“It is not at all necessary,” he said. “You dance delightfully. You do not mean to tell me that this is the first time you have waltzed?”
Miss Tallant certainly did not mean to tell him anything of the sort, and was already regretting her impulsive confidence. “Good gracious, no!” she said. “The first time at Almack’s. however.”
“I am happy to think, then, that mine was the honour of first leading you on to the floor. You will certainly be besieged by every man present now it is seen that you have no objection to the waltz.”
She said nothing, but fell to studying his waistcoat again. He glanced down at her, a hint of mockery in the smile that hovered about his mouth. “How does it feel, Miss Tallant, to be the rage of town? Do you enjoy it, or have your northern triumphs given you a. distaste for this sort of thing?”
She raised her eyes, and her chin too. “I am afraid, Mr. Beaumaris, that you betrayed what I—what I begged you not to speak of!”
There was a distinctly sardonic look in his eye, but he replied coolly: “I assure you, ma’am, I have mentioned your circumstances to one person only: Lord Fleetwood.”
“Then it is he who—” She broke off, flushing.
“Very probably,” he agreed. “You must not blame him, however. Such things are bound to leak out”
Her lips parted, and then closed again. He wondered what she had so nearly said: whether he was to have been treated to her society manners, or whether she had been about to tell him the truth. On the whole, he was glad that she had thought better of it. If she took him into her confidence, he supposed he would be obliged, in mercy, to bring this game to a close, which would be a pity, since it was providing him with a great deal of entertainment. To have elevated an unknown provincial to the heights of society was an achievement which only one who had no illusions about the world he led could properly appreciate. He was deriving much enjoyment too from observing the efforts of his devoted copyists to win the provincial’s hand. As for Arabella herself, Mr. Beaumaris shrugged off a momentary compunction. She would no doubt retire in due course to her northern wilds, marry some red-faced squire, and talk for the rest of her life of her brilliant London season. He glanced down at her again, and thought that it would be a pity if she were to retire too soon. Probably, by the end of the London season he would be only too thankful to see her go, but for the present he was very well satisfied to gratify her by a little flirtation.
The music ceased, and he led her off the floor, to one of the adjoining rooms, where refreshments were served. These were of a very simple nature, the strongest drink offered being a mild claret-cup. Mr. Beaumaris procured a glass of lemonade for Arabella, and said: “You must let me thank you for a delightful few minutes, Miss Tallant: I have seldom enjoyed a dance more.” He received only a slight smile, and an inclination of the head in answer to this which were both so eloquent of incredulity that he was delighted. No fool, then, the little Tallant! He would have pursued this new form of sport, in the hope of teasing her into retort, but at that moment two purposeful gentlemen bore down upon them. Arabella yielded to the solicitations of Mr. Warkworth, and went off on his arm. Sir Geoffrey Morecambe sighed in a languishing way, but turned his rebuff to good account by seizing the opportunity to ask Mr. Beaumaris what he called the arrangement of his neck-cloth. He had to repeat the question, for Mr. Beaumaris, watching Arabella walk away with Mr. Warkworth, was not attending. He brought his gaze to bear on Sir Geoffrey’s face, however, at the second time of asking, and raised his brows enquiringly.
“That style you have of tying your cravat!” said Sir Geoffrey. “I don’t perfectly recognize it. Is it something new? Should you object to telling me what you call it?”
“Not in the least,” replied Mr. Beaumaris blandly. “I call it Variation on an Original Theme.”
VIII
Mr. Beaumaris’s sudden realization that the little Tallant was no fool underwent no modification during the following days. It began to be borne in upon him, that charm her ever so wisely, she was never within danger of losing her head over him. She treated him in the friendliest fashion, accepted his homage, and—he suspected—was bent upon making the fullest use of him. If he paid her compliments, she listened to them with the most innocent air in the world but with a look in her candid gaze which gave him pause. The little Tallant valued his compliments not at all. Instead of being thrown into a flutter by the attentions of the biggest matrimonial prize in London, she plainly considered herself to be taking part in an agreeable game. If he flirted with her, she would generally respond in kind, but with so much the manner of one willing to indulge him that the hunter woke in him, and he was quite as much piqued as amused. He began to toy with the notion of making her fall in love with him in good earnest, just to teach her that the Nonpareil was not to be so treated with impunity. Once, when she was apparently not in the humour for gallantry, she actually had the effrontery to cut him short, saying: “Oh, never mind that! Who was that odd-looking man who waved to you just now? Why does he walk in that ridiculous way, and screw uphis mouth so? Is he in pain?”
He was taken aback, for really he had paid her a compliment calculated to cast her into exquisite confusion. His lips twitched, for lie had as few illusions about himself as had, to all appearances the lady beside him. “That,” he replied, “is Golden Ball, Miss Tallant, one of our dandies, as no doubt you have been told. He is not in pain. That walk denotes his consequence.”
“Good gracious! He looks as though he went upon stilts! Why does he think himself of such consequence?”
“He has never accustomed himself to the thought that he is worth not a penny less than forty thousand pounds a year,” replied Mr. Beaumaris gravely.
“What an odious person he must be!” she said scornfully. “To be consequential for such a reason as that is what I have no patience with!”
“Naturally you have not,” he agreed smoothly.
Her colour rushed up. She said quickly: “Fortune cannot make the man: I am persuaded you agree with me, for they tell me you are even more wealthy, Mr. Beaumaris, and I will say this!—you do not give yourself such airs as that!”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Beaumaris meekly. “I scarcely dared to hope to earn so great an encomium from you, ma’am.”
“Was it rude of me to say it? I beg your pardon!”
“Not at all.” He glanced down at her. “Tell me, Miss Tallant!—Just why do you grant me the pleasure of driving you out in my curricle?”
She responded with perfect composure, but with that sparkle in her eye which he had encountered several times before: “You must know that it does me a great deal of good socially to be seen in your company, sir!”
He was so much surprised that momentarily he let his hands drop. The grays broke into a canter, and Miss Tallant kindly advised him to mind his horses. The most notable whip in the country thanked her for her reminder, and steadied his pair. Miss Tallant consoled him for the chagrin he might have been supposed to feel by saying that she thought he drove very well. After a stunned moment, laughter welled up within him. His voice shook perceptibly as he answered: “You are too good, Miss Tallant!”
“Oh, no!” she said politely. “Shall you be at the masquerade at the Argyll Rooms tonight?”
“I never attend such affairs, ma’am!” he retorted, putting her in her place.