“You are perfectly right,” said Sophy seriously. “It did give me false notion of you!” Her eyes followed Cecilia and Mr. Fawnhope round the room; she drew a breath, and said, “Things may be a trifle difficult.”
“That,” said Lord Charlbury, his eyes following hers, had already realized.”
“I cannot conceive,” said Sophy, with strong feeling, “what can have possessed you, sir, to contract mumps at such a moment!”
“It was not done by design,” said his lordship meekly. “Nothing could have been more ill judged!” said Sophy. “Not ill judged!” he pleaded. “Unfortunate!”
Mr. Wychbold came up just then with Sophy’s lemonade. “Hallo, Everard!” he said. “I didn’t know you were fit to be seen yet! How are you, dear boy?”
“Bruised in spirit, Cyprian, bruised in spirit! My sufferings under the complaint that struck me down were as nothing to what I now undergo. Shall I ever live it down?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” replied Mr. Wychbold consolingly. “Dashed paltry thing to happen to one, of course, but the town’s memory ain’t long! Why, do you remember poor Bolton taking a toss into the Serpentine, clean over his horse’s head? No one talked of anything else for almost a week! Poor fellow had to rusticate for a while, but it blew over, y’know!”
“Must it be rustication?” Lord Charlbury asked.
“On no account!” said Sophy decidedly. She waited until Mr. Wychbold’s attention was claimed by a lady in puce satin, and then turned toward her companion, and said forthrightly, “Are you a very good dancer, sir?”
“Not, I fancy, above the average, ma’am. Certainly not to compare with the exquisite young man we are both watching.”
“In that case,” said Sophy, “I would not, if I were you, solicit Cecilia to waltz!”
I have already done so, but your warning is unnecessary; she is engaged for every waltz and also the quadrille. The most I can hope for is to stand up with her in a country dance.”
“Don’t do it!” Sophy advised him. “To be trying to talk to anyone when you should be attending to the figure is always fatal, believe me!”
He turned his head, and gave her back a look as frank as her own. “Miss Stanton-Lacy, you are plainly aware of my circumstances. Will you tell me in what case I stand, and who is the Adonis at present monopolizing Miss Rivenhall?”
“He is Augustus Fawnhope, and he is a poet.”
“That has an ominous ring,” he said lightly. “I know the family, of course, but I think I have not previously encountered this sprig.”
“Very likely you might not, for he was used to be with Sir Charles Stuart, in Brussels. Lord Charlbury, you look to me like a sensible man!”
“I had rather I had a head like a Greek coin,” he remarked ruefully.
“You must understand,” said Sophy, disregarding this frivolity, “that half the young ladies in London are in love with Mr. Fawnhope.”
“I can readily believe it, and I grudge him only one of his conquests.”
She would have replied, but they were interrupted. Lord Ombersley, who had gone away after dinner, now reappeared, accompanied by an elderly and immensely corpulent man in whom no one had the least difficulty in recognizing a member of the Royal Family. He was, in fact, the Duke of York, that one of Farmer George’s sons who most nearly resembled him. He had the same protuberant blue eye, and beaky nose, the same puffy cheeks, and pouting mouth, but he was a much larger man than his father. He appeared to be in imminent danger of bursting out of his tightly stretched pantaloons; he wheezed when he spoke, but he was plainly a genial prince, ready to be pleased, standing on very little ceremony, and chatting affably to anyone who was presented to him. Both Cecilia and Sophy had this honor. His Royal Highness’s appreciation of Cecilia’s beauty was quite as broadly expressed as Mr. Wraxton’s had been, and no one could doubt that had he met her in some less public spot it would not have been many minutes before the ducal arm would have been round her waist. Sophy aroused no such amorous tendency ,in him, but he talked very jovially to her, asked her how her father did, and opined, with a loud laugh, that by this time Sir Horace was enjoying himself among all the Brazilian beauties, the dog that he was! After that, he exchanged greetings with several friends, circulated about the room for a while, and finally withdrew to the library with his host and two other of his intimates for a rubber of whist.
Cecilia, escaping from the Royal presence with burning cheeks (for she hated to be the target of fulsome compliments), was intercepted by Mr. Fawnhope, who said with great simplicity, “You are more beautiful tonight than I had thought possible!”
“Oh, do not!” she exclaimed involuntarily. “How insufferably hot it is in this room!”
“You are flushed, but it becomes you. I will take you onto the balcony.”
She made no demur, though this large term merely de scribed the veriest foothold built outside each one of the twelve long windows of the ballroom and fenced in with low iron railings. Mr. Fawnhope parted the heavy curtains that veiled the window at the far end of the room, and she passed through them into a shallow embrasure. After a slight struggle with the bolt, Mr. Fawnhope succeeded in opening the double window, and she was able to step out on to the narrow ledge. A chill breeze fanned her cheeks; she said, “Ah, what a night! The stars!”
“‘The evening star, love’s harbinger!’ “ quoted Mr. Fawnhope, somewhat vaguely scanning the heavens.
This idyll was rudely interrupted. Mr. Rivenhall, having observed the retreat of the young couple, had followed them, and now stepped through the brocade curtains, saying harshly, “Cecilia, are you lost to all sense of propriety? Come back into the ballroom at once!”
Startled, Cecilia turned quickly. Already agitated by the unexpected encounter with Lord Charlbury, her nerves betrayed her into a hasty rejoinder. “How dare you, Charles?” she said, in a trembling voice. “Pray, what impropriety am I guilty of in seeking the fresh air in the company of my affianced husband?”
She took Mr. Fawnhope’s hand as she spoke and confronted her brother with her chin up and her cheeks very much flushed. Lord Charlbury, who had drawn back the curtain with one hand, stood perfectly still, as pale as she was red, steadfastly regarding her.
“Oh!” cried Cecilia faintly, snatching her hand from Mr. Fawnhope’s to press it to her cheek.
“May I know, Cecilia, if what you have just announced is the truth?” asked his lordship, not a trace of emotion in his well-bred voice.
“Yes!” she uttered.
“The devil it is not!” said Mr. Rivenhall.
“You must permit me to offer you my felicitations,” said Lord Charlbury, bowing. He then let the curtain fall, and walked away the length of the ballroom in the direction of he doors.
Sophy, about to take her place with Major Quinton in the set which was forming, deserted her partner with a word of excuse, and overtook his lordship in the anteroom. “Lord Charlbury!”
He turned. “Miss Stanton-Lacy! Will you tender my apologies to Lady Ombersley for my not taking formal leave of her? She is not at present in the ballroom.”
“Yes, never mind that! What has occurred to make you leave so early?”
“I came, ma’am, with one purpose only in mind. It has been rendered useless for me to stay by your cousin’s announcement a moment since that she is betrothed to young Fawnhope.”
“What a goose she is!” remarked Sophy cheerfully. “I saw her go apart with Augustus, and I saw Charles follow her. Depend upon it, this is all his doing! I could box his ears! Do you ever ride in the Park?”
“Do I what?” he asked, bewildered,
“Ride in the Park!”
“Certainly I do, but — ”
“Then do so tomorrow morning! Not too early, for I daresay I shall not be in bed until four o’clock! At ten, then; don’t fail!”