Conscious of her own growing distress, she fought for a resumption of her usual control. Barely in time.
“It seems to be my fortune to catch you out in reverie, Miss Chaceley,” said a familiar voice.
She was so startled at his having the audacity to refer to the other morning that she looked round before she had mastered her features. Mr Hawkeridge, in a coat of bottle green, with black cloth breeches and waistcoat, the latter relieved only with a tracing of gold embroidery on its lapels, was smiling pleasantly. There was no mischief in his expression. What had he meant by it, then?
“I do not understand you,” she said, coolly she hoped, but conscious of a tremor in her tone.
Denzell’s smile grew. “Oh, come, Miss Chaceley. You looked charmingly, posed as you are so tastefully by this fire, but you will never bring me to believe that you were not expending thoughts upon this brother you have been concealing about you.”
It was so apt that Verena let out a spurt of astonished laughter. What, could he read her mind? Recovering as best she could — though she felt as if she dragged her features back under control — she gave him what she trusted was at least a semblance of her usual polite smile.
“I have indeed. It is some time since we have met.”
Denzell silently triumphed. She was flustered. Oh, it was all too quickly concealed, but he had got under her skin. He must pursue his advantage while he might. “Mrs Peverill seems to be deriving great benefit from this visit. She is looking so well.”
“Yes,” was all Verena could manage.
Eyeing her, Denzell thought he detected a spasm in her cheek. Was she jealous then? On impulse he offered, “It is often so with sons and mothers, you must know, Miss Chaceley. My own sister has frequently complained of the self-same thing. She speaks disparagingly of our mama’s apparent partiality for myself, declaring I am spoilt by it and that whereas she must struggle for Mama’s good will, I have only to whistle and she is all affection towards me.”
Oh, but this was all too near the bone. He said it, as he thought, to comfort her. Ironic that his words but twisted the knife. She hunted in her mind for some suitable response, all effort concentrated on keeping her countenance.
In vain. Close as Denzell was, he could see the wavering of the rigid control. What had he said? Somehow he seemed to have hit upon the very thing that touched the surging emotions within her.
She spoke, and he was able to divine a forced note in her vocal tone. “Your sister has all my sympathy,” she said, dampingly calm and — to the casual eye — quite unaffected. But Denzell’s eye was far from casual. He was, on the contrary, on full alert, aware that to catch Miss Chaceley’s truth, he must read beneath the surface. There was something between the brother and sister, of that he was certain.
He was prevented from probing any further, however, for Verena, all too conscious of the trick he seemed to have of penetrating her thoughts, was already moving away. “If you will excuse me, Mr Hawkeridge,” she murmured, and turning, headed purposefully towards the door to the other saloon, more crowded and therefore much safer.
Disappointment gripped Denzell in a wave. Only half intentionally he called out, “Why are you always running away from me, Miss Chaceley?”
She stopped dead. He saw her shoulders stiffen under the blue velvet and her head come up. Very slowly, she turned a little, glancing back at his face. Denzell took a step or two towards her.
“Do you fear me so much?” he said quietly.
At that she turned to face him, the polite mask struggling a little. “What should I fear?”
He did not hesitate. “My amorous intentions.”
Verena’s pulses were running riot, and she was hard put to it to maintain her calm. No man had dared to address her so openly. Nay, to challenge her. How should she answer him? But that was obvious. With equal candour, if she was going to match him on his own terms. She forced herself to speak in the best imitation she could summon up of her usual style.
“I have no interest, Mr Hawkeridge, in the flirtatious games you appear to enjoy. Have I not made that clear?”
“Abundantly, Miss Chaceley.” He smiled. “Yet I only wish for your better acquaintance. Is that so wrong?”
To her own consternation, Verena found herself discomposed by this question. It was wrong. Wrong for her. She did not wish to become better acquainted. But any hint of that must make her vulnerable in his eyes. “Not — wrong.”
“Merely unacceptable.”
“No!” Dear heaven, why must he make these disconcerting remarks? It was so typical of the man, all of a piece with this habit he was forming of coming upon her unexpectedly.
Denzell moved to one side of the fireplace and set a chair for her. “Won’t you sit down?”
Feeling somewhat dazed, Verena did so. She was beginning to wish she had not allowed that provocative remark to call her back. She should have pretended not to hear it.
To her further inward confusion — though she trusted that her well-trained countenance did not betray her — Mr Hawkeridge did not himself take a seat near her, but remained standing to one side of the mantel, leaning his elbow thereon, and watching her steadily, his glance playing over her face and up to the golden crown which she had dragged up tonight into a chignon, banded in blue velvet, a knot of ringlets falling behind. She had no idea how it gave her features a piquancy that belied the steel shell of her control.
There was a silence of some moments’ duration, during which Verena pleaded with the blood in her veins not to build a blush in her cheek. But it was Denzell who gave a self-conscious laugh.
“What am I to say to you, Miss Chaceley? Having succeeded in capturing you thus, I find myself at a loss for a subject.”
