Elisabeth Kidd (34 page)

“You are eating like a trooper, lieutenant,” Kedrington admonished
Carey, who had helped himself to a liberal portion of everything. “Don’t
they feed you at home?”

“They feed me civilised portions at home,” Carey said, unabashed.
“This ham is sliced so thin you could inhale it.”

“Which I’ve no doubt you will.”

Carey cast him an aggrieved look, but moderated his gluttony some
what and was wholly diverted, a moment later, by the approach of
Lieutenant Fitzroy and two companions, who greeted the entire party
cheerfully.

“Ho, Kedrington! Where’d you steal that unlikely get-up from?”

“I’ll have you know, Fitz, that it was come by legitimately.”

“Well, since you ain’t been ordained so far as I know, you must have
wheedled it out of the superior at that convent in Burgos—or was it the
abbess on the other side of town?”

The militia thought this a great joke, but Kedrington only abjured the
lieutenant to mind his tongue, if he knew how. Fitzroy proved that he did
by being charmingly gallant to the ladies before taking his leave and
dragging Carey away from his supper with the promise of showing him a
mechanical marvel called the cascade, which purported to imitate precisely the sound and appearance of a real waterfall.

Octavian refilled everyone’s champagne glass, and they settled down to
listen to the music of the orchestra, which was happily distant enough to
permit intimate conversation. They were not so out of the way in their
box, however, that all the world did not seem to pass by, and the river of fashionable strollers—adorned in every variety of fancy dress from togas
to red Indian buckskins—soon yielded up another friend in the person of Miss Hester Coverley, escorted by Lord Alvanley, who bowed low to all
the ladies and took up a post near enough to Mrs Curtiz to permit a
whispered conversation between them.

Miss Coverley deftly manipulated the hoop of her Marie Antoinette
ball gown to assume Carey’s vacant chair beside Kedrington and, tempo
rarily forgetting the presence of others, exclaimed to him, “Duncan,
dearest, I have just heard that all is on its way to being settled about
Barbara! My dear, how wonderful! However did you persuade Junius to
accept it?”

“Even Junius will bow to a
fait accompli
, my dear Aunt, if it is
sufficiently sweetened to allow him to bend his notions of honour. But all
this is of no interest to our friends here. Accept a glass of champagne, if you will, by way of celebration, but do let us reserve explanations for another time.”

All this was, to the contrary, of considerable interest to Antonia, but
she would have died before revealing her rampant curiosity, so she only
smiled companionably at Miss Coverley and made up her mind to call on
her first thing the next morning. Meanwhile, that lady embarked on her
usual comprehensive summary of all the persons she had encountered in the brief stroll she had thus far enjoyed through the gardens—and whom
she had had no difficulty in identifying despite their masks.

“But we have not yet visited the rotunda, where I believe some new
paintings have been hung since our last visit. Imogen, dear, will you not
come with us to view them?”

This suggestion received Lord Alvanley’s vocal endorsement, and very
shortly the party in the supper box was reduced to four. It struck Antonia
that this was becoming entirely too cosy, but when she glanced at
Kedrington, he gave her a bland look that conveyed nothing. Conversa
tion lagged somewhat, as Octavian and Isabel found more eloquence in
each other’s eyes than in mere words. Antonia attempted once or twice to
introduce a subject, only to receive no assistance whatever from any of
the others. Kedrington, in fact, seemed to be taking a perverse delight in
disobliging her. She scowled at him and received an impish smile in return. She shrugged and sipped again at her champagne.

It was only a matter of minutes before, not at all to Antonia’s
astonishment, Isabel and Octavian declared that they would promenade
off their supper on the Italian Walk, and deserted them with no further
ado. Antonia thought she saw Octavian slip his hand into Isabel’s as soon as their backs were turned, but she found she could not find this at
all improper. Indeed, she smiled after them and thought that they were
much wiser than their elders, having seen from the beginning how
matters would conclude between them.

Kedrington showed no signs of taking similar liberties with her hand,
despite their convenient solitude, and, feeling a little giddy, she was on
the point of asking why he did not, when he dampened her giddiness
somewhat.

“And where is Charles when you need him?” he asked in a flippant
tone which sounded nevertheless decidedly anxious.

“He and Uncle Philip went to look at a coal mine in Kent. I don’t know
when they will be back.”

And she didn’t care, she told herself sulkily.

Almost as if he had read
her thought, Kedrington laughed.

“In Kent, of all places! I had no notion he was interested in such
things.”

“Philip heard about it from a friend of his, I believe,” Antonia told
him, thoroughly bored by the subject now. “I must say, I shan’t be sorry if
it turns out there is nothing in it.”

Kedrington remarked that this was often true of speculative mines,
but then dropped the subject, much to Antonia’s relief. She did not want
to think about Charles tonight. She was not precisely sure what she
preferred to think about instead, and so determined to clear her mind of
all thought. Champagne bubbles were a remarkably efficient means to achieve this, she was beginning to discover.

She could not have said how much time passed in silence—indeed, she
would have been hard-put to say how long they had been in the gardens at
all—before Kedrington said, “Perhaps we had better see if we can find
the young people. Unless you would rather view the delights of the cascade or the rotunda?”

The notion of mingling with the large crowds surrounding the many
entertainments offered at Vauxhall had considerably less appeal than a quiet stroll in its wooded walks, although Antonia could not dredge up
very much concern for her niece’s whereabouts. Isabel, at least, could take care of herself.

“I think I would rather walk around a bit, please,” she said, standing up
rather too suddenly and wobbling on her high Spanish heels. Kedrington took her arm, and she noticed that her shoes brought her closer to the level of his mouth than normally, a phenomenon which struck her as
filled with fascinating possibilities.

He smiled. “Yes, I think a little fresh air would be in order.”

He kept her arm firmly in hand as they made their way down the long
Italian Walk, one of the two wide avenues in the gardens. It was con
nected with the parallel Grand Walk by smaller cross-walks, which were
not quite sufficiently dimly lighted that they could not see couples
strolling arm-in-arm along them. After some time unbroken by conversa
tion between them, they reached the end of the walk and were obliged
either to turn to the left to reach the Grand Walk or to return the way
they had come.

“What’s down there?” Antonia said, pointing down a walkway to their
right, the terminus of which could not be discerned in the dim light.
“Let us go that way.”

Kedrington hesitated momentarily but, ever obliging, guided her down
the Dark Walk.

“Is this where Evelina was accosted?” she asked.

He laughed. “My heart, it is bad enough that you read the novels of Miss Fanny Burney without being able to quote their more salacious passages at will. I had not thought you so abandoned.”

“I had not thought you so stuffy,” she riposted. “Even Charles would have taken the hint by now.”

She could have bitten her tongue before the words had passed her lips.
She gasped and looked at him in acute embarrassment. But he did not
look in the least disconcerted, nor did he appear to think any the worse of
her for her impulsive indiscretion. Quite unlike Charles.

He was watching her narrowly, and her intended apology died unspoken.
Instead, even more brazenly, she stepped closer to him, until the fringe of
her Spanish shawl became entangled with the buttons of his soutane.
She had left her mask behind in the box, she remembered now, without
regret.

“I am not made of marble, Antonia,” he said, a little shakily.

“I hope not.”

As if of its own will, his head moved toward hers. His lips brushed her
hair, then her cheek. Gently, but as if the gentleness cost him a good deal
of effort, he moved his hand to her chin to hold it in place and kissed her
very softly on the lips. She was conscious only of a mild astonishment
that a mouth which looked so harsh and unyielding should feel so soft on
her own.

But then it was gone and, with a total lack of coquetry, she opened her
eyes to wonder why, and he saw the disappointment in them. It was as
much as he could do not to visit Evelina’s fate on her there and then, so he stepped back hurriedly, as if to thrust away the temptation. Startled,
she stumbled slightly, turning her foot. The heel of her shoe snapped off
and she would have fallen had Kedrington not quickly caught her and
held her up.

Laughing a little and nearly as unsteady as she was, he said, “My heart,
what has happened to your usual grace?”

She smiled. “I find it has succumbed to a most unusual agitation.”

She thought he might kiss her again and raised her face hopefully, but
instead he looked around and said with some relief, “There is a bench we may sit down on. Give me your shoe and I will see if I can mend it well
enough for you to walk on.”

He assisted her to the bench and lowered her gently onto it, then took
her proffered shoe and examined it. From somewhere within the folds of his garment he produced a pocket knife, with which he deftly removed a
nail and replaced it in a more useful position. In another moment she
had put the shoe back on, but neither of them showed any inclination to be on their way. This time, her head having cleared somewhat of the treacherous influence of the wine she had so freely imbibed, she waited for him to speak.

It took a further several minutes, but at last he said, with some effort,
“You may have noticed, Antonia, that I have not proposed marriage to
you for some time.”

“Yes, I must say, I’ve missed that. One becomes accustomed to the most peculiar things! Have you...have you the intention of resuming
the practice?”

He refused to be drawn into laughter just yet. “Not if I am to meet
with the same resistance.”

She hesitated. “I—I do not wish to offer any resistance, but I cannot
help but be a little wary. I very much fear I am being overly feminine and
do not know my own mind, but I must be sure of not repeating my
mistakes.”

“Antonia, I was defeated at the start of our relationship by your roseate
remembrance of your first love. Am I now to be punished because the
reality did not measure up to that dream? You are unjust!”

“Oh, no! I did not mean it to sound like that!” She clutched his arm. “Do not be cross with me, Duncan, I beg you.”

She looked at him pleadingly until he relented and smiled once more.
“Miss Fairfax, are you by any chance proposing to
me
?”

She blushed and lowered her eyes. “I wish it were not true that I have
been terribly foolish. I have done my best to make you unhappy. There is
no way I can undo that damage.”

“There is. You have unburdened your heart to me. Now make your
repentence real by telling Charles the same thing—and by marrying me.”

When he received no response, he added, “But only if you love me, Antonia. If you do not, all the rest is of no
importance.”

“Oh, but I do!” she said, and burst into tears, a circumstance for which
his lordship would ordinarily have rebuked her severely, but now he
found it much more to his liking to take her in his arms and comfort her,
and then, when he had dried her tears, to kiss her again—not so gently nor so briefly this time.

When at last she emerged breathlessly from his embrace and looked up
at him with a mixture of delight and surprise in her eyes, he laughed and said, “My heart, had I known you were subject to such violent changes of
mood, I am not at all sure I would have accepted your offer! For such a
reasonable man as myself, a volatile bride might not be at all the thing. I
wonder if I ought to reconsider?”