Deirdre and Desire (8 page)

Just before his lips met hers, Deirdre thought savagely, ‘Aha,
now
this coxcomb will see the difference . . . now I know he is not Guy.’

His mouth seemed to cling to her own, moving gently against it while she waited listlessly for him to be done.

Then her treacherous body began to shake and ache with all sorts of languorous pains. Her hand stole behind his neck, seemingly of its own volition, and buried itself in his thick curls.

He abruptly released her, swinging her lightly down to her feet, and steadying her with an arm about her shoulders.

She stood very still, looking clown at the ground, sick, and shaken and frightened. This rampant lust that had briefly consumed her was terrifying. Love should not be like this. It should be
sweet and pure: a delicate communing of minds, a meeting and merging of ideas.

Deirdre felt she had been unfaithful to Guy.

She glanced up at Lord Harry under her lashes. He had taken a flat case out of his pocket and was extricating another cheroot.

‘What a beautiful night,’ he said happily.

‘You . . . you will not tell my parents about . . . about me sleep-walking?’ said Deirdre in an odd harsh voice unlike her own.

‘No,’ he said gently, beginning to walk across the field. ‘No, I think not. They might not believe me, you see. Your good father – who sometimes, if you will forgive me,
Miss Deirdre, does seem to have evil thoughts for a man of the cloth – might jump to the conclusion that you had mistaken me for someone else.’

Deirdre stumbled and he caught her arm. She looked up at him anxiously and he smiled hack, his eyes reflecting nothing more than a rather bovine good humour.

‘Which would be very silly of him,’ said Deirdre in a low voice.

‘Which would be very silly,’ agreed Lord Harry, ‘since you kissed me back with the same warmth the second time as you did the first.’

‘We will not discuss the matter any longer,’ said Deirdre. ‘Pray talk of something else. I learn from my father that you fought bravely at Waterloo.’

‘I fought, yes.’

‘Tell me about it,’ demanded Deirdre.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said lazily. ‘I want to talk about your eyes. Do you ever wear jade earrings? I wish we were engaged so that I might buy you a
pair.’

‘I suppose you consider females too silly to hear stories about war.’

‘The only people who want to hear stories about Waterloo are people who either were not there themselves or who have never fought in such a battle. It was not as the others, you know. It
was slogging carnage and bloodshed.’

‘A battle you obviously think England should not have fought.’

‘Now, why would I think that? My French is quite atrocious, you know. I think that’s why I had no desire to live under Napoleon. Also, think of their coats! Quite hideous, I assure
you.’

‘There is one man who has fought bravely at Waterloo and is not ashamed to talk about it,’ said Deirdre, her voice tinged with contempt.

‘Indeed! Who, pray?’

‘You will meet him tomorrow.’

‘Ah, I am to be surprised.’

‘I think before we reach home, Lord Harry, that I should make it plain we do not suit. Oh, I am grateful to you for telling Papa you were coming on a visit so that I could leave London.
But it is time to end this farce.’

‘But I am very comfortable,’ he said. ‘I like your family. I have not had much in the way of family life of late.’

‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’ she asked curiously, realizing how little she knew of him.

‘I have three brothers, all younger than I, and two little sisters.’

‘Do you visit your parents very often?’

‘As little as possible.’

‘I know what it is to detest one’s parents,’ said Deirdre in a bitter voice, feeling a kinship with him for the first time.

‘I did not say I detested them,’ he said airily. ‘In fact I’m fond of them, but I prefer to live in town.’

He jumped nimbly over the stile and stood on the other side to lift her down.

‘I am quite able to get over by myself, sir,’ said Deirdre.

But he appeared not to have heard. He held out both arms.

She gingerly put both her hands in his and prepared to jump down.

But he tugged her forwards so that she fell down into his embrace.

Oh, treacherous, disgusting body with its melting lusts and palpitating nerves!

Deirdre wrenched herself free and stalked off down the road in front of him as gingerly as a cat.

He caught up with her. She glanced up at him and started at the look of shrewd, calculating intelligence on his face. But it must have been a trick of the moonlight, for the next second his
lovely features looked as bland, stupid and good-humoured as ever.

The vicar met them at the gate. ‘Well, now,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘That’s what I like to see.’

Deirdre pushed past him and ran into the house.

That night, she cried herself to sleep.

The day of the picnic dawned bright and sunny. Deirdre’s excitement had affected the other girls who were in a thoroughly strung-up state by the time they were at last
ready to leave for the Hall.

Lord Harry had his own carriage and everyone assumed he would drive Deirdre, but Deirdre did not want to appear in his company. She wanted Guy to see her, unescorted, unspoken for, unattached.
And so she talked Daphne into taking her place in Lord Harry’s dashing phaeton and Daphne was only too ready to oblige.

Deirdre was wearing a jade-green silk gown with a pelisse of the same colour. A charming straw hat
à la bergère
all but hid her red curls. Roman sandals adorned her feet.
The frost had melted from the grass and the air still had a sharp nip in it despite the glory of the sun.

She began to wish she had settled for wool. Of what use was a becoming gown if one’s nose was red with cold?

All Sir Edwin’s tenants had been invited as well as all the notables of the country. Deirdre was surprised to see John Summer driving a farm cart behind the family carriage, piled high
with wood and bunting.

The reason for this became all too evident shortly after they had arrived. The vicar, it transpired, felt that garden parties should be in aid of something or other, and what better charity
could there be but to raise funds to restore the roof of the church?

A booth was quickly erected, a placard asking for donations propped in front of it, and the beautiful Daphne thrust behind it.

Never had Deirdre seen her younger sister look so enraged.

Sir Edwin and Lady Edwin sailed forwards and neatly cut off Lord Harry and edged him gently towards their giggling daughters, Josephine and Emily.

Josephine and Emily were dressed in identical gowns of violent tartan. They wore enormous poke bonnets from which their giggles echoed as if emerging from the end of a tunnel.

A whole ox was being roasted to one side of the main lawn and members of the peasantry were sulkily dancing around a maypole on the other side, wearing Elizabethan costumes thrust on them by
Lady Edwin.

Sir Edwin prided himself on being a good landlord and also prided himself on the fact that not one of his tenants had been known to starve to death. Of course, some of them were quite painfully
thin, but, as Sir Edwin liked to point out, that was due to heredity.

Deirdre kept away from the crowds as much as possible. She was watching and waiting for Guy to arrive so that she could tell him of her plight and ask him to elope with her.

Lord Harry appeared to be perfectly happy to entertain Josephine and Emily.

All at once, Deirdre saw Guy with Lady Wentwater on his arm, entering by the south lawn.

But there was a great bustle as Lady Edwin marshalled the guests to the long trestle tables which had been erected down the centre of the front lawn.

Mrs Armitage swam into view. ‘You must help me, Deirdre,’ she said plaintively. ‘All that disgusting smell of roast meat makes me feel quite faint. Be a dear girl and find out
where we are to sit.’

‘I have found out, ma’m,’ said Lord Harry, appearing at their side, a vision in blue cloth morning coat, white waistcoat and biscuit-coloured pantaloons. ‘Allow me to
escort you.’

He held out both arms. Deirdre bit her lip, looking towards Guy who was bowing before Lady Edwin.

He did not look in her direction once.

Deirdre longed to speak to him, to feel the reassuring touch of his hand, to see him smile.

He certainly paled before the glory of Lord Harry, but that made Guy Wentwater more attractive in her eyes than ever. In truth, Miss Deirdre Armitage was beginning to find Lord Harry Desire
somewhat terrifying.

Only see the possessive way he helped her to sickening mounds of that disgusting meat and great horrible mountains of sausages and vegetables.

No, she did not want any game pie, she snapped, close to tears.

Josephine was seated on Lord Harry’s other side and determined to make the most of it.

Guy was seated a little way down the table next to Emily. He was laughing and teasing her. Deirdre could not see Emily’s face because of the long poke of the girl’s bonnet, but the
giggles and screams that were emerging from under the straw seemed to show she was well pleased with the attention she was getting.

And so the interminable meal went on, and on, and on.

Clouds covered the sun, the grass under Deirdre’s sandalled feet, still wet from melted frost, seeped moisture through the thin soles of her sandals.

She kept squinting down her nose anxiously to see whether it was turning red with the cold, and Lord Harry smiled beautifully upon her and asked her if she were suffering from a fit of
indigestion.

At long last, the steward rose to his feet and proposed a toast to the master, and the dutiful peasantry set up a ragged cheer. Many of them were secreting as much food about their person as
they could.

Deirdre envied the squire who had his Indian servant standing behind him with armfuls of blankets, and, at a signal from his master, he would unwrap yet another one from the pile on his arm and
deftly place it about the squire’s thin shoulders.

Daphne was coughing and sneezing. She had arrived at the garden party in a vision of India muslin of the palest pink. Her forced inactivity on duty at the family fund-raising booth had brought
her out in a rash of gooseflesh which seemed likely to become permanent, so blue and bumpy it looked. The low neckline of her gown revealed flesh above so blue and mottled, it looked as if she were
wearing a blue gauze fichu.

At long last, the company was free to move about and inspect the gardens. Guy took Emily on his arm and headed off in the direction of the rose garden.

‘Who is the fellow you said had been at Waterloo?’ she realized Lord Harry was asking her.

‘He has just gone towards the rose garden,’ said Deirdre, coming to life at last. ‘Oh, do let us go there, my lord, and you may share reminiscences.’

‘Very well,’ he rejoined amiably, tucking her hand in his arm.

The rose garden boasted nothing more than a few frost-blackened, withered blooms but at least it was out of the chilly wind.

Guy was leaning nonchalantly against a sundial, whispering something to Emily, who was giggling and making patterns in the dust with the point of her parasol.

‘Mr Wentwater!’ cried Deirdre in a shrill voice.

‘Oh, tish,’ said Emily audibly. ‘It’s one of the pests from the vicarage.’

Deirdre marched forwards resolutely, almost pulling Lord Harry with her.

‘Mr Wentwater,’ repeated Deirdre when they had approached. ‘Allow me to present Lord Harry Desire. Lord Harry, Mr Wentwater. Miss Emily Armitage, you have already met.’

Guy made his bow. A little silence fell. Lord Harry smiled blandly on the world, holding his curly-brimmed beaver and cane in one hand while the blustery breeze ruffled his glossy black curls.
Emily darted a venomous look at Deirdre from the depths of her poke bonnet, like some small and vicious animal staring out of its hole.

‘Well,’ said Deirdre brightly, ‘I felt I simply must bring you two gentlemen together. Lord Harry was at Waterloo as well, Mr Wentwater, and I am dying to hear your shared
accounts of that great battle.’

‘Good heavens!’ cried Guy Wentwater. ‘I hear my aunt calling me. She sounds in great distress.’

And he did look most flustered. He made an awkward bow and ran out of the rose garden.

Lord Harry took out his quizzing glass and gazed through it at Guy Wentwater’s rapidly retreating figure with interest.

‘Marvellous ears that man has,’ he murmured. ‘Like a demned bat. Now,
I
couldn’t hear a thing.’

‘We had better go immediately,’ said Deirdre. ‘Lady Wentwater may be in need of help.’

She ran off in the direction Guy had taken without pausing to see whether the other two had any intention of following her.

But when she returned to the party, she could see no sign of Guy. The only loud noise was being made by her father and Sir Edwin. Sir Edwin was coldly stating that the introduction of a
fund-raising booth to his fête was vulgar in the extreme, and the vicar was hurling biblical quotations at him, like so many stones.

Deirdre searched frantically, running hither and thither until she at last came on the squat figure of Lady Wentwater, sitting under an elm tree with Squire Radford, and sharing his
blankets.

‘Where is Mr Wentwater?’ panted Deirdre, while the squire’s kind eyes looked uncomfortably shrewd.

‘Blessed if I know,’ said Lady Wentwater. ‘Why don’t you look for him?’

‘But I’ve looked and looked,’ said Deirdre, clenching her hands into fists at her sides.

‘What’s amiss, then?’ asked Lady Wentwater curiously. Her little currant eyes turned suddenly sly. ‘Why do you
long
to see my nephew?’

‘I don’t long to see him at all,’ said Deirdre, blushing red. ‘And he said he heard you calling out in distress.’

‘Not I. Keep on looking,’ said her ladyship airily.

And Deirdre did.

She not only searched the grounds but the Hall as well. But of Guy Wentwater, she saw not the slightest sign.