Verena was betrayed into a laugh. “You may be right.”
Unice reached out an impulsive hand and laid it on Verena’s arm. “I am so very happy that you came. I wish you will do so more often.”
“If you wish it. Though it may not always be possible to remain for long.”
“Your mama. Of course, she has great need of you.”
This was a little too near the bone for Verena, and she changed the subject, asking after Unice’s health and the progress of her two boys. She was relieved when her hostess launched into these matters with enthusiasm, for she was able to listen with only half an ear, while keeping a wary eye on the door. She did notdare to enquire after Mr Hawkeridge, for that would imply an interest that she was far from advertising — far fromfeeling, she corrected herself.
She remained a little over half an hour, rising to leave when Unice ran down, apologising for boring on about her offspring in a way that her visitor must find tedious. On a sudden impulse, Verena dropped her mask for a moment, a smile flitting across her face.
“Never mind it, Mrs Ruishton. I shall feel free to retaliate one day, and you may hear instead the tedious ramblings of an offspring about her mother.”
Unice laughed, reflecting that perhaps Denzell was right, after all. There was warmth within the shell.
But Verena was on the move, anxious to go beforeheshould make an appearance. She made a rather hasty farewell and left the house in somewhat of a hurry. She could not imagine what had possessed her to allow her mask to slip — to Unice Ruishton of all people. Might she not be depended upon to encourage Mr Hawkeridge to suppose that she could be beguiled into … into what? Flirtation? No!
But the conviction that Denzell Hawkeridge, left to his own devices, might well beguile her intosomething, remained with her as she took a route beside the house and into the ground behind, stepping between the icy patches of what remained of the last snowfall.
She had gone only a short way when the unmistakable sound of running footsteps halted her. Turning, she beheld the man himself, chasing through the back garden, his feet crunching as he came.
Heavens! He was coming after her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Arrived at the low back gate in his path, Denzell vaulted over it, and hurried up to his quarry, a touch out of breath, but blue eyes quizzing her from their misty depths.
“How could you be so unkind — Miss Chaceley? Visiting the place — and then leaving before I could so much as catch a glimpse of you!”
Verena found her own breath catching in her throat, as if she had been running as hard as he. Her pulses were flurried, and it was all she could do to maintain the outward cool reserve that must distance him.
“Good morning, Mr Hawkeridge,” she managed, refusing to be drawn into responding to his provocative speech.
He grinned, bowing, as he flung aside the folds of a greatcoat that hung open. He had obviously seized it and thrown it on all anyhow in his haste to follow her, and taking no time at all to find his hat, for his head was uncovered.
“Good morning, Miss Chaceley. May I escort you home?”
She blinked, saying stupidly, “Thank you, I know my way.”
“No, do you?” he countered, on a spurious note of surprise. “Why, then you must have come this way before.”
The spurt of laughter could not be contained. She controlled it. “You are absurd, sir.”
“I know,” said Denzell, and the grin vanished. “It has become a habit with me. And for that you should take pity on me, Miss Chaceley, and indulge me just a little.”
“What, by allowing you to escort me home?”
His face lit. “You are so quick, ma’am.”
Again, Verena was obliged to bite down on a quivering lip. “And you, sir, are remarkably slow.”
“How so?”
Verena drew a breath. “What does it take to convince you, Mr Hawkeridge?”
He raised his brows. “Of what, Miss Chaceley?”
Disconcerted, she snapped, “You know perfectly well.”
