Джорджетт Хейер - Lady of Quality

“You’d tumble over if I did,” he said, and kissed her again.

“No, no, you must not! Oh, what an abominable person you are! I wish I had never met you!” declared Miss Wychwood, abandoning the unequal struggle to free herself, and subsiding limply within his powerful arms, and shedding tears into his shoulder.

At this point, Jurby, smiling dourly, withdrew, apparently feeling that Mr Carleton was very well able to deal with Miss Wychwood without her assistance.

“Don’t cry, my precious wet-goose!” said Mr Carleton, planting a third kiss under Miss Wychwood’s ear, which, as her head was resting on his shoulder, was the only place available to him.

A watery chuckle showed that Miss Wychwood’s sense of humour had survived the ravages of influenza. “I am not a wet-goose!”

“You can’t expect me to believe you if you don’t stop crying at once!” he said severely. He swept her off her feet as he spoke, and set her down again on the sofa, himself sitting beside her, taking her hands in his, and pressing a kiss into each pink palm. “Poor Honey!” he said. “What a wretched time you’ve been having, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but it is very unhandsome of you to call me a poor Honey!” she said, trying for a rallying note. “You had as well tell me that I’ve become a positive antidote! My glass has told me so already, so it won’t come as a shock to me!”

“Your glass lies. I see no change in you, except that you are paler than I like, and are wearing a cap, which I’ve not known you to do before.” He surveyed it critically. “Very fetching!” he approved. “But I think I prefer to see your guinea-curls. Will you feel obliged to wear caps when we are married?”

“But— are we going to be married?” she said.

“Well, of course we are! You don’t suppose I’m offering you a carte blanche , do you?”

That made her laugh. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you were, for you are quite abominable, you know!”

“Wouldn’t you be surprised?” he demanded

Her eyes sank before the hard, questioning look in his. She said: “You needn’t glare at me! I only meant it for a joke! Of course it would surprise me!”

“Unamusing! Are you afraid I should be unfaithful to you? Is that why you said ‘ are we to be married?’ as though you still had doubts?”

“No, I’m not afraid of that. After all, if you did become unfaithful I should only have myself to blame, shouldn’t I?”

The hard look vanished; he smiled. “I don’t think you would find many people to agree that you were to blame for my sins!”

“Anyone with a particle of commonsense would agree with me, because if you were to set up a mistress it would be because you had become bored with me.”

“Oh, if that’s the case we need not worry! But you do still have doubts, don’t you?”

“Not when you are with me,” she said shyly. “Only when I’m alone, and think of all the difficulties—what a very big step it would be—how much my brother would dislike it—I wonder if perhaps it wouldn’t be a mistake to marry you. And then I think that it would be a much greater mistake not to marry you, and I end by not knowing what I want to do! Mr Carleton, are you sure you want to marry me, and—and that I’m not a mere passing fancy?”

“What you are trying to ask me is whether I am sure we shall be happy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose that is what I mean,” she sighed.

“Well, I can’t answer you. How can I be sure that we shall be happy when neither of us has had any experience of marriage? All I can tell you is that I am perfectly sure I want to marry you, and equally sure that you are not a ‘mere passing fancy’ of mine—what a damned silly question to ask me! If I had ever been such a shuttlehead as to have asked one of my passing fancies to marry me, I shouldn’t be a bachelor today!—and there are two other things I am sure of! One is that I have never cared for any of the charmers with whom I’ve had agreeable connections as I care for you; and another is that I have never in my life wanted anything more than I want to win you for my own—to love, and to cherish, and to guard—Oh, damn it, Annis, how can I make you believe that I love you with my whole heart and body, and mind?” He broke off, and said sharply: “What have I said to make you cry? Tell me!”

“Nothing! I d-don’t know why I began to cry. I think it must be because I’m so happy, and I’ve been feeling so dreadfully miserable!” she replied, wiping her tears away, and trying to smile.

Mr Carleton took her back into his arms. “You’re thoroughly knocked-up, sweetheart. Damn that woman for having foisted her influenza on to you! Kiss me!”

“I won’t!” said Miss Wychwood, between tears and laughter. “It would be a most improper thing for me to do, and you have no right to fling orders at me as though I were one of your bits of muslin, and I won’t submit to being ridden over rough-shod!”

“Hornet!” said Mr Carleton, and put an end to further recriminations by fastening his lips to hers.

Not the most daring of her previous suitors had ventured even to slide an arm round her waist, for although she enjoyed light-hearted flirtation, she never gave her flirts any cause to think she would welcome more intimate approaches. She had supposed that she must have a cold, celibate disposition, for she had always found the mere thought of being kissed, and (as she phrased it) mauled by any gentleman of her acquaintance shudderingly distasteful. She had once confessed this to Amabel, and had privately thought Amabel’s response to be so foolishly sentimental as to be unworthy of consideration. Amabel had said: “When you fall in love, dearest, you won’t find it at all distasteful, I promise you.” And sweet, silly little Amabel had been right! When Mr Carleton had caught Miss Wychwood into his arms, and had so ruthlessly kissed her, she had not found it at all distasteful; and when he did it again it seemed the most natural thing in the world to return his embrace. He felt the responsive quiver that ran through her, and his arms tightened round her, just as some one knocked on the door. Miss Wychwood tore herself free, uttering: “Take care! This may well be my sister, or Maria!”

It was neither. The youngest of her three housemaids came in, bearing a jug and a glass on a tray. At sight of Mr Carleton this damsel stopped on the threshold, and stood goggling at him, with her eyes starting from their sockets.

“What the devil do you want?” demanded Mr Carleton, pardonably annoyed.

“Please, sir, I don’t want anything!” said the intruder, trembling with terror. “I didn’t know Miss had a visitor! Mrs Wardlow told me to bring the fresh barley-water up to Miss, being as Betty is sick!”

“ Barley-water? ” ejaculated Mr Carleton, in revolted accents. “Good God! No wonder that you are in low spirits if that’s what they give you to drink!”

“It has lemon in it, sir!” offered the maid.

“So much the worse! Take it away, and tell Limbury to send up some burgundy! My orders!”

“Yes, sir, b-but what will I say to Mrs Wardlow, if you p-please, sir?”

Miss Wychwood intervened. “You need say nothing to her, Lizzy. Just set the barley-water on that table, and desire Limbury to send up a bottle of burgundy for Mr Carleton .... And when it comes you will drink it,” she informed her visitor, as soon as Lizzy had scurried away. “ I don’t want it!”

“You may think you don’t, but it is exactly what you do want!” he retorted. “Next they will be bringing you a bowl of gruel!”