“Now what, I wonder, are your favourite flowe r s? Not orchids ...? No,” he shook his head emphatically, “you do not suggest to me orchids. But camellias, yes. Or gardenias!” He glanced at his watch as if he had a commission to execute. “Tell me, Cathleen, what is the colour of the dress you will be wearing to-night?”
Cathleen was so surprised that she didn’t answer immediately. For one thing, she hadn’t the least idea what she was going to wear that night ... except that the white dress Edouard had asked for would not now be worn. She didn’t know why she was so certain about that in her own mind, but she was, and the only explanation she could think of afterwards was ... acute disappointment.
“Well ? ” the Count demanded, as if he was mildly impatient. “What will you be wearing, Cathleen?” Cathleen thought for a moment. She had brought three dresses that would be suitable with her, and one was black lace. Black lace seemed a fairly safe thing to wear in any case.
The Count was enchanted.
“You will look delightful in that, signorina. With your skin, and your eyes, it could hardly be better.” But Cathleen was in no mood for dressing herself up once she got upstairs to her room. She felt like a child that had been denied a treat ... a promised treat. And she simply could not understand why Edouard Moroc, who had the air of being very much master of his own fate, and was even slightly disdainful and arrogant at times, as if he was accustomed to ordering his life without interference, should have so meekly submitted to being roped in to a dinner-party that he didn’t appear to wish very much to attend, and which meant submitting Cathleen to the slight embarrassment of being set aside as if she was, after all, a thing of very small account in his public world, even if in his private world he enjoyed her company.
But did he really enjoy her company? As she lifted the black lace—really rather exquisite black lace that had cost her quite a lot of money—out of her wardrobe and examined it dispassionately, she wondered.
She was reasonably certain that the Count was making himself very pleasant to her—quite noticeably pleasant—because he was the victim of a misunderstanding, and as a result of that misunderstanding he believed she was the one thing she was not ... a young woman of means. His attitude towards her when she first arrived at the palazzo had been carelessly charming, but he had been prepared to let her go without expressing the smallest wish to see her again—in fact, at one stage she felt he would be thankful to see the last of her!—right up until the moment when she mentioned having inherited a sum of money.
From that moment his attitude had changed entirely, and it was not perhaps surprising since, according to Edouard, he and his sister, although living in their crumbling palazzo still full of family treasures, were very badly off.
Cathleen could see the hand of Bianca in this desire to get better acquainted with herself.
And looking back on Edouard’s attitude she was not impressed by what she could recall. Edouard had seemed particularly disdainful, and his disdain had not melted until he returned to the salon with the coffee tray and overheard Cathleen in the midst of her admission about inheriting money.
A nasty pang smote her. She couldn’t really believe it, having spent practically the whole of a day with Edouard, and read certain unmistakable things into his expression at times, that he, too, was only interested in her because someone had left her money.
She remembered that he had particularly asked her not to let him know the extent of her means. He had said it was nothing to do with him.
And, of course, it wasn’t !
There was a knock at the door, and a corsage of gardenias was handed in. They were the faint pink of the inside of a shell, or a pearl, and with them there was a card on which the name Paul was scrawled, while the edges of the card were
Cathleen was so surprised that she didn’t answer immediately. For one thing, she hadn’t the least idea what she was going to wear that night ... except that the white dress Edouard had asked for would not now be worn. She didn’t know why she was so certain about that in her own mind, but she was, and the only explanation she could think of afterwards was ... acute disappointment.
“Well ? ” the Count demanded, as if he was mildly impatient. “What will you be wearing, Cathleen?” Cathleen thought for a moment. She had brought three dresses that would be suitable with her, and one was black lace. Black lace seemed a fairly safe thing to wear in any case.
The Count was enchanted.
“You will look delightful in that, signorina. With your skin, and your eyes, it could hardly be better.” But Cathleen was in no mood for dressing herself up once she got upstairs to her room. She felt like a child that had been denied a treat ... a promised treat. And she simply could not understand why Edouard Moroc, who had the air of being very much master of his own fate, and was even slightly disdainful and arrogant at times, as if he was accustomed to ordering his life without interference, should have so meekly submitted to being roped in to a dinner-party that he didn’t appear to wish very much to attend, and which meant submitting Cathleen to the slight embarrassment of being set aside as if she was, after all, a thing of very small account in his public world, even if in his private world he enjoyed her company.
But did he really enjoy her company? As she lifted the black lace—really rather exquisite black lace that had cost her quite a lot of money—out of her wardrobe and examined it dispassionately, she wondered.
She was reasonably certain that the Count was making himself very pleasant to her—quite noticeably pleasant—because he was the victim of a misunderstanding, and as a result of that misunderstanding he believed she was the one thing she was not ... a young woman of means. His attitude towards her when she first arrived at the palazzo had been carelessly charming, but he had been prepared to let her go without expressing the smallest wish to see her again—in fact, at one stage she felt he would be thankful to see the last of her!—right up until the moment when she mentioned having inherited a sum of money.
From that moment his attitude had changed entirely, and it was not perhaps surprising since, according to Edouard, he and his sister, although living in their crumbling palazzo still full of family treasures, were very badly off.
Cathleen could see the hand of Bianca in this desire to get better acquainted with herself.
And looking back on Edouard’s attitude she was not impressed by what she could recall. Edouard had seemed particularly disdainful, and his disdain had not melted until he returned to the salon with the coffee tray and overheard Cathleen in the midst of her admission about inheriting money.
A nasty pang smote her. She couldn’t really believe it, having spent practically the whole of a day with Edouard, and read certain unmistakable things into his expression at times, that he, too, was only interested in her because someone had left her money.
She remembered that he had particularly asked her not to let him know the extent of her means. He had said it was nothing to do with him.
And, of course, it wasn’t !
There was a knock at the door, and a corsage of gardenias was handed in. They were the faint pink of the inside of a shell, or a pearl, and with them there was a card on which the name Paul was scrawled, while the edges of the card were
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