Part 9 (2/2)

”You've never tried, my sweet princess,” he retorted, with lazy ardour and a bold stare at the charms which the simplicity of a white gown and posy of primroses, nestling in the soft laces at her breast, set off to advantage. ”You don't know the delights of conquest. Why, every beau in town would be at your feet, and every belle would be wanting to scratch your pretty eyes out. What could woman want more?”

”I can scarce be woman yet,” she answered, laughing in spite of obvious annoyance at his glances, ”for I should need much more. My woods and my primroses for instance.”

Her eyes grew dreamy over a memory. Lord Denningham grinned as he slowly took a pinch of snuff.

”Even Arcadia needs the shepherd's flute--or the lover's whisper,” said he. ”You must show me your woods to-morrow, and teach me that primrose-plucking is more entertaining than rout or race-course. I vow I'm ready to learn--and be convinced--by such a mistress.”

The note of pa.s.sion running through the thinly-veiled sarcasm sent the rosy blushes to her cheeks, but her white brow was set in a wrinkle of frowns.

”Nay, my lord,” she returned coldly. ”You're past conversion, and my woods are no more for you than I am for your gay London. I want neither lovers nor racketings.”

Her eyes strayed to where, at the other end of the great saloon, Lady Helmington's fat shoulders were shaking with excitement as she dealt the cards.

Her ladys.h.i.+p was as fond of gambling as her lord was of rum punch.

But Lord Denningham was smiling as he toyed with the gilt inlaid snuff-box in his hand.

”Not lovers then, for such a little lady,” quoth he, persisting. ”But a lover--or husband--the most devoted, on the soul of----”

She interrupted him, more rosy red with anger than maiden coyness.

”No, nor lover neither, I thank you, my lord,” she replied hastily.

”I'll not need or wish to go to town for such.”

He opened languid blue eyes in surprise.

”What! Do primrose woods supply those too?” said he. ”Fie! madam, I shall tell Morry.”

She rose, scarlet with temper, and prettier than ever for her pa.s.sion, sweeping past her insolent admirer with the air of an angry queen.

Half way up the great room she stopped to speak--and this time with smiling graciousness--to a grey-wigged gentleman in a suit of sober green, with fine lace ruffles and jabot,--a gentleman somewhat old, somewhat bent, and more than somewhat rubicund about the nose. Yet his face was kindly and his bearing paternal towards pretty little Mistress Gabrielle.

Jack Denningham, roue, gambler, and very fine gentleman--in his own eyes--turned away with a chuckle. He had quite determined that this country chit should have the inestimable honour of being Lady Denningham. In the meantime her tantrums and graces amused him.

A jolly shout of welcome from a young man dressed in the height of fas.h.i.+on, from spangled satin waistcoat to buckled shoes, made him turn his head towards the opening door, to which his host was already hastening.

”Come, Steenie, we were waiting for you; ha! ha!” cried Morice Conyers, slapping Sir Stephen Berrington heartily on the back.

”Dice and cards had lost their savour without the salt of your company; as for the punch bowl, it was awaiting its master.”

Sir Stephen, surrounded at once by a merry throng of youths, laughed gaily. He was steady now on his legs, and there were no ghosts at Langton Hall--or he forgot them amidst boon comrades.

But Michael, standing in the background, remembered the man whose life had rotted for years in a dungeon, and wondered very greatly how Morice Conyers could touch the hand that had sent his father to a living death.

But Morice had no such thought, though his brow knit slightly at sight of Michael, remembering, perhaps, a more recent event under the shadow of a high wall, where a dainty stripling had been sent sprawling by a st.u.r.dy, black-browed boy.

Sir Stephen's merry voice broke through an unpleasant memory.

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