Georgette Heyer - Regency Romance Classics - Georgette Heyer Collection

"What—must you—think of me!" she sobbed.

He drew her closer, till her head rested against his shoulder.

"Why, that you are a dear, foolish, naughty little Cleone. Chérie , don't cry. It is only your Philip—your own Philip, who has always loved you, and only you. Look up, my darling, look up!"

Cleone gave way to the insistence of his arms.

"Oh, Philip—forgive me!" she wept. "I have—been mad!" She raised her head and Philips arms tightened still more. He bent over her and kissed her parted lips almost fiercely.

Later, seated beside him on the couch, her head on his shoulder, and his arm about her, Cleone gave a great sigh.

"But why—why did you treat me so—hatefully—when you—came back, Philip?"

"I was hurt, darling, and wished to see whether you wanted the real me—or a painted puppet. But then you changed suddenly—and I knew not what to think."

Cleone nestled closer.

"Because I thought you—did not care! But oh, Philip, Philip, I have been so unhappy!"

Philip promptly kissed her.

"And—last night—Philip, you don't think I—"

"Sweetheart! Is it likely that I'd believe ill of you?"

She hid her face.

"I—I believed—ill—of you," she whispered.

"But you do not believe it now, sweetheart?"

"No, oh no! But—but—that duel with Mr. Bancroft. Was it—was it—some—French lady?"

Philip was silent for a moment.

"No, Cleone. That is all I can say."

"Was it"—her voice was breathless—"was it—me?"

Philip did not answer.

"It was! How wonderful!"

Philip was startled.

"You are pleased, Cleone? Pleased?"

"Of course I am! I—oo!" She gave a little wriggle of delight. "Why did you not tell me?"

"It is not—one of the things one tells one's lady-love," said Philip.

"Oh! And to-day? How did you—persuade Sir Deryk?"

"Through the arm. But he had no intention of holding you to your word."

Cleone grew rather rigid.

"Oh—indeed? In-deed?"

Philip was mystified.

"You did not want to be held to it, did you, chérie ?"

"N-no. But—I don't like him, Philip."

"I did not, I confess. I think I do now."

"Do you? And what of James?"

"Oh, James! He will recover."

There was a pause while Cleone digested this.

"Philip?"

"Cleone?"

"You—you—don't care for Jenny, do you?"

"Jenny? Cleone, for shame! Because I was polite—"

"More than that, Philip!"

"Well, dearest, no one paid any heed to her or was kind. What would you?"

"It was only that? I thought—I thought—"

"Cleone, you think too much," he chided her. "Next you will accuse me of loving Ann Nutley!" It was a master-stroke, and he knew it.

"You didn't? Not a tiny bit?"

"Not an atom!"

"And no one—in Paris?"

"No one. I have pretended, but they all knew that I had already lost my heart."

"You pretended?... Oh!"

"One must, sweetest."

"But—"

He drew her closer.

"But never, most beautiful, did I become engaged—twice in one evening!" He stifled the cry that rose to her lips.

"Philip, that is ungallant, and—and hateful!"

He laughed.

"Is it not? Ah, Cleone! Tell me, my dearest, what is in your locket?"

"Something I meant to burn," she murmured.

"But did not?"

"No—I could not." She fumbled at her bosom and drew out the trinket. "See for yourself, Philip."

He opened it. A rolled lock of brown hair fell out and a torn scrap of parchment. Philip turned it over.

"Yours till death, Philip," he read. "Cleone, my love."

She buried her face on his shoulder.

"Your—hair—your poor hair!" she said.

"All gone! Look up, Cleone!"

She lifted her face. He gazed down at her, rapt.

"Oh, Cleone—I shall write a sonnet to your wonderful eyes!" he breathed.

Table of Contents

Sir Maurice Jettan stood in the withdrawing-room of the Hotel Cleone and studied himself in the glass. He smiled a little and straightened his shoulders.

There came a swish of skirts in the passage without, and the door opened. In walked Cleone, a fair vision in a gown of pure white satin and lace.

Sir Maurice turned. He raised his quizzing-glass the better to inspect his daughter-in-law.

"Upon my soul, Cleone!" he ejaculated.

Cleone swept him a curtsey, laughing.

"Is it not ridiculous? Philip insisted. Wait till you see him!" She ran to the mirror. "Do you like the way my hair is dressed, father?"

"I am struck dumb by the whole effect!" answered Sir Maurice. "Yes, I like that white rose in your hair."

"Oh, you must tell Philip that! He spent hours and hours trying to place it to his entire satisfaction! It has been terrible, je t'assure . Yes, I am beginning to acquire an accent, am I not? Philip nearly tore his beautiful wig in his anxiety!" She re-arranged the roses at her breast. "At one time I expected him to summon François to his assistance. But he refrained, and here am I!"

Sir Maurice sat down.

"Has he been dressing you, my dear?"

"Has he—! For the past three hours, sir! He has driven my maid distracted." She started to count on her fingers. "He spent half an hour superintending my hair-dressing and another half an hour placing this rose and the pearls. Then half an hour went to my patches—this is when he nearly tore his wig!—he could not decide where to put them. The arrangement of my gown occupied quite an hour in all. And then he was much put out over my jewels." She held up her fingers. "I vow they are red and sore, sir! I have had rings pushed on them, and dragged off them, until I was nigh screaming with impatience! But now I am dressed—and I have been told on pain of Philip's direst wrath to n'y toucher pas !" She sat down on the couch beside Sir Maurice and slipped her hand in his. "Is he not absurd? And oh, I am prodigious nervous!"

"Why, my dear? What should make you so?"

"You see, it is my first appearance in Paris—it is to be my first ball—and I am so afraid I shall not understand what is said to me, or—or something mortifying!"

"Not understand? Nonsense, Clo! Why, you have talked hardly any English since you have been married."

"Yes, but I am not at all fluent. Philip says everyone will be most amiable, but—oh, dear!"

At that moment François darted into the room, a harassed frown on his face.

"Ah, pardon, madame! Pardon, m'sieu'! Je cherche la tabatière de m'sieu' Philippe! "

" Laquelle? " asked Cleone. Sir Maurice was amused by her serious air. "The one with the pearls?"

" Mais oui, madame. It is this fool of a Jacques who has lost it, sans doute ! Ah, la voilà !" He seized the errant box and skipped out again. Cleone breathed a sigh of relief.

"How terrible if it had been really lost!" she said.

Sir Maurice laughed.

"Would it have been so great a catastrophe?"

"But of course! It matches his dress, you understand."

"I see." Sir Maurice smothered another laugh. "My dear, do you know that it is three years since last I was in this city of cities?"

"Is it? Don't you think it is a wonderful place? Philip took me for a walk yesterday, and I was enchanted! And this house—I know I shall never bear to leave it! Philip says that the Hotel Cleone will be the most fashionable one in Paris! I was so surprised when he brought me here! I had no idea that there was a house waiting for me. He and François got all ready the week before our marriage! I've never been so happy in my life! And to-night I am to see Philip in what he calls his milieu. He tells me he was never at home in London."