Amused despite herself, Verena looked up with an involuntary — and very natural — smile. Denzell caught his breath. That was the look. Oh, the warmth of her when she forgot the need to hide her feelings.
To his intense disappointment, it was gone again in a second. Damn this infernal mask! But she was speaking, the control more secure now.
“In that case, Mr Hawkeridge, I will introduce one myself. How long do you intend to remain in this vicinity?”
Now why ask him that? “I shall have to go soon. I am expected home for Christmas.” Dared he? After all, he had dared so far and she was still sitting here. “Why do you wish to know? So that you may put a limit to the extent of my importunities?”
Again her countenance relaxed. Almost she laughed out, he thought. But all too quickly she had buried it again, once more politeness itself. “I am sure Wellsian society will be sorry to see you go.”
“Will you?”
Damnation! He had not meant to say that. But a fleeting look of consternation rewarded him in spite of the slip. She was rattled by the question. He was willing to wager she would not acknowledge as much in words, however. Nor did she; she did not even answer it.
“It looks as if you will be fortunate in the weather for your journey.”
“Ah, the weather,” he murmured. “How safe a topic.”
Verena choked on a laugh. Really, this man was impossible. How unfair of him it was to attack her with humour in this unscrupulous way. It was so much more difficult to maintain one’s countenance against laughter than against anger or pain. She gathered her skirts, making ready to rise.
“Don’t go!”
But Verena was on her feet. “My mother will be wondering what has become of me.”
“No, she won’t. She is far too busy parading your brother around for the world to gawp at.”
Back it all came in a rush. Too fast for Verena’s now lax control. Denzell glimpsed the distress before she could fully resume the mask, and cursed himself. What in the world had possessed him to bring that up? Deuce take it, how careful one needed to be with this girl. He saw her preparing to depart, and knew he had lost her for now. The oddest sensation attacked him. He wanted to seize her hand and forcibly prevent her leaving him.
“Excuse me, Mr Hawkeridge.”
He bowed, watching her go as the strange feeling began to recede. What in the devil’s name was the matter with him? He had managed to hold her for a moment or two, succeeding, if not in probing beneath the mysterious façade, at least in cracking it a little. What was there in that to make him experience an intense sense of loss?
All at once he got it. It was like a reversal of his own tactic. The closer she kept her secrets, the more intrigued he became. He almost laughed at his own simplicity, becoming confused because he was caught in the self-same trap he was wont to use on women.
But Miss Chaceley was a honeyed trap. Not only beautiful, but with depths that just begged to be explored.
As he followed her back to the other room, he was waylaid by Mrs Felpham, the eager eyes, under another preposterously feathered turban, scanning his features and casting glances to where Verena was re-joining the circle about her mother.
“Mr Hawkeridge, I am so happy to have caught you. How do you find Miss Chaceley enjoys her brother’s company?”
There could be no doubt that she had seen him conversing with Verena next door. Then let him give her something to chatter about. “Do you know, ma’am, I forgot to ask. We had other matters to discuss.”
Her eyes popped. “Do not tell me you are succeeding!”
“In entertaining you, ma’am? Oh, I hope so.”
She coloured at his sarcasm, and excused herself. Denzell found Sir John Frinton, resplendent as ever in grey and salmon, at his elbow.
“You cannot believe you have silenced her thus, my young friend.”
“The woman is impossible!”
“And so am I,” said Sir John, twinkling.
Denzell grinned. “I don’t mind your probing, sir.”
“Just as well. I take it you have not abandoned all hope?”
“Far from it.” He watched Verena’s polite serenity circling the room. Involuntarily he added, “Osmond thinks she is lovelorn.”
