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She spoke in what she hoped was a repressive tone. “This, sir, is a private interview.”
It had no effect whatsoever. Delagarde gave her one scorching glance and turned his attention to her suitor.
“Get up, Lugton, and stop making a cake of yourself—or I shall be obliged to boot you out of the door.”
The boy released Maidie’s hands, and got sheepishly to his feet. “Your p-pardon, sir,” he managed, with what dignity he could muster, “but you must know Lady Mary has consented to—to marry me.”
“Yes, I have.”
Delagarde did not even look at her. Instead, his glance ran from the youth’s head to his heels and back again, and remained on the fiery blush at his cheeks.
“Perhaps you are not aware, Lugton, that Lady Mary cannot marry without my consent.”
“That is not—”
“And that consent,” he went on, speaking over the top of Maidie, “I categorically refuse to give.”
“You have no right—” Maidie began.
“That will do!” he snapped, throwing a look at her which spoke volumes.
Her breath caught, and she subsided, quite unable to retain her spirits on the receiving end of such a look. Besides, what could she do? Sholto was looking terrified, as well he might, and, without him standing firm, she could scarcely hold him to a betrothal.
“Sir, I—I did not know,” Lugton said, rather faintly, and with a reproachful look at Maidie.
“In that case, I shall overlook your conduct,” said Delagarde, in a voice of such magnanimity Maidie longed to hit him. When Sholto did not move, he added, “You need not wait.”
“But our dance! I mean, Lady Mary is—”
“Lady Mary will be sitting out the next dance.”
Maidie’s fury shot straight through the emotional turmoil of the evening. She watched the youth make a disconsolate exit, and turned her fulminating gaze upon Delagarde.
“So now you are at liberty to dictate with whom I may dance, as well as whom I may marry?”
“I don’t care who you dance with, but I have not finished with you yet. If you think I am going to release you to go and find some other poor fool to inveigle into a subterfuge betrothal, you may think again.”
“Subterfuge? Do you suppose I did not mean it?”
“You meant, as I am perfectly aware, to set me at defiance.”
“What do you mean by this? What do you hope to gain?”
The brown eyes were hard. “I might ask the same question of you. Why are you indulging in these idiotic engagements? To what end? And don’t waste your breath telling me you wish to marry either of those equally unsuitable pretenders, because I tell you now I do not believe it.”
“I don’t care what you believe,” Maidie returned, almost in tears. “I told you I would marry whomever I chose.”
“And I told you that you underrated my power.”
Maidie regarded him impotently. Aware of the stinging sensation at her eyes, she withdrew her gaze, turning from him abruptly. Of what use to attack him? He would not confess his plot, of course he would not. For he must suppose it would only end in her running away. Perhaps she would run away. Only would he not chase after her, and bring her back?
To her dismay, she felt him move behind her. His hand was at her shoulder, turning her. She felt its warmth but briefly, for he shifted back again, and she knew his eyes were on her, though she did not dare to look.
“Maidie,” he began on a more gentle note which put her at once on the alert, “why are you behaving in this nonsensical fashion? There can be no need for you to rush into a betrothal like this. All I am trying to do is to prevent you from making a mistake you will regret your life long.”
Was that all? Was it truly all? She could not forbear looking up into the dark gaze. It had softened, and her heart jerked. She longed to ask the question, but she could not—without revealing her reason for asking it. She found another instead.
“Do you mean to refuse every suitor?”
