Denzell’s glance came back to him, understanding in his eyes. “I see.”
“I thought you would.”
“Well, they will not catch me. I have other plans.”
“I thought you had.”
Denzell laughed. “You are far too acute, Sir John.”
Sir John sighed, mock-sentimental. “The truth is, my friend, that I am an incurable romantic. Let me advise you to turn your eyes to that archway behind you.”
There was no mistaking the meaning of this. Denzell’s heart did a reckless dance, and he looked around. Verena! Warmth flooded him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She had not changed. Verena had not changed in the least. So fresh she looked, in the sprigged muslin gown, honey-gold loose curls spilling onto her shoulders from under a chip-straw hat, decorated with knots of tiny artificial blossoms. She was exquisite, like a china doll.
That same smiling mask adorned the perfection of her features, dispensing equal attention — and no favours, thank God — to each of the several males inhabiting her orbit. She was standing under an archway, the grace of her figure as elegant as the setting.
Denzell felt decidedly odd, the warmth giving way to a feeling he could not recognise. It was not, however, a feeling he could enjoy, for it was causing him a good deal of discomfort.
Why had he come here? Verena Chaceley was not going to welcome his advent. He must be mad. Where the devil was he to find the gall to approach her? He had not thought himself to be such a lily-livered poltroon. He had not been so fainthearted since his green youth, before he had confidence in his ability to secure a lady’s interest.
Was it only that, after all? Had Ossie been all along in the right of it? He was piqued, pricked in his pride, and had allowed himself to fall victim to his own vanity. Then what the devil ailed him that he had come chasing down here like a lunatic at the full of the moon, who knew not what he did?
To the devil with it! He would go straight up to her and greet her as if nothing in the world had ever occurred between them to prevent his doing so.
His feet were already moving on the thought, and he had arrived at the knot of persons of which Verena was the centre before he had time to regret or retract. She had her back tohim and Richard Cumberland, that unspeakable nuisance of a playwright, was addressing her. He could scarcely wait for the gentleman to arrive at the conclusion of his sentence.
In a voice loud enough — and cheerful enough — to gain him the instant attention of the entire circle, he spoke up. “Good day to you, Miss Chaceley.”
Shock blanketed out all thought in Verena’s head. A jolt seemed to stab in her chest. Out of the fog came one coherent idea:Hold your countenance, Verena.
Time seemed to Denzell to be standing still. For a moment, although every other head turned to look at him, Verena did not move. It appeared to Denzell as if she froze. The succeeding silence seemed to go on for ever.
But in reality it could only have been an instant before the honeyed hair rippled a little as she turned. The unyielding mask was in place, with that faintest trace of a smile. The exact same level of polite disinterest was in her voice as had been when she first spoke to him.
“How do you do, Mr Hawkeridge?”
The most intense dissatisfaction invaded Denzell’s breast. A savage thought sliced through his mind. At least she had remembered his name. Beautiful, serene, and exquisitely polite was she. And not at all the Verena he had expected — nay, longed — to find.
“I am very well, I thank you,” he said, almost curtly. “I trust I find you in good heart?”
“Extremely so.”
“And your mama?”
“She is in better — health.”
Was there a stress on the word? It was so hard to tell. How the deuce was anyone to know anything of the woman, when she persisted in this determined shutting off?The devil take you, Verena Chaceley!
Unable to think of anything to say that would not sound churlish and rude, Denzell bowed and moved away. Let others take the field. For himself, he was done with it.
He heard men’s voices start up behind him, and found himself wishing for the butt end of a pistol that he might knock them all on the head, the fools. Wasting their time in such a fashion, with a woman who would take a mile before she gave an inch. Nevertheless, he could not help but glance back.
Startled, he halted and turned, staring at the knot of people he had just left. They were dispersing, but where the deuce was Verena? She had been there but seconds ago.
His eye swept the room — and caught a glimpse of the straw-hatted head. It was bowed a little, and she was hurrying, taking a path close to the walls, passing behind the little groups of persons as if she wished to remain unnoticed. Where was she going? Looking forward, he saw the entrance doors. She was leaving!
