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“You had better go inside, Maidie,” advised her ladyship. “The musicians are starting up, and I am sure you are engaged for the next dance.”
“Yes—yes, I am engaged for every dance.” She did not glance at Delagarde, but slipped quickly back into the ballroom, a prey to the most distressing reflections.
Delagarde saw his great-aunt turn to him, and threw up a hand. “You need not say it, Aunt Hes. I am palpably to blame. I am fully aware of it.”
“I should think you might be. But I am going to say something, nevertheless. It is this. If you don’t wish to find yourself obliged to marry the girl, I advise you to be more circumspect in future.”
With which, she left him, and turned to follow Maidie.
Delagarde remained on the balcony for a moment or two, cursing himself, and Maidie—and Maidie’s gown. He could not think what had come over him. Pray heaven the wench found herself a decent fellow before too long! Any more such encounters and he could not answer for what he might do. He pulled himself up. What was he thinking? A mistake, that was all. A stupid mistake. It meant nothing. It was merely the heady combination of starlight and her abominable gown.
Maidie, re-entering the ballroom, had run straight into Eustace Silsoe. He was reinforced by the presence of Adela, and Maidie could not but wonder whether either, or perhaps both, had once again been witness to the illicit idyll on the balcony. Illicit? To her, perhaps, to her unsuspecting heart. But not to him. No, not to Delagarde.
“Excuse me,” she said, to forestall any conversation, “but I am looking for my partner. I am engaged for the next dance with Wiveliscombe.”
“I am sure Wiveliscombe will come looking for you,” Adela said, helping her brother to crowd Maidie into a huddle against the wall.
“We will not detain you for more than a moment,” Eustace added, the unamiable smile creasing his mouth.
“What do you want?”
“I do not ask what occurred behind those closed curtains,” purred Adela, “but I dare say I can guess. But no matter for that. Remember, Mary, we know the true circumstances.”
“What if,” added Eustace, taking up the thread, “we are tempted to tell the world the truth?”
“That Delagarde has no real control over what you choose to do, and cannot in fact stop you from marrying anyone.”
“Then everyone will know for certain,” said Eustace, “he is after your money for himself.”
“He will be made to look a fool,” added Adela, with a malevolent look. “What will people think of a man who deliberately lies to society for his own gain?”
Maidie had listened with the rise of a burning sense of injustice. Whether or not there was any truth in their accusations of Delagarde and his supposed intentions towards her had somehow lost its importance for the moment. Far more compelling was the horrid notion these two could blacken his name, if they chose. Did they think she would stand by and let them do it?
“No one will think anything at all, when they hear of my engagement to another.”
Adela blew scorn through her lips. “Which other?”
“Save myself?” Eustace added.
That was a moot point. Maidie had no answer, but she saw rescue in the form of her partner, who had espied her despite these cousinly attempts to conceal her, and was coming across the ballroom to claim her.
“Excuse me, if you please. I see Wiveliscombe approaching.”
She broke free and went towards him, with every evidence in her face and voice of pleasure at seeing him. She managed to keep up a pretense of lively conversation every time the movement of the dance brought her together with her partner. But her thoughts strayed back to the little scene on the balcony.
Why was she defending Delagarde? She knew the sway of her emotions made her vulnerable. But what of his conduct? He had said his actions were unintentional. But were they? Quick suspicion kindled, and she almost missed her step.
“Steady!” muttered Wiveliscombe, reaching out a hand.
“Don’t trouble—an unevenness in the floor,” she excused herself, and moved on past him.
Could it be Delagarde’s whole action was feigned? Had he meant to discompose her? If it had been only that light kiss, she might not have thought so. Had he not swiftly apologised, explained it away as a mistake? But what of his subsequent actions? Why had he drawn close to her again? How, if his apology was earnest, could he have taken the opportunity afforded by her examination of the heavens to put her at so great a disadvantage once more? He must have meant it. It must have been deliberate. He had seen how he affected her, how successful was his first foray. Then, pressing his advantage, he had done all he could to move her further. No doubt if Lady Hester had not interrupted them, there would have been another kiss.
To her dismay, the thought caused a flood of heat to sear her depths. She forced herself out of her imagination, and put all her concentration on Wiveliscombe. The dance, she found, was ending. He was bowing, and the music ceased.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, with forced brightness. “That was most pleasurable.”
“Was it, Lady Mary? Now I quite thought you had your attention elsewhere.”
