Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  The butler filled Mrs. Graham's glass from an elaborately handpainted Oriental decanter. She sipped appreciatively, sighed that she was so relieved to hear Miss Buchanan had at last come safely home, and, sublimely unaware of the sharp glance that flashed between her nephew and Buchanan, imparted, "The countryside hereabouts can be quite dangerous, dear Sir Simon, if one is unfamiliar with it."

  "Mia is a magnificent rider, ma'am. Lord Wellington once remarked she is the only lady he knows who might be able to handle Copenhagen."

  "Did he so?" All interest, she leaned forward, at once dislodging a comb from her hair. She made a clutch for it, and the fringes of her shawl floated into her wine. "Alas!" she mourned whimsically, "Why must I be such a clumsy creature?" Buchanan at once retrieving the comb, she reached out to take it. "Thank you, dear boy! Whoops! There goes my hankie!"

  The "dear boy" again came to the rescue, bowed, but dared not take another breath. Whoever concocted that cloying perfume of hers should be shot! He moved back, managing not to betray his aversion, but then found Stephanie's eyes upon him, so alight with michievous understanding that he was almost undone.

  Hawkhurst, meanwhile, had wandered over to where Bryce stood a short distance from the fire. "And a poppy-flowered waistcoat!" he murmured ironically. "The icing on the cake! Tell me, Colley, does our redoubtable Miss Buchanan mean to make a beauty out of you, also?"

  "I knew you would laugh!" Coleridge reddened. "If you must know, Hawk, these trousers are all the crack up at Oxford. Brought 'em down with me!"

  "So that is why you were rusticated! Egad! Cannot say I blame the Dean!"

  His lordship's rustication had stemmed from quite another cause, and one he had no intention of divulging. His jaw setting stubbornly, he retaliated, "Were it a scarlet jacket you would approve! But because I've a flair for art, you mock and sneer and—"

  "Flair for dandyism, more like! Now hear me well, my lad. I shall not embarrass you by demanding that you immediately go and remove that ridiculous collection of horrors with which you have chosen to deface yourself. But do you ever come down to dinner wearing it again, I shall personally eject you!"

  Coleridge felt impaled by that grey stare. Hawk meant it, all right. And seeking vainly for some devastatingly sophisticated retort, he was obliged to fall back upon the ages-old response of oppressed youth, "Why must you persist in treating me as though I were still a child in leading strings?"

  "The answer to that," said Hawkhurst acidly, "is too obvious to require utterance." And he strolled to his aunt's side, leaving Bryce trembling with passion.

  Since all of this had been conducted in very low tones, and since Dora had chattered merrily throughout, several times bringing Buchanan and her niece to laughter, it appeared to have escaped notice. Buchanan, however, could guess what had transpired and, eyeing Hawkhurst admiringly, wondered who was the genius who tailored him. The dark-brown jacket was very plain, save for brown-velvet rolled revers, but fit like a second skin. His cream-brocade waistcoat and fawn pantaloons were impeccable, and his only affectations were his signet ring and a fine topaz in his cravat. Beside his quiet elegance, Bryce with his fobs and seals, and rings, a snuffbox held in one hand and his handkerchief in the other, looked a total buffoon.

  Pondering thus, Buchanan became aware that Miss Hawkhurst watched him. They had spent much time together during the past few days and had become so comfortably at ease that formalities had been abandoned, and they were more like lifelong friends than comparative strangers. He drew his chair a little closer and pointed out in a low voice, "Colley has good stuff in him, Miss Stephie. He'll likely develop into a splendid fellow."

  "I am sure of it. I do hope your own brothers appreciate having so understanding a gentleman as the head of the family."

  He grinned. "Doubt they ever give me a thought, save when they are in need of the ready! Gerald—he's at Cambridge, you know—has his head full of schemes to right the world's wrongs, while Robert, the young demon, yearns to turn back the clock to the naughty and infinitely more appealing days of our grandfathers."

  She gave an appreciative little laugh. "And you are so kind and doubtless indulge them terribly. Tell me, does Gerald affect the fashions my cousin Bryce admires?"

  The very thought of his brother making such a cake of himself was sufficient to arouse Buchanan's ire. "He most certainly does not! Why, if I ever caught him so much… as…" He broke off. Stephanie's head had tilted, and her eyes were bright with mirth. He glanced to Hawkhurst and smiled ruefully. "You wretch! You trapped me neatly! And how did you know I was entertaining such critical thoughts of your brother, pray?"

  She lowered her lashes and, her smile fading, murmured, "You have… very expressive eyes, and—"

  "Oh, my! Am I so late, then? I do apologize. The cook was apoplectic when I was obliged to tell him to set dinner back an hour!" Lady Bryce swept into the room, impressive in a purple lace robe over a pale lavender slip. Tall plumes swayed in her velvet turban, and a fine amethyst-and-pearl necklace was spread across her bosom. "I have kept everyone waiting, I perceive," she sighed, as she surveyed the ladies and the three young men who had stood at her coming. "How very, very bad mannered in me!"

  Feeling about an inch tall, Buchanan stammered, "I am afraid my sister is not here yet, ma'am."

  "The prerogative of a guest," said Hawkhurst. He motioned to the butler to leave and, pulling a chair closer to the fire, urged, "Do sit down, Aunt Carlotta. You are all gooseflesh."

  She cast him a resentful glance, but seated herself. Her son, dutifully bringing her some lemonade, filled her vision for the first time. She gave him a small shriek and almost dropped her glass. "Good heavens! What on earth are you wear—"

  "Impressive, is it not?" Hawkhurst interposed, occupying a chair between her and Dora. "I have told Colley that I do not feel his shoulders require so exaggerated a style, but these new fashions are all the rage at the University, and the young Bucks must try 'em."

  The awkward moment passed. Coleridge breathed a sigh of relief and shot a grateful glance at his cousin. Lady Bryce was very willing to drop so embarrassing a subject and launched into an animadversion upon how furious the cook had been, and the general impertinence of servants these days, only to stop in mid-sentence, her mouth widening into an expression of mingled awe and incredulity.

  Buchanan followed her gaze and was as one turned to stone. Hawkhurst, equally astounded, sprang to his feet, while Bryce, in the act of refilling his aunt's glass, glanced up and froze.

  Euphemia's arrival having been every bit as spectacular as she had hoped, she paused in the doorway, one hand upon the frame, surveying the silenced gathering with an arch smile. "Am I…" she enquired throatily, "… late?"

  A total stillness answered her. She moved with a decidedly sinuous glide across the floor.

  "Good… God!" breathed Buchanan, tottering to his feet.

  "Good… evening, ma'am," said Hawkhurst in a strangled voice and advanced to greet her.

  She extended her hand. It was not easy, but she managed it. She was fairly covered with jewels. In addition to the diamond choker clasped about her throat, she wore a triple strand of large pearls and an opal pendant. A great ruby brooch was pinned to one shoulder of her decollete, pale-orange, silk gown, and on the other a fine emerald pin clashed wickedly. The tiara in her hair, of diamonds and sapphires, was "complimented" by shoulder-length pearl and ruby earrings that sparkled and flashed as she turned her head provocatively. Every one of her fingers was beringed, sapphires vying with amethysts, diamonds, opals, and emeralds. From wrist to elbow, both arms were weighted down. There were bracelets of gold, jade, and silver; cunningly wrought gold filigree encrusted with glittering gems; loops of pearls, and, next to a splendid ruby bangle, one of garnets. The overall effect was as blinding as it was vulgar.

  Having opened her fan, Lady Bryce plied it very slowly, staring in open-mouthed astonishment.

  Aghast, Buchanan started forward. A slender hand tou
ched his arm, and he looked down into a face aglow with mischief. "Were you… party to… ?" he gestured feebly towards his sister.

  Stephanie nodded and whispered, "I had to borrow most of it, but I did not dream how delicious it would look."

  Hawkhurst, bowing over Euphemia's hand, choked, "I can scarce find… room to… to kiss it, ma'am."

  "Then at least hold it up," she murmured. "I think my poor arm is about to break!"

  With a muffled snort, he pressed a kiss into her palm and, straightening, his eyes full of laughter, threw up one hand and acknowledged, "A hit! Bravo!"

  "Is that all you can say?" she demanded indignantly. "Are you not thoroughly lured?"

  "I am," he gulped, "utterly undone. I—I bow, ma'am! Piqued, repiqued, and capotted! I own it!"

  "Colley!" shrieked Lady Bryce.

  Coleridge jumped, looked down, and groaned, "Oh, my Lord!"

  Dora peered over the side of her chair and, shaking her head, sent a small shower of hairpins into the puddle of Madeira. "Whatta waste… Wha' drefful waste!"

  Bryce ran for the bellrope.

  Recovering sufficiently to escort Euphemia to a chair, Hawkhurst bowed her into it. "I think," he said, sotto voce, "it will stand the weight."

  "How very ungallant of you, sir," she tittered, rapping his strong hand lightly with her opal-studded fan. And, crossing one knee outrageously over the other, thus revealed her bare feet clad in gold Grecian sandals. On three of her toes, diamond rings winked in the light of the candles, as she swung her foot.

  Hawkhurst let out such a whoop of laughter as his family had not heard issue from his lips for five long years. Staggering to the side, he collapsed into an armchair and lay back, wracked with mirth.

  His Aunt Carlotta frowned from his disgracefully abandoned display to the disgusting vulgarity seated beside her. His Aunt Dora laughed merrily with him. His cousin Bryce, a delighted grin curving his mouth, observed him with new hope, and Buchanan, holding the hand an hilarious Stephanie had involuntarily extended, watched his sister in bewildered amusement.

  Triumphant, Euphemia was also somewhat disconcerted. It was, she thought, remarkable that laughter could so completely change a grim, acid-tongued cynic into a warm, likeable, and rather devastatingly attractive man.

  The notes of the harp hung like liquid drops upon the air, faded, and were gone. The applause rang out, and Euphemia, divested of her finery, jumped to her feet, clapping wholeheartedly. Whatever her failings, Carlotta Bryce played like an angel. Looking up as she straightened the instrument, her ladyship was flushed with pleasure, and the eager audience crowded in around her, full of acclaim and requests for more.

  Hawkhurst wandered across the music room to perch on the arm of his sister's chair and place one long finger under her chin, lifting her face. He had never before seen her so radiant. However she had managed it, Miss Buchanan had changed the shy child into quite a taking little thing. "Happy?" he smiled.

  "Oh, yes! Is it not lovely for us to have such pleasant company? How I wish they could stay for the holidays!" A shadow touched her bright eyes, but she said quickly, "Well, they are here now, at all events." Her brother was silent, and, scanning his expressionless features, she asked, "You are not angry? I mean, Euphemia told us how you had teased her. And indeed, to hear you laugh so, was wonderful."

  "A fine spoil-sport you think me," he chided. "I deserved it and must only admire so excellent a set-down." He flashed a glance to where the candlelight was making Miss Buchanan's head into a shimmer of gold, as she bent to compliment his aunt, then averted his eyes hurriedly. "She is a scamp, but a very delightful one. However, were I her brother—"

  "But," she interposed gently, "you are not her… brother."

  A small pulse beat suddenly at his temple, and one hand clenched, but his drawl was lazy as ever. "I have been thinking that perhaps you should have a Season, little cabbage. I have supposed you to be happy here and thought you did not wish—"

  "That is not true, Gary," she again interrupted.

  He stiffened, a wary light coming into his eyes. He well knew that this quiet, calm girl missed nothing of what went on about her. And because he had long feared her perception, he was silent, waiting.

  "You thought," she corrected in her soft little voice, "that I would be made to suffer because of your reputation. That I would be humiliated. You sought to spare me that. Oh, yes, I knew it, my dear." She reached out her hand to him, and, taking it, he bent suddenly to press it to his lips. "And I was content." Her eyes lifted from his crisp, dark hair to gaze sadly across the room at two other heads now close together, one having glowing coppery ringlets, and the other slightly curling hair of the paler hue that is called "sandy."

  Hawkhurst straightened, but before he could comment she went on, "I have no longing for a Season. All I could ever want from life is… here." But her eyes evaded her brother's while a slight flush touched her pale cheeks.

  A woman, seeing that look, would have at once taken warning. But, for all his scandalous affaires, Hawkhurst was still a mere man and said slowly, "Yet I begin to think you are missing a good deal. You should be shopping for the… er, ribands and trinkets and pretty things you women so delight in."

  She smiled at him lovingly. "And what of you?" His eyes became veiled at once, and she tightened her grip on his hand. "Oh, Gary dear, how much longer? Surely he has got over it? Surely you could tell—"

  "No!" The exclamation was harsh; something very like despair flashed briefly in his eyes, then was banished. She had drawn back in dismay, and he patted her hand and murmured, "My apologies, Stephie, but you do not understand." He stood. "I'm going up to see the boy. We will talk of this again." And he left her, his tall figure moving swiftly to the door before the others had taken their places to await his aunt's next rendition.

  He found Kent still awake and was greeted by the boy leaping up in bed to thrust a small carving at him. He sat on the side of the bed and turned the wooden bear curiously, reminded of something… "This is very good," he murmured absently. "I knew you had a knack for it." A cool hand pushed at his brow in an attempt to smooth the lines away. He grinned and was dazzled by the answering smile that lit the small, peaked face. "Looked a grump, did I? So will Mrs. Henderson, when her maids have to clean up all these shavings! I'll be lucky if she don't cut up stiff with me! Now you lie down, sirrah! And I shall endeavour to tidy up this mess."

  He commandeered a wastebasket and began to brush the wood shavings across the coverlet. Kent snuggled down obediently and grinned as, after the fashion of such perverse objects, the shavings bounced more back than forwards, only a few falling into the basket. Hawkhurst grunted, seized the coverlet, and attempted to shake off the debris. Wood chips flew in all directions. Small, mirthful gasps were coming from the invalid. Flashing him a frustrated glance, Hawkhurst strove once more.

  "Here!" Soft but capable hands removed his grip. He knew at once who it was, and his heart quickened to find that vivid face so close to his own. "Hello," he drawled. "Still 'luring,' ma'am?"

  "Hold the basket," said Euphemia coolly, "and stop."

  He watched her flip the remnants deftly into the basket he held and said with fine boredom, "Stop… what?"

  "You know very well." She straightened, in her eyes a warmth that devastated him. "Now, if you will be so kind as to restore this to the corner. And you, young man," she bent fondly over the merry-eyed child, "should be asleep. Where is the abigail?"

  Hawkhurst, replacing the wastebasket, offered over his shoulder, "Gone to fetch some hot milk."

  "So you had to come in and thoroughly wake him," she scolded gently.

  "Wherefore I shall now depart, very properly set-down." He bowed, strode to the door, and turned back to wink at the boy. "Becoming accustomed to it," he said wryly.

  The gallery was icy cold and very dark but held no terrors for Stephanie, who enjoyed robust good health despite her slender frame and pale complexion. She walked to the south window and g
azed unseeingly over the wintry scene lit by a new moon. The snow had been very light, and was already vanishing, but she could not remember it ever having been quite this cold in December.

  He was married. "Safely wed and with three hopeful children." And, from a small remark Euphemia had dropped in the bedchamber this evening, his wife was very beautiful. She would be, of course. While she herself… how had Aunt Carlotta phrased it? "Another drab little country dowd…" The moon swam suddenly, and she closed her eyes, feeling the tears slip down her cheeks and knowing herself a hopeless fool, and hopelessly lost.

  "Thought I'd find you up here!"

  She gave a gasp, and one hand flew to wipe frantically at those betraying streaks.

  "It's much too cold for you to—Hey! What's all this about?"

  He stood before her, his angelic blue eyes peering at her anxiously. He was everything she had ever hoped to find in a gentleman—kind, gallant, sensitive, and—oh, so very good-looking. She tried not to imagine him in all the glory of his regimentals and, more devastatingly, recalled him sprawled on that sofa, Dr. Archer working over his poor shoulder, and never a sound from his lips until his dear head had sagged back, the eyes closing, and his face so deathly white. And because such thoughts made her heartache unbearable and the tears beyond controlling, she swung away and pressed both hands to her mouth, fighting desperately to hold back the sobs.

  "Now this will never do," said Buchanan, quite forgetting that weeping women horrified him. "Has that ca—er, has your aunt been railing at you again?"

  Stephanie could not speak, but her shoulders shook, and stepping closer, Buchanan drew out his large handkerchief. That wretched woman had done this, and just when the poor little chit was commencing to look so happy—she'd been positively aglow this evening. How anyone could distress so sweetly-natured a girl was beyond understanding. If it was up to him, that sharp-tongued harpy would be given a scold she'd recall for many a year to come! He dabbed gently at the wet cheeks, murmuring consolingly, "Never let her wound you, Miss Stephie. She probably don't mean it, y'know. Cannot help but feel sorry for poor old Bryce, must have led a dog's life." He checked as her tragic eyes blinked at him, and a smile flickered valiantly through the tears. Poor little thing! He knew a strong compulsion to take her in his arms and comfort her but, deciding in the nick of time that this might be constituted improper, said instead, "Now, what did she say? I'll lay you odds—I mean, I don't suppose it was near as bad as you think."