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

by Patricia Veryan

"Coleridge is my heir, sir."

  "That popinjay? Good God! Did you see those damnable shirt points? And the way he was mooning over the Broadbent girl this afternoon? And her fairly slathering for young Buchanan, the hussy!"

  "Sir," said Hawkhurst patiently, "Colley is—"

  "Oh, the devil fly away with Colley!" The old gentleman took another pace towards his grandson and, with hands tight-clasped behind him, growled, "On the day you wed Euphemia Buchanan, I will abandon my plans to have the management of your estates taken from you."

  In the shadows, Euphemia gave a little gasp.

  Hawkhurst said slowly, "That day will never dawn, sir."

  "I may be growing old," rasped the Admiral. "But I am not quite blind as yet. I saw the way you looked at her on the stairs this morning. Aye, and at that fiasco this afternoon. You're fairly crazy for the girl!"

  Hawkhurst was very still through a short pause. Then, "Very well, sir," he drawled. "Since you force the issue, I find the lady most attractive. But not as my wife."

  "What? Now damn your eyes! Have you the unmitigated gall to expect that poised, charming, delightful lady of quality will become another of your harem of lightskirts?"

  "Not if she don't want to, of course. But you'll certainly not blame me for asking—"

  "B-b-blame… you?" sputtered Wetherby. "Blame you, sir? Were I her brother and you dared to speak to her in such dastardly fashion—I'd not blame you! By God, I'd have your miserable heart out! You are a rogue is what you are! An unmitigated rogue! A womanizing gamester, sir! Well, I'm done with you! I leave here first thing in the morning!" He started away, then swung back, so suddenly that he almost surprised the wistfulness in his grandson's eyes. "And, furthermore," he raged, shaking his fist under Hawkhurst's firm chin, "when Sir Simon calls you out—as I hope to heaven he does!—I'll be more than half minded to act as his second! Goodnight, sir! And do you have the dreams you deserve, you'll not sleep an instant!" He stamped into the house, fairly snorting his wrath. And left behind him a man who smiled sadly at the last rather jumbled denunciation, then stood with head bowed, heedless of the cold and the mists that drifted in ever-deepening clouds about him.

  It was several minutes before Hawkhurst detected something sweeter than the clammy scent of the fog, so that the hand which rested upon the balustrade tightened spasmodically. "You are up late, ma'am," he observed, not turning towards her.

  Euphemia stepped a little closer. "The terrace doors were open." She saw him tense and went on, "I overheard your conversation with Lord Wetherby."

  Hawkhurst was silent.

  "Well," she said. "I am waiting."

  He glanced at her. The hood of her pelisse framed her face with the richness of ermine. Even in the darkness he could see the wide fearless eyes, the intrepid tilt of the chin, and he echoed blankly, "Waiting… ?"

  "I understand that there is something you intend to ask me."

  For a moment he was struck dumb. Then, making a swift recovery, he drawled, "You've excellent ears, ma'am. Very well. I find you most charming, and I believe you may not be averse to me. Will you be my love? For a while at least?" And taut at such arrogant effrontery, he waited for her to slap him.

  "Dear, oh dear!" sighed Euphemia, the hood falling back as she shook her head reprovingly. "That was quite paltry, Garret. You shall have to do a great deal better." He moved back, and she could have laughed aloud at his bewildered expression. "You are supposed to seize me in your arms… like this… and crush me to your heart." She tightened her arms about him although he made no move to return her embrace, if anything leaning slightly away. "And," she said, her voice beginning to tremble very slightly with the fear that her heart might have misled her, "… smother me with kisses." And standing on her toes, she raised her face invitingly.

  He stared down at her, eyes almost glazed with astonishment. Euphemia allowed her lashes to droop and her head to fall back a little. It was too much. She felt him tremble, and with a groan he crushed her to him indeed. His lips claimed her own in a hard, long kiss. A blaze of joy and desire swept her, and she returned his embrace until she was breathless and dizzied. Murmuring endearments, Hawkhurst kissed her closed eyelids, her cheek, her throat, and she lay in his arms, enraptured, conscious only of the wish that this moment might last forever. But suddenly he checked, all but pushed her away, and gasped out, "God forgive me! I should be horsewhipped!"

  Swaying and breathless, she took his arm. "Why? For loving me?"

  "I love 'em all," he said harshly. "Go, for lord's sake! Get to your bed. And… let me be!"

  "I will not! Hawk, I'm not one of your missish simpering girls straight from the schoolroom. I know what I want! You love me! And I—"

  He put a hand across her lips, his narrowed eyes glinting down at her. "Do not! Ah, do not! Don't you understand? Since Blanche died, I have been ostracized. I was damned for her death and for… for my son. I hated those who dared think that of me! I hated her—for what she was. Most of all, I hated myself for my utter folly in having married a woman I could neither love nor respect. God, what folly!"

  "Horace says," she faltered, as his hand was removed, " 'mingle some brief folly with your wisdom.' " And remembering the rest of the quotation, did not complete it.

  " 'To forget it in due place is sweet,' " he finished bitterly. "But Horace was wrong—or my own folly far from brief. I cannot escape what has happened. I cannot forget! And the world would not let me, even if it were possible."

  Still clinging to his arm, she moved closer and said huskily, "I will make you forget her, darling, I—"

  "You don't know what you are saying!" He took her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly even as his yearning eyes devoured her upturned face. "Look at yourself! Lovely, courageous, sought after, admired. And respected. Girl, girl! Don't you know what I would bring you to? Don't you know how cruel the world can be? How people can snipe and sneer and cut you to shreds with their polite savagery? I've wrecked my own life, so be it. But do you think I would allow you to wreck yours? No! Marry someone clean and decent and looked up to. God knows you've the chance for the best of 'em all!"

  He meant Leith, of course. But, "I have found the best of them all," she said doggedly. "And I don't care what people say of you, my love. No—" She reached up, taking his drawn face between her hands and turning his averted head towards her again. "Do not look away. Listen to me. No matter what anyone says, you were not responsible for that accident. What happened between you and Max Gains, I do not know, but I know that I love you and that I could not love an evil man. You pretend to be cold and cynical and base, when you are in fact warm and kind and honourable. Oh, Garret, I—"

  "Be still!" He wrenched away with a cry in which pain and grief were mixed, and with a vehemence that struck dread into her heart. "Little fool! You are blinded by gratitude because I was fortunate enough to be of help when you needed it. Just now you heard my grandfather call me a womanizer… a gamester. Well, I am! And worse! Do you know how many men would shoot me, did they dare to face me? You think I am not a rake? My God! You must be blind!"

  "You were lonely; grieving. But—"

  "But… it is… done! Regardless of why, my reputation was lived up to! I became what they said of me, and I cannot change."

  "You can! You never really were what they said! And you did not become a murderer! If the women came here, it was because they wished to. You have never been named in connection with an unwed lady of quality, and—"

  "And never shall be!" he flared, again facing her. "Let my having helped you—saved the boy, if you will—be something to which I can cling with pride. Do not tempt me into dragging your name through the dirt along with my own! What your fine brother would say, I cannot—"

  "Buchanan knows," she interposed softly.

  He gave a gasp and stared at her in mute disbelief, then rasped, "And does he also know I am a gambler, ma'am? Does he know I have gone through sixty thousand pounds in the last three years? Twenty-five thousand
in these last few months? No, he does not! Do not be hoodwinked, Mia. Those people came here today out of respect for my grandfather, out of pity for my poor aunt, perhaps. They know—and will never let me forget—that, because of me, Blanche is dead. No matter what she was, she is dead. And… my son…" His voice broke at last, and he jerked his head away.

  "I will give you more sons," she breathed, somehow overcoming her dismay at the news of those unbelievable losses at the tables.

  He shuddered, then turned his head and looked down at her, his eyes full of pain and helpless longing. Then, he bent and kissed her, very gently this time, a loving kiss, but having in it an element of farewell that terrified her. "My 'small candle,' " he murmured softly. "Perfect, pure, and indeed, Unattainable. No, my very dear, I'll not add you to my list of follies."

  "Even knowing you will… break my heart?" she said, tremblingly aware that he was too strong for her, that at last she had met the man she could not bend to her own will.

  He nodded. "Better a broken heart than a lifetime of regret." And he left her standing there, blinded by her tears.

  Chapter 14

  The intentions of both Admiral Lord Wetherby and the Buchanans to leave Dominer the following morning were foiled. During the night the fog had thickened, closing down like a dense blanket over southern England and making a journey of any length out of the question. Euphemia awoke feeling listless and exhausted, for much of the night had been passed in pacing the floor and fighting useless tears. She had waited too long for Hawk to doubt her choice and thus through the hours of darkness had alternated between admiration for his unselfishness and rage that he must be so stupidly proud. By morning, she had decided that, if there was no other course, she would be like Charlotte Hilby, who pursued the man she loved with such quiet but unrelenting persistence that even those who had been initially most opposed to the match were now sighing that they wished Vaille would marry her and be done with it!

  Aided by a sympathetic Ellie, Euphemia repaired the ravages of her tears so successfully that, when she entered Kent's room, the boy thought her as lovely as ever. He greeted her with the shy anxiety he had shown since she had warned him against imposing on the Hawkhurst family, but his love for her was unchanged, and he listened attentively as she explained that their departure must be delayed until the fog lifted. "Hopefully, though, we will be able to get away later in the morning," she said, with hollow cheerfulness. His small face fell, and touching the pale hair, she said softly, "You like it here, don't you?"

  He ran for his tablet and pencil and, sitting on the bed beside her, printed with painstaking care, "Kent loves him." Euphemia's eyes stung. She had to fight to keep her voice steady as she asked, "Mr. Hawkhurst?" He nodded, his face sad. "He saved your life," she said, blinking rapidly. "He is a—a brave and good man. Why, how nicely you have written that. Have you been practicing?"

  He brightened and, taking up his pencil again, wrote proudly, "He helpt me."

  "Mr. Hawkhurst?" she asked, and the careful pencil spelled out, "Sumtimes. But mostly the Admirable."

  "How very kind of Lord Wetherby. We shall thank him before we leave, though I believe he plans to journey with us, for part of the way, at least. I will ask Ellie to come and help pack your things. Is there anything being washed today? We must not—" She checked as the boy held up one hand in the oddly assured manner that sometimes characterized him. He darted away but returned, beaming mischievously, to lift her hands one at a time and place them over her eyes. Euphemia waited, and in a moment something was laid across her knees, and her hands were pulled down.

  An old stuffed toy had been presented, a bear, once white, but now grubby from much handling, and with one ear missing, the damage covered with a faded blue patch. One of the servants must have given it to the boy. Watching his bright expectant face, Euphemia took up the bear, said that he looked a splendid old warrior and saw at once the words must have been inspired, so brilliant was the smile he turned upon her. Touched because he was so grateful for the smallest manifestation of kindness, she hugged him and left him gathering together his few possessions.

  In the corridor, Admiral Wetherby turned from closing Carlotta's door and raised a wanting hand. "Spare yourself, my dear. Lady Bryce indulges in an orgy of repentance. I tried in vain to convince her it was the party of the season. You do but waste your time."

  She commended him for his efforts, but said she must try, and went in to see the poor sinner. Wetherby had been right, however, and for half an hour she strove to no effort. While Dora laid cold rags across her aching brow, and Euphemia did everything she might to console her, Carlotta wallowed in her misery and degradation. Not until the door opened to admit Hawkhurst's tall figure was any progress made. With his eyes tired and his cool boredom more marked than usual, he said, "For pity's sake, Aunt, do stop being such a henwit. After a life of total abstention, you must judge God harsh indeed does

  He condemn you to hellfire for one small error at a moment of great stress!"

  "Garret!" she cried, shocked out of her wailings. "Such language in front of Miss Buchanan!"

  He darted an oblique glance at Euphemia, who had risen at his entrance and moved to the window. "The lady has bivouacked with an army," he said dryly. "I doubt she's heard a deal worse than that. And, as for you, love, the ton may enjoy a triumph, but they adore a failure. You're likely being sympathized with throughout Wiltshire at this very moment."

  "And… laughed at!" she gulped, the tears starting again.

  "Perhaps. But they were vastly diverted. Furthermore, I've often had a suspicion Monica Hughes-Dering is inclined to favour the decanter. Last evening she positively mellowed and left having called me 'dear boy,' a term she's not used to me in years."

  Carlotta put aside the wet rag and sat bolt upright, her eyes brightening. "She did, Garret?"

  "She did. So you may celebrate not only the most entertaining party held in the county all year, but the apparent relenting, to some extent at least, of one of my severest critics." He turned from his aunt to Euphemia and, with features composed and emotions chaotic, enquired, "I trust you slept well, Miss Buchanan? I fear your brother will not choose to travel in this murk, however. It would seem you are condemned to remain with us for another day."

  "At the least," she corroborated gravely.

  For a breathless moment his eyes remained locked with hers, then he turned and, totally unaware of the fact that his Aunt Dora was addressing him, stalked from the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Hawkhurst did not put in an appearance at luncheon on that hushed and clammy afternoon, and the Admiral, in a grim mood, contributed little to the conversation. Dora chattered brightly, her occasional quotations obviously irritating her father. She lapsed into quivering silence each time his irked glance shot at her, but so ebullient was her nature she was soon merrily prattling once more. There could be little doubt that she loved Wetherby yet went in considerable awe of him. Euphemia had become very fond of the cheerful little woman and, despite her own heavy heart, decided she would have a chat with the old gentleman and try to persuade him to a more kindly attitude towards his daughter.

  When the meal was concluded, however, Bryce begged a moment alone with her. They went into the music room, and, when the door closed, he diffidently expressed his thanks for her enthusiasm over his paintings.

  "It is I should thank you," she said warmly. "But should you not be studying art, Colley?"

  He gave a helpless gesture. "My dream, Miss Euphemia, but—"

  "Mia," she corrected.

  He grinned and went on, "If only Hawk would—That is—" He bit his lip, looked up at her shyly from under his brows, and said in a voice made hoarse by nervousness, "Aunt Dora says that you… that Hawk might listen to you. And I—I thought you… would…"

  "Intercede for you? Gladly. But it is only fair to tell you that I have not found your cousin highly persuadable."

  "Nor I. The most stubborn man alive, in fact." />
  "I hope not," murmured Euphemia, "else my task must be difficult indeed."

  Misinterpreting her remark, he said anxiously that he did not mean to saddle her with a heavy burden. "If you find him intractable, I beg you will make no attempt to convince him. I'd not have you upset for the world, and Hawk can be," he grimaced, "cutting as the very deuce."

  She looked at him thoughtfully. "You should have shown him your work long since, you know. I'm surprised your Mama did not recommend such a course to you."

  "Mama ain't an art lover, Miss—er, Mia. She hasn't seen much of my work. And besides, she was afraid—" He hesitated again, then blurted out, "I am so scared he might… laugh."

  His face was scarlet, and, realizing at last how intense a nature was concealed beneath that boyish charm, she said quietly, "That is unfair, Colley. You have given him no chance."

  "I know," he groaned. "And truly, old Hawk is the greatest gun! It's not that I don't like him, Mia! He's splendid, whatever people think, but—"

  She placed a hand on his sleeve, her smile quieting his remorse. "Of course. I understand. When I speak to him, may I tell him of your 'secret' room?"

  "Yes, you—you may. In fact, my Aunt D-Dora and I—Well, you did suggest a showing. And we're getting everything… ready." He mopped his perspiring brow. "Oh, egad! What a stupid cawker!"

  Euphemia laughed. "No, no. Only tell me where this dragon of yours may be found. I shall seek him out at once."

  "Will you? Jove, but you're a good sport! Hawk's in the stables, I expect. Leith sent Sarabande home, and he's looking him over. Loves that black devil."

  Outside the fog was still dense, with visibility little more than ten feet. It was so cold that Euphemia wondered the vapours did not freeze solid, but instead they swirled about her unpleasantly as she made her way towards the stables. How typical of Tristram to return the Arabian, in despite his avowed intention to keep him. She recalled now that Hawkhurst had seemed relatively undismayed when she'd broken the news of his abduction. He'd probably known his friend would be above so petty an action.