The Conqueror's Dilemma (27 page)

Yet the instant he set foot in
the withdrawing-room, his eyes swept the place in search of Tiffany. He saw her
at once, and despite every injunction to himself to remain aloof, William found
his feet gravitating in her direction. He had no notion what he would say to
her, and even less to apprehend in her response.

To his chagrin, he felt his pulse
ruffling a trifle the nearer he got. There was no welcome in her face either.
If he did not miss his guess, she was as conscious as he of all that lay
between them. The realisation pushed him into speech.

‘I hope you are feeling a little
more relaxed at this present?’

Tiffany did not meet his eyes,
and her tone was low. ‘Yes, a little.’

He saw the unnatural rise and
fall in the pleats of muslin at her bosom and felt a stab in his chest. But she
looked up before he could speak.

‘I must thank you, sir, for all
you did. I could not have managed otherwise.’

He voiced his protest even as it
entered his head. ‘
Sir
? Is that what we have come to? Must I now call
you Miss Felton?’

The blue eyes clouded. ‘Perhaps
it would be best.’

‘It would be ridiculous!’ The
flash at her eyes pulled him up short. ‘I beg your pardon.’ Aware of the
stiffness in his voice, he tried again. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you.’

There was coldness in her face
now. ‘It makes no odds to me, Mr Westerham. Besides, I am quite used to it.’

‘From me, you mean? I don’t think
that is entirely fair. If we have quarrelled—’

‘Is that what you call it? I am
not aware of inviting any of it, and where there is not the participation of
one party, there can be no quarrel.’

William made a derisive noise.
‘Don’t split hairs, Tiffany.’

She glared up at him. ‘Miss
Felton, if you don’t mind.’

‘But I do mind.’ He became aware
of one or two faces pointed in their direction and lowered his tone. ‘We are
being remarked.’

Her stare was stony. ‘Then go
away. I did not ask you to approach me. I would infinitely prefer you to keep
your distance.’

‘Well, I’m not going to,’ stated
William in a furious undervoice. ‘We will have this out, Tiffany, one way or
the other.’

‘We will not!’

As she spoke, goaded into fierce
retort, Tiffany’s eye, looking past Will, caught on a female coming towards
them. Her ire turned to panic.

‘For heaven’s sake, go away,’ she
hissed. ‘Lady Yelverton is approaching.’

William turned abruptly, cursing
under his breath. Damn Juliana! Why in the world must she intervene just at
this moment? He was further irritated to see her wearing her most gracious
smile, her gaze fixed not upon him, but upon Tiffany. What now? Was she brewing
mischief?

‘Miss Felton.’

Her sweetest tone too? What did
she mean by it? He was relieved to note Tiffany looked anything but gratified.
Lord send she would not be intimidated, and could hold her own!

‘Now Melinda has finished her
performance, may we hope for a little entertainment from you, Miss Felton?’

Tiffany’s expression turned
instantly to fright, and William could remain silent no longer.

‘What are you about, Ju?’

‘Will, pray don’t interfere. This
is women’s work. Now, Miss Felton, I am determined to prevail upon you.’

A riot of butterflies leaped
about Tiffany’s stomach. Despite their earlier exchange, and the probability
that he was bound to acquiesce in any scheme of Lady Yelverton’s devising, she
cast an instinctive and desperate glance at the Conqueror.

‘I can’t. Truly, I can’t.’

He did not fail her. ‘You need
not if you don’t wish it.’

‘Come, come, Miss Felton. Every
young lady likes to show off her accomplishments. You do play and sing, I take
it?’

Tiffany swallowed. ‘Only—only
very indifferently. I had little aptitude.’

‘In which case,’ cut in William,
‘there is no necessity to press her, Ju. You can’t expect any girl to consent
to being shown up in company.’

He was treated to one of
Juliana’s blandest stares. ‘Melinda’s performance was, as ever, mediocre, yet
we all clapped just the same. I am sure none will be so unkind as to make fun
of Miss Felton.’

‘Yes, but Melinda looks lovely,’
objected Tiffany. ‘I can’t compete with her there. Besides, the only thing I
was ever good at was reciting.’

To her consternation, Lady
Yelverton pounced on this. ‘Then you must recite for us. What were you used to
recite?’

‘Poems, and—and Shakespeare,’
confessed Tiffany, dismayed to have fallen into a pit of her own digging.

‘Excellent. It will make a
refreshing change. Come along, girl.’

William barred their way, moved
by the terrified blue eyes. ‘Tiffany, you are at liberty to refuse to do this
if you don’t want to. I will not allow Juliana to bully you into it.’

But Lady Yelverton’s hand was
firmly at Tiffany’s elbow, and she felt herself party to a losing battle.

‘Bully? Fie, Will. Young ladies
are expected to make a show of their talents, whatever they might be. You know
it well enough. If Miss Felton is to make her mark in our world, she must not
hide her light under a bushel.’

The faint stress on the word
“our” gave Tiffany a faint edge of courage. As she saw Will open his mouth to
speak again, she threw up a hand.

‘If it must be, let it be. I can
only do my best.’

‘Bravely said,’ approved Lady
Yelverton, and for once William thought there was sincerity in her tone. He
bowed slightly and stood aside.

Tiffany felt as if she was being
taken to the scaffold, the tiny spurt of courage dissipating as she was led
towards the alcove set aside for these musical interludes. She caught a glimpse
of Ariadne watching, surprise in her face, and was tempted to appeal to her for
rescue. But Lady Yelverton, having escorted Tiffany to the little platform
between the two instruments, was clapping her hands for silence.

‘A little quiet, if you please.
We are in for a treat tonight. I have persuaded Miss Felton to recite for us.
But I must have silence. Hush!’

The quietening down of many
voices as the chattering groups about the large room realised what was going
forward served only to heighten Tiffany’s nervous apprehension. Ariadne was now
smiling encouragement, and Melinda suddenly loomed up in front of her.

‘I am so glad. Here, onto the
dais, Tiffany, so you may be seen better.’

Dragged willy-nilly up onto the
platform, Tiffany found herself facing a sea of expectant faces. Her mind was
utterly blank. No one had thought to give her time to decide what precisely she
could recite. What in the world was she to do?

She looked frantically back to
where she had been in conversation with the Conqueror, and saw he had moved
closer. His eyes were not on her, but upon Lady Yelverton, who stood close to
the dais, and he was frowning direfully. Tiffany felt a little cheered. But she
yet had no notion what poem or prose she might recite. Driven, she began upon
an excuse.

‘I am so s-sorry. I am quite
unprepared for this. You must—you must give me a moment to think of…’

She faded out, assailed by an
abrupt remembrance. Uncle Matt’s favourite poem—which was also a Shakespeare
sonnet. Thrown into relief, she began without further preamble.

‘
Let me not to the marriage of
true minds admit impediment.

Love is not love which alters
when it alteration finds,

Or
bends with the remover to remove
…’

William
noted the sudden hush that greeted this opening, the audience caught no doubt,
as he was, by the magic of Tiffany’s breathy voice.

‘
Oh, no. It is an ever fixed
mark which looks on tempests and is never shaken.
’

Abruptly it came to him what she
was reciting. Shakespeare’s sonnet on marriage and love. The irony of it caught
at him. He knew there was no intent in Tiffany to have selected just that
passage with any malice towards him. He could swear she had no notion what to
recite and had taken the first thing that came into her head.

He could not forbear a look about
the room, and was unsurprised to find the attention total. The simplicity of
Tiffany’s recital, without embellishment, allowed the words of the poet to
speak, which were enhanced by the unconscious sensual quality of her voice.
Hector was riveted, and Melinda looked rapt. Juliana was plainly startled,
which could not but give him cause for satisfaction. And then he caught
Ariadne’s eye.

The look of teasing expectation
caused him a riffle of unease. Had she an ulterior motive in bringing Tiffany
to this place? She’d denied it had anything to do with him, which he did not
believe. Now it was borne in upon him that her scheme had deeper significance
than he had supposed. And Tiffany’s unfortunate choice of recital had provoked
her into betraying it.

He resolved to give Ariadne to
understand, at the earliest opportunity, that if she was intent upon playing
matchmaker, she was wasting her time.

An image, long buried, rose up in
his mind and he was seized with a sensation of choking. Shifting quietly to the
far end of the room, away from the group around the alcove, he opened the catch
to the last of the long windows and slipped out onto the terrace to the blessed
relief of the outside air. It was chill, but not cold enough for undue
discomfort.

Breathing deeply, William tried
to banish the picture that had risen unbidden to his consciousness. His mother,
backed against a wall, with his father’s hands about her throat.

With words of praise ringing in her ears, Tiffany at last
managed to extract herself from the withdrawing-room with a last word of excuse
to Jeremy Brundish, who had been loud in appreciation. As she closed the door
behind her, she marvelled at the perfidious nature of her heart. Here she had
been fêted with unaccustomed plaudits, and she could not bear to hear them
because the Conqueror had chosen to walk out on her performance.

Impatient with herself, she
looked up and down the long hallway, dim after the candle-filled interior of
the large chamber. All she was wishful to find was a quiet spot where she might
conceal herself long enough to recover both her common sense and her
countenance. A little sigh escaped her. How in the world was she to know where
to go? One could scarcely look into every door. She might ask a servant, but
there were none about. A laxity to be laid at Lord Altass’s contempt for
pomp—which Tiffany must have approved were it not an inconvenience in this
instance.

Remembering the withdrawing-room
gave out onto a terrace, she opted to find her way outside. It might be chilly,
but she needed only a moment or two to compose herself.

Coming away from the door, she
walked purposefully to the big entrance to the mansion. She could hardly lose
herself on the driveway, and there would be light enough from the
withdrawing-room.

The front door was not locked,
and Tiffany tugged it back and went through onto the pillared portico, leaving
the door open. A rush of cool air made her rub at her arms, but it was welcome
upon her face. She closed her eyes, breathing in the fresh tang of night.

Why had he left? Intrusive, and
relentless, the question nagged at her giddy brain. She had not seen him go,
but as she ended her recital, the shower of claps and bravos that eddied her
about had sent her instinctively seeking the tall figure among the shifting
company. In vain had she looked for the familiar handsome features as she
answered at random those who came up to offer congratulation and compliment.

If Will thought her performance
poor, could he not at least have made a pretence of interest? Must he hurt her
by vanishing from the place?

A niggle of doubt banished such
thoughts. Yes, they had been, when interrupted, on less than cordial terms, but
even then he had done what he might to spare her the ordeal of performance. It
was unlike Will to be unkind—in such circumstances at least. He had been almost
cruel upon occasion, Tiffany reminded herself. Nevertheless, it sat ill with
her to think of his desertion as deliberate. Could there have been another
reason, perhaps unconnected with herself?

Voices in the immediate vicinity
disturbed her, and she opened her eyes. Two gentlemen were strolling along the
driveway. Instinct sent Tiffany scurrying for cover behind the nearest pillar.
When she peeped around it, she was hit with a wave of relief at her foresight,
immediately followed by an uncomfortable bumping in her chest. There was no
mistaking the Conqueror’s tall figure.

The men were in shadow where they walked, with nothing to
light them on the opposite side of the house to where the withdrawing-room was
situated. Was that Lord Kilbride with him? Tiffany rather thought so, by the
other man’s stockier build. As they came closer, she was able to recognise it
was indeed Ariadne’s brother, for his voice floated clearly on the still night
air to where she stood concealed.

‘It’s no use telling me there’s
nothing amiss, old fellow, for I ain’t so preoccupied I can’t see it. You’ve
been surly as a bear for days, and now I find you out here looking as hangdog
as bedamned. Out with it, Will, for the Lord’s sake! What’s to do? Is it the
Felton chit?’

Tiffany almost gasped out, and
her heart clattered madly. She felt as if her ears stood out on stalks as she
waited for Will’s response.

‘Partly. At least—no, it’s no
fault of Tiffany’s. She cannot help what she is—and I cannot help responding to
it.’

The breath stopped in her throat.
His words, as well as the odd rasp to his voice, remained suspended in her
mind, like a silent echo. All thought was hushed, her only consciousness the
tiny repetitive leap of the pulse in her wrist.