“Miss Chaceley, I am enchanted to make your acquaintance.”
She lifted her hand, and the ends of her bare fingers — for her gloves were held in her other hand — clasped his for the briefest instant. There was no change in her expression, however. But her fingers, Denzell felt, had been warm. He took courage, moving back a step.
“Miss Chaceley, I confess I am so discomfited that I know not what to say.”
Her brows lifted very slightly. “Indeed? Why so, Mr —?”
“Hawkeridge,” he supplied, as she hesitated.
“Why so, Mr Hawkeridge?” repeated the pleasant voice, although Denzell could descry no real interest in any answer that he might make. No matter. He would force her to notice him somehow. He must. She had been fashioned in heaven, no doubt about it.
But Unice, who had been fidgeting uneasily with the many folds of her muslin gown that spread about her, broke in.“Denzell has been looking at the snowman you were building with the children the other day, Miss Chaceley. Felix insisted upon it, you know.”
“Nothing of the sort,” argued Denzell, seating himself in the chair closest to Verena. “It was I who insisted upon Felix taking me there.” He smiled in a winning fashion. “You see, Miss Chaceley, I was in hopes that I might find you.”
“Hopes!” muttered Osmond, taking his seat beside his wife on the sofa.
“And so you have met her after all,” Unice interrupted. “Such a fortunate chance that you came to visit me this morning, Miss Chaceley.”
Again Denzell smiled, leaning towards Verena’s chair. “Unice would have me dissemble, but I vow I will have none of it. The truth is that I saw you from my bedroom window when you were playing with the children — oh, an eon ago — and instantly conceived the strongest desire to meet you.”
There was nothing in her face to encourage him to continue in this vein. She made no attempt even to reply to him, but sat calmly, the wide-set gaze clear on his face, apparently unmoved. This close, her features, still as they were, showed to even more perfection, and the frame of curling tresses that surrounded them, peeking beneath the bonnet’s ornamented brim and trailing their way onto her shoulders, were of the colour of warm honey.
It took an effort for Denzell to think about what he was saying. Yet having taken the bull by the horns and told the precise truth, there was nothing for him to do but to go on. He was hardly aware that he was smiling, that his eyes glowed with warmth at the sheer enjoyment of her beauty.
“Was it presumptuous of me, Miss Chaceley? Failing to discover you at the assembly last night, I went out into the snow expressly to try to scrape acquaintance with you. I cannot beginto tell you how much disappointed I was not to find you there.” He was aware that he was rattling off his words, but he could not stop. The very lack of response impelled him to continue. “And then — to see you sitting in this very room. Now do you see why I said I was confounded?”
A very slight smile curved her lips, but there was no reflection of it in her eyes. “What can I say but that I am deeply flattered, Mr Hawkeridge?”
“Oh no, no!” he exclaimed. “I protest I am not flattering you.”
“He isn’t,” put in Osmond, adding his mite. “Miss Chaceley, you have not heard the half of it, I promise you.”
“Osmond, pray hush,” begged Unice. She turned to Verena. “Pay no heed to either of them, Miss Chaceley. They are rascals when they get together. You have no notion what I am obliged to contend with from the two of them.”
“Indeed?” said Miss Chaceley.
Denzell could not tear his gaze away from that lovely face. Not a flicker. Not the faintest trace of amusement. It was fascinating. Unice had been right. Where the deuce had all that warmth and laughter gone? He had not imagined it — had he? The memory of her animated countenance hovered in his mind, battling with the present placidity. No, he had not imagined it. There was a joyous creature somewhere inside this apparent shell. He set himself to draw it out, exerting every ounce of his considerable charm.
“You have never visited London, Miss Chaceley?” Verena’s gaze turned back towards him and his eyes invited her smile. “I am persuaded I could not have forgotten had I seen you there.”
She did not smile. “I have not been there.”
“It is our loss,” Denzell said, with a gleam that would have thrown any other young lady into confusion. It was met, on this occasion, with a bland note of indifference.
“You are too kind.”
“May we look forward to the expectation of seeing you at some future time? During the coming season, perhaps?”
“I think not.”
He was daunted, but he tried again. “But surely you cannot mean to hide your charms away here in Tunbridge Wells forever? What a shocking waste that would be, Miss Chaceley.”
“My plans are as yet uncertain.”
Deuce take it, she could not even raise a simper. Deflated, Denzell sat back. Was she so vain that his compliments meant nothing to her? Or was she merely stupid? His gaze, moving away, met the unholy glee in Osmond’s features. He threw his eyes to heaven, casting his friend a rueful smile. Osmond was obliged to turn away, biting his lip on laughter. Unice intervened.
“Mr Hawkeridge, you must know, is a confirmed man of the town. It is a rare privilege to have him here, for you will hardly find him away from London. Unless he is at home in Hampshire.”
