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Maidie had been unable to answer. After a while, he had laughed, a harsh sound in the night. To her relief, they had arrived back at Charles Street a short time later.
She approached with trepidation the green saloon where she had been told he was awaiting her, and steeled herself to withstand the promptings of her own heart which might give her away. Softly opening the door, she entered and saw him standing at the window looking out, his back to the room. Something in his stance recalled that very first day when he had been bemused by her coming and unable to concentrate for his morning head. A wistful memory, for she had been heart-whole then.
Delagarde must have felt her presence, for he turned sharply. He was pale, she thought. From lack of sleep? He seemed older somehow, his voice and manner overly formal. Maidie felt distanced.
“I trust you are rested?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Thank you for coming.” He moved into the room and gestured towards a chair. “Sit down.”
She took the chair to one side of the fireplace, and Delagarde seated himself on the little sofa opposite.
There was silence for a moment or two. Delagarde crossed one shapely leg over the other and contemplated his boot. Maidie surveyed the gilt overmantel with intense interest.
“Devil take it, this is absurd!” burst from him suddenly.
He got up and took a hasty turn about the room. Maidie watched him. He caught her eye, and sat down again, leaning forward slightly.
“Maidie, I have thought and thought about all this. Have I been too restrictive?” He looked away. “Why do I ask you? Of course I have.”
Maidie forced herself to speak, but she could not conceal the gruffness in her voice. “I know you have only had my interests at heart.”
“I wish that were true.”
“Haven’t you?”
“No—yes! At least, I—” He broke off, drew a hasty breath, and began again. “All I wanted to say to you was that I withdraw my objections. You have been right all along. It is no concern of mine. You can be the only judge of what will suit you. Marry whomever you wish.”
Chapter Fifteen
Maidie gazed at him. Of what possible use was it to tell her to marry whomever she wished? She had run away with Sholto Lugton because she could not bear the thought of marriage with the only man whom she did wish to wed. At least not the kind of marriage she had believed he wanted. Now it appeared he did not wish for a union with her at all!
“If you mean that, why did you stop my elopement?” she asked, out of the despair which rushed in on her.
Delagarde threw up his hands. “Your elopement made me realise how wrong I had been. I cannot be sorry I interfered, if you are not in love with Lugton.” He paused, looked away briefly, and back again. “I only hope your fancy has alighted—will alight—on someone worthy.”
Maidie clasped her fingers tightly together in her lap, and did not look at him. Her voice was low. “I have no fancy.”
There was a pause. Then Delagarde’s voice came again, harsh. “I don’t believe you.”
Her head came up. “Why should I lie? Why would I elope with one man if I were in love—had a fancy for another?”
“Perhaps because he had not a fancy for you.”
She flinched, and he thought again, with venom, of Wiveliscombe. Maidie got up, and he automatically rose as well. She looked at him, and the hurt in her eyes pierced him.
“If you really mean to leave me free to make a choice, I am glad of it, and must thank you. I am sorry to have given you so much trouble.”
Delagarde stopped her as she reached the door. “There is one more thing.”
Maidie turned. “Yes?”
He appeared to have difficulty in meeting her eyes. “I forgot myself last night. I should not have—” He broke off, glanced at her and away again.
“Another accident?”
“Oh, the deuce!” He swept to the window, and spoke without turning. “Accept my apologies.”
