I did not wish to marry this Oliver?”
