Georgette Heyer - Powder and Patch

“I? Does it matter what I know? It is what Cleone knows, but there’s naught under the sun so unreasonable as a maid in love.”

“But if Philip assures her-”

“Pho!” said her ladyship, and snapped her fingers. “Pho!” “She wouldn’t believe it?”

“She might. But she might not choose to show it.” “But it’s ridiculous! It’s-”

“Of course. All girls are ridiculous.”

“Sally, don’t be tiresome. What’s to be done?”

“Leave ’em alone,” counselled her ladyship. “There’s no good to be got out of interfering. Philip must play his own game.”

“He intends to. But he does not know whether she loves him or not!”

“You can tell him from me that there is hope, but that he must go carefully. And now I’m going to sleep. Goodbye, Maurice.”

When Philip entered the ballroom of my Lady Dering’s house, on Wednesday evening, Lady Malmerstoke had already arrived. Cleone was dancing with Sir Deryk; Jennifer was sitting beside her ladyship, looking very shy and very bewildered. As soon as he could do so, Philip made his way to that end of the room.

Lady Malmerstoke welcomed him with a laugh. “Good even, Philip! Have you brought your papa?” Philip shook his head.

“He preferred to go to White’s with Tom. Jenny, you’ll dance with me, will you not? Remember, you promised!”

Jennifer raised her eyes.

“I-I doubt I-cannot I-I have danced so few times, sir.” “Don’t tell me those little feet cannot dance, chérie!” Jennifer glanced down at them.

“It’s monstrous kind of you, Philip-but-but are you sure you want to lead me out?” Philip offered her his arm.

“I see you are in a very teasing mood, Jenny,” he scolded. Jennifer rose.

“Well, I will-but-oh, I am very nervous! I expect you dance so well.” “I don’t think I do, but I am sure you underrate your dancing. Let us essay each other!”

From across the room Cleone saw them. She promptly looked away, but contrived, nevertheless, to keep an eye on their movements. She saw Philip presently lead Jenny to a chair and sit talking to her. Then he hailed a passing friend and presented him to Jennifer. Cleone watched him walk across the room to a knot of men. He returned to Jennifer with several of them. Unreasoning anger shook Cleone. Why did Philip care what happened to Jennifer? Why was he so assiduous in his attentions? She told herself she was an ill-natured cat, but she was still angry. From Jennifer Philip went to Ann Nutley.

Sir Deryk stopped fanning Cleone.

“There he goes! I declare, Philip Jettan makes love to every pretty woman he meets! Just look at them!”

Cleone was looking. Her little teeth were tightly clenched. “Mr Jettan is a flatterer,” she said.

“Always so abominably French, too. Mistress Ann seems amused. I believe Jettan is a great favourite with the ladies of Paris.”

Suddenly Cleone remembered that duel that Philip had fought ‘over the fair name of some French maid’.

“Yes?” she said carelessly. “Of course, he is very handsome.”

“Do you think so? Oh, here he comes! Evidently the lovely Ann does not satisfy him …. Your

servant, sir!”

Philip smiled and bowed.

“Mademoiselle, may I have the honour of leading you out?” he asked. Above all, she must not show Philip that she cared what he did. “Oh, I have but this instant sat down!” she said, “I protest I am fatigued and very hot!” “I know of a cool withdrawing-room,” said Brenderby at once. “Let me take you to it, fairest!” “It’s very kind, Sir Deryk, but I do not think I will go. If I might have a glass of ratafia?” she added plaintively, looking at Philip.

For once he was backward in responding. Sir Deryk bowed. “At once, dear lady! I go to procure it.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!” This was not what Cleone wanted at all. “Well, Mr Jettan, you have not yet fled to Paris?”

Philip sat down beside her.

“No, mademoiselle, not yet. Tonight will decide whether I go or stay.” His voice was rather stern.

“Indeed? How vastly exciting!”

“Is it not! I am going to ask you a plain question, Cleone. Will you marry me?” Cleone gasped in amazement Unreasoning fury shook her. That Philip should dare to come to her straight from the smiles of Ann Nutley! She glanced at him. He was quite solemn. Could it be that he mocked her? She forced herself to speak lightly. “I can hardly suppose that you are serious, sir!”

“I am in earnest, Cleone, never more so. We have played at cross-purposes long enough.” His voice sent a thrill through her. Almost he was the Philip of Little Fittledean. Cleone forced herself to remember that he was not.

“Cross-purposes, sir? I fail to understand you!” “Yes? Have you ever been honest with me, Cleone?” “Have you ever been honest with me, Mr Jettan?” she said sharply. “Yes, Cleone. Before you sent me away I was honest with you. When I came back, no. I wished to see whether you wanted me as I was, or as I pretended to be. You foiled me. Now I am again honest with you. I say that I love you, and I want you to be my wife.” “You say that you love me-” Cleone tapped her fan on her knee. “Perhaps you will continue to be honest with me, sir. Am I the only one you have loved?”

“You are the only one.”

The blue eyes flashed.

“And what of the ladies of the French Court, Mr Jettan? What of a certain duel you fought with a French husband? You can explain that, no doubt?”

Philip was silent for a moment, frowning.

“So the news of that absurd affair reached you, Cleone?” She laughed, clenching her teeth.

“Oh, yes, sir! It reached me. A pity, was it not?” “A great pity, Cleone, if on that gossip you judge me,”

“Ah! There was no truth in the tale?” Suppressed eagerness was in her voice. “I will be frank with you. A certain measure of truth there was. M. de Foli-Martin thought himself injured. It was not so.”

“And why should he think so, sir?”

“Presumably because I paid court to madame, his wife.”

“Yes?” Cleone spoke gently, dangerously. “You paid court to madame. No doubt she was very lovely?”

“Very.” Philip was nettled.

“As lovely, perhaps, as Mademoiselle de Marcherand, of whom I have heard, or as Mistress Ann Nutley yonder? Or as lovely as Jennifer?”

Philip took a false step.

“Cleone, surely you are not jealous of little Jenny?” he cried.

She drew herself up.

“Jealous? What right have I to be jealous? You are nothing to me, Mr Jettan! I confess that once I-liked you. You have changed since then. You cannot deny that you have made love to a score of beautiful women since you left home. I do not blame you for that. You are free to do as you please. What I will not support is that you should come to me with your proposal, having shown me during the time that you have spent in England that I am no more to you than Ann Nutley, or Julie de Marcherand. ‘To the Pearl that Trembles in Her Ear’, was it not? Very pretty, sir. And now I intrigue you for the moment I cannot consider myself flattered, Mr Jettan.”

Philip had grown pale under his paint.

“Cleone, you wrong me! It is true that I have trifled harmlessly with those ladies. It is the fashion-the fashion you bade me follow. There has never been aught serious betwixt any woman and me. That I swear!”

“You probably swore the same to M. de Foli-Martin?” “When I had given him the satisfaction he craved, yes.” “I suppose he believed you?”

“No.” Philip bit his lip.

“No? Then will you tell me, sir, how it is that you expect me to believe what M. de Foli-Martin-closely concerned-would not believe?”

Philip looked straight into her eyes.

“I can only give you my word, Cleone.” Still she fought on, wishing to be defeated. “So you have never trifled with any of these women, sir? Philip was silent again.

“You bring me”-Cleone’s voice trembled-“a tarnished reputation. I’ve no mind to it, sir. You have made love to a dozen other women. Perhaps you have kissed them. And-and now you offer me-your kisses! I like unspoilt wares, sir.”

Philip rose, very stiff and stern.

“I am sorry that you consider yourself insulted by my offer, Cleone.”

Her hand half flew towards him and fell again. Couldn’t he understand that she wanted him to beat down her resistance? Did he care no more than that? If only he would deny everything and master her!

“I hasten to relieve you of my obnoxious presence. Your servant, mademoiselle.” Philip bowed. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Cleone stricken. Her fan dropped unheeded to the ground. Philip had gone! He had not understood that she wanted to be overruled, overcome. He had gone, and he would never come back. In those few minutes he had been the Philip she loved, not the flippant gallant of the past weeks. Tears came into Cleone’s eyes. Why, why had he been so provoking? And oh, why had she let him go? She knew now beyond question that he was the only man she could ever love, or had ever loved. Now he had left her, and would go back to Paris. Nothing mattered, she did not care what became of her once she had lost Philip.

James Winton, never far away, came to her side and sat down. Cleone greeted him mechanically and proceeded to follow out her own line of dismal thought. Through a haze of misery she heard James’ voice. It sounded rather shy, and very anxious. She had not the faintest idea of what he was saying, but she felt vaguely annoyed by his persistency. Presently these words filtered through to her brain:

“Say yes, Cleone! Say yes! Oh, say yes, Cleone!” How importunate he was! Cleone turned impatiently. “Oh, yes, yes! What is it?”

As James had been blurting out a carefully-worded proposal of marriage, he was not flattered by this answer. He rose, hurt to the bottom of his youthful soul. “It is evident that you have not heard a word of what I said, Cleone!”