She met their mothers, wives, sisters, and maiden aunts; she greeted their daughters and danced with their sons; and she carried it all off with a poise which astonished even herself. No one present could have faulted her, she was everything a prospective Lady Sheringham should have been, and she knew that her father would have been proud indeed had he seen her. But even as this happy thought entered her head, disaster struck.
On the arm of the vicar of Polwithiel, she was proceeding into the dining room for a cold supper when a footman suddenly and unaccountably brushed against her, spilling the tray of full wineglasses he was carrying. The cerise wine splashed her white skirts, staining the silk very badly indeed. There were sympathetic gasps of dismay from the other guests who had witnessed the accident, and the footman responsible was full of abject apologies as he bent to retrieve the broken glasses and spirit the tray hastily away. As he went he momentarily came face to face with Petra, who had hurried to see what had happened.
For the briefest of seconds it seemed to Bryony that mistress and servant exchanged glances, but then he had gone, vanishing into the crush of guests, and Petra was exclaiming in horror on seeing the damage done to the gown. A warning note sounded in Bryony’s head, for suddenly she knew that the accident with the wine had no more been an accident than had her fall from the horse.
Petra attempted for a moment to dab the wine stains with her handkerchief, but then she straightened. “Oh, how dreadful for you! I feel quite wretched that such a thing should have happened. Perhaps you would care to change? You may have the pick of my wardrobe ...”
Bryony gave her a frozen look, for Petra was several inches taller than she was and any of her gowns would have been far too long. If the Countess of Lowndes believed Bryony St. Charles was that much of a fool, then she was about to be corrected. “My lady, I hardly think that a sensible notion, considering our different heights.” She spoke clearly and deliberately, her glance not wavering from Petra’s face,
Those who overheard, and there were a considerable number, exchanged surprised glances at this apparently rude response, and Petra’s face went a little pale, although her eyes were angry. “To be sure,” she murmured after a moment, “I was not thinking.”
Bryony held her gaze for a moment longer and then turned to the waiting vicar, smiling charmingly. “Shall we proceed, sir?”
He glanced nervously from her to Petra and then nodded, clearing his throat noisily, “Yes, yes, indeed, madam.” He inclined his head to Petra, offered Bryony his arm again, and they walked on in the direction of the dining room. Bryony was vaguely aware of the stir of whispering behind her, but she walked on, looking as calm and unconcerned as she could with the horrid stains standing out so glaringly upon her skirts.
She had barely taken her place at one of the supper tables and the vicar had hurried away to procure for her one of the delicious cold chicken salads, when she looked up and to her dismay saw Sebastian approaching. His lips were set angrily and his whole manner suggested that he had learned of his intended wife’s latest misdemeanor where his mistress was concerned. Suddenly Bryony had no wish to confront him, and so she got up quickly, hurrying away in the opposite direction and into the adjoining card room.
She tried to look unconcerned as she went swiftly across the crowded room, Felix was at one of the card tables, but he was so engrossed in the play that he did not notice her pass. Glancing back, she saw that Sebastian was following her, evidently still intent upon a reprimand, so she went out through the other doors and found herself in a large circular vestibule where a number of guests were admiring a fine collection of watercolors. A wide staircase led up to the floor above and she hurried quickly up it, pausing at the top to peep cautiously over the balustrade. Sebastian emerged from the drawing room, but almost immediately was called over by one of the guests to give his opinion of a seascape.
With a sigh of relief, she drew back from the balustrade and glanced around. A long gallery led away into the almost deserted west wing, and without hesitation she went quickly along it, following the Persian carpet which led like a path toward some folding doors at the far end. It wasn’t until she had gained these doors and drawn them to behind her that she felt she had at last eluded Sebastian—at least, for the time being.
* * *
It was quiet in this part of the house and she was glad of it, for she needed a little time to compose herself after the dreadful business with the wine. Until then she had been going on so well, conducting herself as elegantly and gracefully as anyone could have wished, but in a split second all that had been changed. Anger and frustration swept over her, and she knew that she must be calm again before she could think of rejoining the guests.
She went to a window and looked out toward the lake and the bobbing lights of the little boats. She could see a long line of waiting carriages drawn up along the drive, their panels shining in the orange light from the lanterns in the trees. The coachmen, postilions, and footmen were standing together in groups, no doubt exchanging gossip about their masters and mistresses. She wondered how long it would be before similar little groups were discussing the outrageous conduct of Miss St. Charles at the Countess of Lowndes’s elegant assembly.
After several minutes she felt sufficiently recovered to rejoin the other guests, and as she descended to the circular vestibule she was relieved to see no sign of Sebastian. Deciding to avoid the dining room, she made her way to the ballroom, where some dancing was still in progress, although only a little now. The first person she saw was Delphine, her mauve skirts fluttering prettily as she danced, the amethysts at her throat and in her ears flashing deep purple whenever she turned.
The dance ended and almost immediately a country dance was announced and sets began to form. Delphine noticed Bryony and beckoned quickly to her. “Do join us, Bryony, I’ll find a partner for you!” A thin-faced young man was virtually dragged from his chair and before Bryony knew it she was taking her place opposite him in one of the sets. The orchestra struck up and the dance began, and to her relief it was one she knew very well.
But it wasn’t long before something suddenly went drastically wrong. Turning to the right as she knew she should, to her horror her partner went to the left, and almost immediately there was utter chaos as everyone else in the set bumped into one another. The set came to a standstill.
Bryony stood there for a moment, confused, but then she noticed how quickly her partner slipped around to her other side and then had the audacity to look accusingly at her! He was making out that it was her fault, not his! And he was very convincing, for now others were beginning to look reproachfully at her too!
He gave her a cool look. “Why did you not say that you did not know the dance, madam?”
“I do know the dance, sir, and I was not the one to make the mistake.”
His eyes flickered. “But of course,” he murmured, “if that is what you wish to pretend, then I am too much of a gentleman to argue the point.”
Bryony’s lips parted with anger, but at that moment Delphine hurried over to prevent further argument. She tapped him crossly on the arm with her fan. “Don’t be a disagreeable bear, Julius, it’s hardly the thing.”
“And it ain’t the thing to go prancing around like a damned goat in the wrong direction!” he snapped, according Bryony a chill nod of his head and then stalking away.
He left a very awkward silence behind him and Bryony lowered her eyes, suddenly embarrassed as well as angry. Her glance fell upon the wine stains on her gown, and her lips parted suddenly. Was this yet another of Petra’s ploys?
Delphine linked her arm comfortingly through hers, leading her from the floor. “Take no notice of Julius, he’s been a notoriously disagreeable wretch ever since his wife ran off with a French dandy. He loathes all women now.”
“So it seems, but that does not excuse him.
He
was the goat, not me.”
“Yes, I know, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?” Delphine smiled. “Let’s forget him and think of supper instead. Have you eaten yet?”
Bryony thought of the poor vicar of Polwithiel, and his chicken salad. “No,” she replied, “not yet.”
For the second time she entered the dining room and took her place at the table, but she had little appetite as she gazed at the cold meat, lettuce, and tomatoes. She sipped a little iced champagne, thinking about the way the dance had been disrupted. Had the odious Julius been assisting Petra? The more she thought about it, the more she thought he had.
Oh, how she wished the evening was over and she was back at Polwithiel. No, she wished more than that, she wished her father had never got into debt and she had never left Liskillen in the first place!
“Miss St. Charles?”
She looked up as a strange male voice addressed her. A tall young man with a freckled face and a shock of red hair was bowing to her, an expectant look on his face. She was puzzled. “Yes?”
Surprise flickered into his eyes. “You promised me the first minuet after supper.”
“I did?” She was taken aback, for she knew perfectly well that she had promised no such thing; she had never even met him before! She smiled politely, however. “I think you must be mistaken, sir,” she said, “for I have not promised you any dance.”
“There is no mistake, Miss St. Charles,” he replied firmly, “for you were quite specific that the first minuet after you had taken supper would be mine. I see that you have finished eating and so have come to claim you.”
She was aware of the others at the table looking on with interest, and she was about to accept him rather than quibble, when to her dismay a second gentleman approached, this time a stout fellow with a queued wig and bright peacock-colored waistcoat. He bowed to her. “My dance, I believe, Miss St. Charles.”
The first young man turned a little crossly toward him. “No, sir, the lady has promised this dance to me.”
The second gentleman raised a quizzing glass to inspect the interloper. “Indeed,” he murmured dryly, “then how is it that she has given her word to me?”
Bryony was horrified, especially when a third man then approached and proceeded to demand the dance! She knew that she hadn’t promised a dance to any of them. “Sirs,” she said in some embarrassment, “if this is a joke, I think it has proceeded for long enough, don’t you?”
“It is no joke,” replied the first gentleman coldly, “although perhaps you think it is.”
The rest of the table was agog now and there were whispers all around, whispers which rapidly spread to adjoining tables so that more inquisitive faces were turned toward her. Slowly Bryony rose to her feet. “Gentlemen,” she said, “I know that I have not promised a dance to any of you, as I believe you each know full well, and so I would thank you to go away now and leave me alone:”
The supper room was horridly quiet, so that the sound of conversation and laughter from the adjoining rooms seemed suddenly loud. Into this embarrassed silence came Petra, her gold chains glittering and her long train dragging busily behind her. “My dear Miss St. Charles,” she said, smiling brightly, “is there some misunderstanding? Can I be of assistance?”
It was too much! The final straw! Bryony was furious at being once again forced by this woman into a humiliating situation. “No, madam,” she said in a shaking voice, “there’s no misunderstanding, except perhaps on your part. Don’t think I’m fool enough to be deceived by this latest episode, which like all the others was of your spiteful orchestration!”
Each accusing, deliberate word was heard by everyone in the room, and there were shocked gasps. Petra stepped back as if Bryony had physically struck her, and she managed to look very distressed indeed. Bryony could endure it no more, knowing that she would once again be held entirely to blame and would consequently be censured for her rudeness toward the lady of the house, whose kind solicitude had been so marked throughout the evening. Gathering her skirts, she hurried past Petra toward the door of the drawing room.
But Sebastian barred her way, having witnessed everything. His face was dark with anger as he caught her arm, propelling her past all the astonished guests at the card tables, including Felix, and then out into the vestibule, where he pushed open the door of a little anteroom and thrust her roughly inside.
The room was lit only by a candelabrum on a marble console table, and the soft light glowed upon rose brocade walls and elegant French furniture. Bryony’s reflection was dimly seen in the huge oval mirror above the table as she turned furiously to face him, rubbing her bruised arm where his fingers had gripped so very hard. “How
dare
you treat me like this!” she cried.
“Madam,” he replied coolly, the softness of his tone belying the anger she saw burning in his eyes, “you have been treated very leniently, considering the provocation I have undoubtedly had tonight.”
“The provocation
you
have had?” she cried incredulously, her whole body quivering. “Sir, your arrogance astounds me!”
“Call it arrogance if you wish, madam, but I regard it as justifiable anger. Tonight I’ve witnessed behavior which has appalled me, indeed so much has it appalled me that I can hardly believe I earlier apologized to you for anything
I
may have said or done in the past! My misdemeanors are as nothing when set beside yours! You are a disgrace, Miss St. Charles, both to your sex and to your father’s name!”
With a gasp she struck him, her fingers stinging bitterly across his cheek. She was so angry that she would have struck him again had he not seized her wrist in a viselike grip. “Once is more than enough, madam,” he warned. “Do it again and you will find it reciprocated.”
“There speaks the true gentleman!” she cried, trying to wrench herself free, but he held her too tightly.
“And are you the lady, madam?” he inquired softly, releasing her abruptly.