The Star of Love Page 11

  Charles rode home in a savage mood, and relayed the gist of this conversation to Freddy.

  “How can she?” he fumed. “How can she allow him to lay a finger on her?”

  “Perhaps she genuinely likes him,” mused Freddy.

  “Impossible!”

  “Not impossible at all. Young girls have strange tastes. Look at the way she used to like you. That should show you.”

  “Are you ever serious?” Charles demanded scathingly.

  “Not if I can avoid it. All right, here’s a theory for you. John looks very like you. You’re the one she wants, but she can’t have you, so she makes do with him.”

  “Must you talk like a kitchen maid’s novelette?” Charles demanded in disgust.

  “Then how about this? She’s trying to make you jealous.”

  “I’ve never heard such a disgraceful idea in my life,” Charles snapped. “To suggest that she – even the thought that – let me tell you Freddy, that Lady Cliona is a young woman of the highest principles, who would scorn to descend to such methods. The mere idea of her indulging in cheap –”

  “All right, all right, old fellow,” said Freddy indulgently. “I get your drift.” He wandered out through the French windows. “I’ll say no more.”

  “I had to get away from Charles,” he explained to Cliona later that day, “or he would have gone on for hours, all about how you were above that sort of thing. He seemed to think I had insulted you, but I was simply admiring your tactics, ma’am.”

  “Strategy,” she told him. “Tactics are for when the enemy can be seen and strategy is when the enemy is out of sight.”

  “But who’s the enemy?”

  “Charles of course. Oh, Freddy! Why do men never have any common sense?”

  “Actually most of us do. But Charles is in love with you, so you can’t expect it.”

  “I don’t expect anything from him,” she said crossly, “except bone-headed pride and a refusal to see what’s under his nose.”

  Freddy nodded. “That sounds like him.”

  *

  John had taken care to secure the position of Cliona’s official escort to the races, and the entire Hartley party turned up together.

  Lady Hester and the Countess were to take Sir Kenton and Lady Arnfield in their carriage. The gentlemen and Cliona would ride on horseback.

  Charles had originally intended to go ahead to Merriton to make a last minute inspection of his horses, which had travelled two days earlier. But when the morning came he unaccountably changed his mind and rode with his family.

  Within sight of the Kentons’ house John urged his horse ahead, so that he arrived first and greeted Cliona.

  The others were treated to the sight of him enclosing her hand between his own, as though he owned it.

  Cliona looked charming in a riding habit of deep blue velvet, with a lacy blouse and a fluttering feather in her hat, that drew attention to her enchanting face. She laughed at John’s greeting and then turned her attention to the other gentlemen, holding out her hand impishly.

  Freddy immediately seized it and kissed it outrageously. Charles occupied himself greeting the Arnfields. When he had finished, he gave Lady Cliona the briefest possible bow.

  At last the party was ready to leave. The carriage turned out of the Arnfields’ main gates, with the riders bringing up the rear, a bright and attractive party.

  Cliona rode beside John, laughing and flirting with him. At last Charles said curtly,

  “I should go on ahead to ensure that everything is ready for my guests. Your pardon, ma’am.”

  “I think Freddy should go too,” declared John. “Off with you Freddy, we shan’t miss you.”

  Freddy looked at Charles, wondering if he were really to leave the pair alone, but Charles nodded and galloped ahead, leaving Freddy no choice but to follow.

  Cliona watched them go, refusing to allow the smile to fade from her face and also refusing to allow any doubts creep in. She had made her resolution and she would stick to it.

  Her brand new riding habit had hung, unused, in the wardrobe since she had arrived. She had been saving it for a special occasion. The way it brought out the deep blue of her eyes, the snug fit on her pretty figure, were not to be wasted on ordinary days.

  Now the special occasion had arrived. This was the day for the flowing skirt, the lacy blouse with the pearl at the throat and the neat jacket.

  Last of all, the hat, perched jauntily over her left eye, with its cheeky feather, dancing as she moved her head.

  Dressing that morning, she had felt like a General donning armour for battle. No battle in her life would ever be as important as the one she was fighting now. And her courage would not fail her.

  Like any great warrior she knew when to risk everything. When Charles had come to see her the week before and blurted out his secret, instinct had told her that if she had persisted she could have dragged or tricked a proposal of marriage from him.

  Then they would have married and because they loved each other, they would have been happy, after a fashion.

  But it would have been a fatally flawed happiness.

  A still deeper instinct had warned her not to take the easy path, that if he proposed to her in defiance of all that was best in him, there would be no peace in their marriage. She could not satisfy his heart at the expense of his pride, or only for a short time.

  So she had stepped back, letting him go, hazarding everything for the chance of the greater prize.

  Soon she would know whether she had thrown away her chance of happiness, or won the greatest glory of all.

  So she rode on to whatever might be her destiny, with flags and pennants bravely fluttering and bugles that only she could hear.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Everyone agreed that the race meeting was a great success. Charles’s horse had romped to victory in one race and the Lord Lieutenant’s horse had won another. And in the last event of the day, a mile race for mares, they each had an entry.

  Their friendly rivalry was the subject of much merriment. Sitting in Charles’s box they drank champagne and planned their wagers.

  “Naturally we shall place our money on my cousin’s horse,” said John to Cliona. “But perhaps we should wager on your uncle’s as well. What is it called by the way?”

  “Gina,” said Cliona, reaching for her programme. “And his Lordship’s horse is – ” Her voice faded into silence.

  Everyone in the box turned to look at her face, grown suddenly pale. Everyone for except Charles.

  “What is it, my dear?” asked Sir Kenton.

  “I renamed her at the last minute,” Charles observed, looking bored. “A compliment to yourself, ma’am, since the mare is bound to win.”

  “Lady Cliona,” said the Lord Lieutenant, reading from the programme. “Well, well!”

  “I hope you don’t feel I took too much of a liberty, sir,” said Charles. “Since we are such old friends –”

  “Of course, of course,” Sir Kenton cried heartily. “Well, well! Cliona, do you see that?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, laughing charmingly. “Lord Hartley flatters me.”

  She rose and faced Charles, dropping a little curtsy to him. “You are too kind to me, sir. But only consider, suppose my namesake loses?”

  “I do not consider that a possibility,” said Charles at once. “But if it happens, the blame will be all mine.”

  She regarded him, her head on one side.

  “You are too quick to blame yourself,” she said softly.

  ”On the contrary, ma’am. I believe a man should always be ready to take responsibility for his actions.”

  “But not for accidents over which he has no control,” she pointed out. “A clever man should be able to tell the difference.”

  He did not answer, but looked at her sadly.

  “How are you?” she whispered.

  “I am well, I thank you, ma’am. I hope you are enjoying a pleasant day.”

 
; “Very much. The entertainment is excellent, and your cousin exerts himself endlessly on my behalf.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” said Charles in a colourless voice. “Perhaps you will excuse me.”

  He inclined his head, and went to pay attention to a couple who had arrived to visit his box. Watkins bustled about with champagne.

  “That settles it,” said John, handing Cliona a full glass. “I will back Lady Cliona only to win the race.”

  “Poor Lady Cliona,” she said, smiling. “To have everyone’s eyes on her, all expecting something. I wonder if she will find the burden too much.”

  “Impossible! Her success is assured in everything she does,” said John cheerfully. But then he saw a shadow on her face and hurried to say, “perhaps this kind of fooling is not to your taste. I beg your pardon. I talk nonsense because I cannot speak the things that are in my heart.”

  “A man should speak of what is in his heart,” said Cliona, with a touch of fierceness. “It’s when he ignores his heart and says what he thinks he ought to say that he gets everything wrong.”

  “Even if he says things he has no right to say?” asked John after a moment. He was feeling his way carefully, unable to believe his luck.

  “If he truly means his words, then he has the right to say them,” Cliona murmured.

  “But I am a poor man.”

  “I have realised that.”

  “And wondered how I dared to seek you out, I dare say. I will be honest with you. I thought only of idle flirtation and I was sure that you too were merely amusing yourself, since all thought of – anything else – between us was impossible.”

  Cliona kept her head a little lowered. She did not want John to see her eyes, lest he read in them her disgust. It was unlucky for him that his words echoed those spoken to her by Charles in their last violent encounter.

  How different it had all sounded from Charles, she thought.

  John was speaking again.

  “But now everything is changed. What started as flirtation has become love, and since you encourage me to speak my mind, I will tell you that I love you madly and my greatest joy would be to make you my wife. I care nothing for your fortune. Give it all away. But give yourself to me, that is all I ask.”

  He spoke smoothly and well, but it only had the effect of reminding her of another man, who spoke, not smoothly and well, but awkwardly from the heart.

  “Shall I really give it all away?” she asked with a little smile.

  “Only say that you will be my wife, and I ask no other gift,” he said in a low, fervent voice.

  Later such rash assertions could be taken back. He knew that her uncle would not permit her to give up a penny. In fact, as her fiancé he would have legal rights and could prevent it himself.

  “You must give me a little time,” she said modestly. “This is so sudden.”

  “How can it be? You must have known – ” he checked himself before a flash of irritation could be his undoing.

  “All the time you need,” he said. “I am your servant, now and always. Only do not make me suffer too long. I long to take your hand in mine – ” he seized her left hand and touched the wedding finger, “and place a ring on this dear finger.”

  “Be a little patient,” she advised, withdrawing her hand.

  He smiled and managed to suppress his impatience with her shilly-shallying. He felt too close to his goal to risk it by a false step now.

  “Will you share a toast with me?” he asked. “To Lady Cliona and her success.” Solemnly they clinked their champagne glasses.

  By now people in the other boxes were looking at them. News of the renamed mare had gone round the stadium, along with the information that Lady Cliona herself was present. People raised their glasses to her.

  Only Charles stood aloof, thunderstruck by what he had just witnessed. He had seen John and Cliona talking intently, gazing deep into each other’s eyes. He had seen John take her left hand and single out the wedding finger.

  Then they had toasted each other in champagne.

  There could be no mistaking the meaning. They would make the announcement at the ball tonight.

  Cold horror possessed him. He felt like a man who had suddenly found he was looking down into an abyss.

  The mares were being paraded along the track to the starting line. There were eight of them, the third wearing the blue and yellow colours of the Lord Lieutenant, and the fourth in the green and white colours of the Earl of Hartley.

  They lined up behind the tape. The starting pistol was fired and they were away.

  For a few moments the horses were bunched, but then two moved out ahead of the rest. Gina and Lady Cliona. The crowd began to roar.

  Neck and neck they took the first bend. Then into the back straight, still nothing in it, until Gina began to inch ahead, just a little, then a little more. She was a head clear as they came round the last bend.

  In the box Sir Kenton and his lady were looking anxious, uncertain whether it was proper for them to cheer on their own animal or not. Cliona solved the problem for them by jumping to her feet and calling, “Come on, Gina! Come on, Gina!”

  On the last bend Gina drew further ahead and it seemed that nothing could get between her and the winning post, but with two hundred yards to go Lady Cliona began to inch forward until they were level – a few more yards – the winning post was in sight.

  A roar broke from the crowd as Lady Cliona just got her nose in front as they streaked across the line.

  Now the real Cliona was the toast of the race track. All around people in the boxes cheered and waved, calling her name.

  In the midst of this whirlwind she stood, accepting the tributes, apparently enjoying them, but inwardly thinking how different this might have been.

  If it had been Charles who had asked her to marry him instead of John, this would have been a wonderful moment. True, he invited her to come with him to the winner’s enclosure, but he invited the rest of the party too and did not encourage her to walk beside him.

  For a brief moment she knew a chill of fear. Suppose she failed. Then she might look back on this as the moment when everything slipped through her grasp, and she was left contemplating a desolate future.

  For an instant she forgot everything else. She became oblivious to those around her. It was like opening her eyes and discovering herself in the middle of winter. A winter that would last forever.

  But then her courage returned. She raised her head, smiled and looked round her.

  Charles was watching her. He had seen everything, including the momentary despair that she knew must have shown in her face.

  But she would die sooner than ask for his pity. She smiled at him and slipped her hand into John’s arm.

  Charles turned away.

  He did not join the cheerful party that drove home, galloping ahead on the pretext of seeing that all the preparations for the ball were in hand at the castle. In vain did his mother protest that this was her task and she had performed it very efficiently. He kissed her hand and departed with Freddy, leaving Cliona to ride home beside John in the setting sun.

  *

  At nine o’clock the guests started to arrive. Anyone looking out of an upper window would have seen a long stream of carriages making their way to the front door of Hartley Castle.

  The Countess and Lady Hester were resplendent in diamonds and rubies (collected from the bank that morning) with a few ostrich feathers to add effect.

  Charles, Freddy and John were all austerely handsome in white tie and tails, waiting in the entrance to the ballroom as the first guests appeared.

  Lady Hester had outdone herself in the ballroom decorations, a symphony in silk and flowers. The orchestra was the best that the neighbourhood had to offer.

  It had cost a fortune, Charles reflected. But Lady Hester had somehow convinced herself that all was now well, and he did not have the heart to disillusion her.

  Ladies, dressed in their finest gowns and jewels, c
ame sailing into the ballroom like gorgeous galleons. But none was as beautiful as Lady Cliona in white satin brocade draped over a huge crinoline.

  Everyone knew that she was the richest woman present, yet cleverly she had chosen to wear no jewellery. Only flowers adorned her hair. Her neck and creamy shoulders were bare. She needed no other adornment. She was perfect in herself.

  Her one extravagance was a huge white fan, made of frothy feathers and glittering with spangles.

  She made a gracious curtsy to Charles, her host, but it was John who stepped forward to take her hand for the first dance. And a murmur went around the guests that it was only a matter of time before there was a happy announcement.

  Somehow Charles got through the first dance with the daughter of the local Mayor. As soon as it was over, he sought out Cliona.

  “I don’t care whose name is written on your card,” he said. “You will dance the next dance with me. I am, after all, your host.”

  “But of course,” she said at once. “I kept the next dance for you for just that reason.”

  “Indeed?” he said, speaking more sharply than he had intended. “Suppose I had not asked you?” She smiled. “You did not ask. You demanded.”

  “Will you dance with me, Cliona?”

  “Gladly.”

  Like fairy dust she drifted into his arms. A soft fragrance floated up from her warm body, assailing his senses and making him giddy. Her lovely face was turned towards him, a gentle smile touching her lips. He tried not to look at those lips, lest the desire to kiss them should overcome him.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  Against his will the words came out. “I am thinking that this is the last time we shall dance together.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I will never dance with you when you are Mrs John Baxter.”

  “Perhaps I never will be?”

  “Stop it,” he said furiously. “Whatever game you are playing, stop it.”

  “I’m not playing, Charles. This is deadly serious for me.”

  “Serious?” he said scathingly. “You expect me to take seriously a woman who – who – ?”

  He could not think. Words tumbled about in his brain but everything was chaos. Only his senses spoke to him, and they told him to dance her out of the open French windows onto the wide terrace, sweep her around faster and faster until they were well away from the house.