Beauvallet · Chapter 11 (2/2)

“I did,” said his mother imperturbably. “The girl saw a very personable man, with more charm in his lightest smile, my poor son, than any other here tonight. She was tempted to be forsworn, and I bade her go. Had I intervened for you she would not have danced at all. Now you are sure of her, for she cannot refuse, having danced once.”

In the ballroom Dominica had little opportunity to speak to Sir Nicholas. She dreaded lest some overheard phrase might betray him; for the first few steps of the dance she could only look up eloquently into his face. They drew together a moment, and she whispered:⁠—“You have come! How could you dare?”

“Had you not my word, little doubter?”

They drew apart again; another couple was too close to allow them to say more. The music stopped; Sir Nicholas was bowing, and Don Diego was possessively at Dominica’s elbow.

She lived through another hour in a fret. Don Diego stayed close at her side; she could only watch Beauvallet across the room, and long to be alone with him. It seemed she would never find the opportunity, but presently her cousin’s attention was claimed, and he had to lead another lady out to dance. Dominica cast a quick look round, saw her aunt at the other end of the room, and drew back behind the ample form of a portly dowager. She slipped along the wall then to where heavy curtains hung, shutting off a small antechamber. Knowing Beauvallet’s eyes to be upon her she went through, and stood breathlessly waiting.

The curtains moved; he was before her. She went to him in a little run, with both her hands held out, and her eyes full of happy tears. “Oh, to see you again!” she whispered. “I never thought it possible!”

He gathered her hands in his, and held them clasped against his breast. “Softly, my heart! This is dangerous work.” His voice was quick and decisive for all he spoke so low. “I must have speech with you alone. Which way looks your chamber?”

“To the garden. Ah, Nicholas, I have wanted you!”

“My fondling!” His hands pressed hers closer. “Does your woman sleep with you?”

“Nay, I am alone.” She looked wonderingly up at him.

“Set a lamp in your window when you judge all to be asleep, to give me a sign. Can you trust me?”

“Ah, you know! You know I can trust only you. What will you do?”

“Climb up to you, sweetheart,” he answered, and smiled at her face of amazement. “What windows look out that way?”

“My woman’s⁠—my cousin’s closet⁠—some servants.”

“Good.” He kissed her hands. “Expect me then when you show a light. Patience, my bird!”

He released her, and stepped back. The curtains parted for a moment, and he was gone.

The rest of the evening passed in a bewildered haze for her. She was conscious only of Beauvallet’s presence, but he did not come near her again. Her cousin besought her to dance with him again, and when she would not, stayed by her, teasing her ear with his soft speech.

“Who was the Frenchman?” she asked. “The Chevalier. Is he of the Ambassador’s court?”

“De Guise! No, my dear cousin, the Ambassador owns him not. Some idle traveller swaggering abroad. I trust he will soon be gone from us. It was no wish of mine that he should be invited here tonight. A trifler, no more.”

“You do not like him, cousin?” she said, looking sideways.

He raised those expressive shoulders. “An arrogant Frenchman who bears himself as though he would snap his fingers in one’s face! No, I do not like him, cousin.”

A gleam of mischief shot into her eyes. “It is to be hoped he will not snap his fingers in your face, cousin,” she said demurely.

“I should have but one answer, Dominica.” He touched his sword-hilt. “I do not think the gay Chevalier would return to France.”