He was obliged to parry a number of claims to his attention, but at length his patience was rewarded. Verena entered with her mother. They were alone. All must be well, Verena’s worst fears unrealised. Relief flooded him, and the now familiar sensation of warmth at sight of her burgeoned in his breast. She was once again the fairy princess, in cobweb lawn that seemed to float about her as she moved, her honey-warm tresses unbound and free.
He wanted to fly across the room and drag her into his embrace. A procedure that was, unfortunately, ineligible. Neither here in public, nor — to his intense frustration — in private. Not yet, in any event. For after those intimate confidences, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, he could not suppress a growing feeling of hope. He was himself in the apricot and cream wedding garb tonight, the russet coat on his back — an unacknowledged omen perhaps.
Verena might have reassumed that serene look of hers that gave nothing away, but Mrs Peverill’s demeanour was encouraging. She was in spirits, pretty in lavender silk — now he could see where Verena had her looks — dispensing smiles and laughter to the crowd of gentlemen gathered about the little group. She could not possibly have decided to return to her husband.
By and by, Denzell found an opportunity to move towards the usual court surrounding Verena, without appearing to particularise his interest. Rather to his surprise, Mrs Peverill herself singled him out.
“Mr Hawkeridge, how do you do?”
Her hand was held out to him, and he clasped it. Did he imagine it, or was she pressing his fingers rather more strongly than tradition dictated? He eyed her with some little puzzlement as he politely responded.
“I hope I find you well, Mrs Peverill?”
“You find me excellent well, Mr Hawkeridge,” she said in a tone that seemed to wish to encourage him in some way. “I believe I may safely say I am on the road to full recovery. I cannot think but that Verena will soon be able to cease worrying over me.”
Denzell blinked. He could not mistake the significance of this. It was lightly done, but he had heard that note in the tongues of too many matchmaking mamas in the past not to recognise it. She knew of his interest, and she was trying to tell him she approved of it.
Instinctively, he glanced at Verena — and suffered a severe shock. She was fully armed, and icy. His heart dropped. What had been said? What in the world had occurred since he had seen her two days since, to cause her mother to make a play for him while the object of this intention showed herself to be against it?
No, no, this was not to be tolerated. He must express to Verena that he was at the mercy of her desires, not those of her mama. She could not believe he would enlist Mrs Peverill’s support when Verena had so clearly forbidden him to speak of his love. Yes, he wanted to win her. Butwinher, not entrap her!
“I am relieved to hear you say so,” he replied to Mrs Peverill, in a certain tone — one that he had long ago mastered — which was a nice blend of deference and politeness, but which in no way admitted that he had taken the hint.
He saw a question come into her face, and smiled. “I am sure all your friends must be delighted and encouraged by this improvement in your health and spirits.”
“Thank you,” she responded, and he was glad of the faint disappointment in her face. Capital! Now she could no longer be certain of his supposed interest in Verena.
Denzell stepped aside to make way for another gentleman, and discovered Verena had managed to free herself, shifting away from the crowd.
He moved towards her, a quick word of reassurance forming on his tongue. But Verena was too strung up to be capable of noticing his carefully structured response to her mother.
She had seen Denzell when she entered the room, and was thankful that she had herself so well in hand. Deliberately — and desperately — she had tried to keep her attention off him. And then Mama must needs attempt to force the issue by that embarrassing display. Verena neither knew nor heard how Denzell answered. Her whole concentration was on maintaining control, so that she might carry out her intended design of keeping away from her unwanted suitor — and of driving him from her side when he chose to claim her attention.
As he came up, she showed him her blandest face, complete with that faint smile of total disinterest. She nodded dismissively, and murmured, “Mr Hawkeridge.”
Denzell stopped dead, a frown forming between his brows. His voice was hard. “Good evening,Miss Chaceley.”
Verena took in the tone. Dear heaven, but he had taken it amiss! He must not speak to her. Not in that mood. Not in any mood. From panic at what he might say, she jerked out under her breath, “Go away from me, for the love of heaven!”
Instant hurt registered in his eyes. Verena’s heart gave an involuntary twist. Oh, heavens! But she could not afford the tiniest degree of sympathy. Turning away, she moved towards a knot of people by one of the graceful pillars and engaged herself in their conversation.
Denzell gazed after her. There was an actual physical pain inside him. He’d had no notion one could be subject to such a sensation. It dulled after a moment, leaving him with a sense of bleak disillusionment. He had not deserved that. Had his conduct been so alien to her that she could not give him credit for any degree of thoughtfulness? Did she not know that as far asshe was concerned, he must ever be endlessly considerate?Oh, Verena.
Turning away from the distressing sight of her icy mask, he recollected all at once that he was in company, and must behave accordingly. Only he could not. Making as swift a passage through the throng as he might, without drawing attention to himself, he left the Assembly Rooms and made his way out onto the Pantiles. There were a few couples taking the air — or engaging in light dalliance — but Denzell was too preoccupied to notice them.
Darkness had not yet fallen, although the shadows were gathering, hollowing out caverns within the spaces between the slim pillars of the colonnade. Unknowing where his feet led him, Denzell wandered up the paved walkway, and down again, dallying foolishly between a desire to make away with himself or to shake Verena until the teeth rattled in her head. The realisation that he was even contemplating such a violent act towards the woman who held his heart captive so much disgusted him that he turned again, and paced restlessly back up the Pantiles once more.
“Denzell!”
The whisper came at him out of one of those dusky holes in the colonnade. He halted, turning to peer into the blackness there. A shadow moved in a gap between two of the houses that made up the sequence of little shops running the length of the Pantiles.
His heart thrilled, for although he could see only the ghostlike wisp of a gauzy outline, he knew it was she. He moved swiftly in that direction.
“Verena!”
“Hush!” she begged, and he saw the whiteness of her hands reach out.
He took them in his, and they pulled to draw him into the shadows with her so that they stood together in the narrow gap, barely silhouetted in the fading light.
