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Delagarde’s gaze narrowed dangerously. “We’ll see that!”
He turned on his heel, and was gone. Maidie ran out, and saw him striding towards the ballroom door. She would have followed, but at this moment the musicians began tuning up again, and she saw hurrying towards her Lady Pinmore’s son, who hailed her as he approached. She was condemned to a further country dance, which she performed more or less automatically, answering her partner’s sallies quite at random.
What Delagarde intended she did not know. That he had determined to interfere she could not doubt. Quite what he would do was a mystery which kept her on tenterhooks throughout the dance. She could not repress a feeling of elation at his reception of her news, even though it argued in favour of his diabolical plan to get her to himself. Almost she began to toy with the idea of allowing him to succeed with her—except when she recalled the apparent jealous passion must be all pretence. Useless to dare to dream he might be in earnest. If he were, what should stop him from declaring himself? He would not, had he any tender feelings for her, trouble with subterfuge. Why should he? He need do no more than announce his partiality, which would obviate the need to prevent her marrying anyone else. But he would not do that, Maidie knew, abandoning the forlorn little hope. How could it be possible Delagarde, who had the pick of the market, should fall for the wholly unsuitable Lady Mary Hope? No. The only explanation which fitted was the one supplied by Adela and Eustace.
The dance at an end, she found herself face to face with Wiveliscombe. He gave her a conspiratorial look, and bowed to her partner.
“I must beg your pardon, Pinmore, and wrest Lady Mary away from you.”
“No, by God, you shall not!” protested the other.
“Ah, but I shall, my dear boy. Fear not, it is only for a moment. You may claim her again ere long.”
Maidie allowed Wiveliscombe to draw her a little aside, and frowned at his look of dismay. “You have seen Delagarde?”
Wiveliscombe spread his hands. “Alas, yes. He has forbidden the banns. I am blighted, I am doomed.”
He looked rather to be relieved, Maidie thought fleetingly. But it was a momentary distraction. Delagarde had thwarted her. Of course Wiveliscombe meant to accept defeat. He had never wanted to marry her in the first place. There was no more thought of duplicity. Sheer fury dictated her next actions. All her desire was to hit back—and immediately. She would show him—oh, she would show him! There was more than one fish in the sea. Excusing herself as quickly as she could, Maidie went in search of Sholto Lugton. His was the next name on her dance card, and it happened that as he was also searching for her, she came upon him but a moment later, after passing among a handful of couples awaiting their turn on the dance floor.
“Sholto!”
“Lady Mary, you have not forgotten me!”
“Far from it. But come, Sholto. I wish to speak with you a moment before we dance. Come quickly!”
She fairly dragged the youth into the very antechamber to which Delagarde had taken her. Without preamble, she plunged recklessly in.
“Now, Sholto, is there nothing you wish to ask me?”
He stared for a moment, disbelief in his eyes. Then stumbled out his confusion. “Lady Mary, I do not know how to say it.”
“Be frank, Sholto. I prefer plain speaking.”
He looked at her, swallowed once or twice, and looked away again. Maidie began to be impatient. But before she could intervene, he tried again.
“Lady Mary…”
Maidie sighed inwardly. “Yes, Sholto?”
“Lady Mary…”
“I am listening.”
He fell silent once more, staring at her as if he implored her understanding. Maidie heard the musicians tuning up again, and very nearly stamped her foot.
“Do get on, Sholto! We have very little time.”
Once more he hesitated. Then he drew a huge breath, and, to Maidie’s intense astonishment, flung himself down upon one knee. “Lady Mary, I must beg you to consent to marry me!”
With an exclamation of impatience, Maidie reached down her hands to him, with the intention of pulling him to his feet. But Sholto seized her hands, almost dragging her on top of him, and speaking in a frantic way.
“Pray marry me. For if you do not, I think I may put a pistol to my head!”
“Humdudgeon! I mean—” correcting herself hurriedly and trying to release her hands “—there is no need to go to such an extreme. Certainly I will marry you. Pray get up!”
But instead of complying, or expressing his delight at her acceptance, Sholto remained frozen in his position, and his horrified gaze shot to the doorway. Maidie turned her head, and very nearly cried aloud with vexation. Delagarde stood on the threshold, surveying the scene with a sardonic expression spreading across his countenance.
Maidie drew herself up, trying to overcome the instant discomposure which attacked her at sight of the Viscount.
