“He would not have done so if I had been living here with you at the time, Samantha,” Lady Matilda said, “as I would have been had Mother not suffered palpitations with every word that reached us about Matthew’s condition. Even now I would urge you to send him to the stables and make him stay there. Animals do not belong in a decent house, as I am sure you would agree, Lady Gramley.”
“You will think me a thorough weakling, I daresay, ma’am,” Mrs. McKay said as a maid removed the tea tray. “I love him, you see. How anyone could love an ugly, impudent fellow like you, Tramp, I do not know, but I do.”
She contrived to look at the dog, Ben noticed, without also looking at him. Her every word was directed to Bea, as though he did not exist. She was obviously very vexed with him.
“Pets become as much a part of one’s family as the other persons in it,” Beatrice agreed. “While our spaniel was still alive, one of my sons once accused me of loving her more than I loved him or his brother. And my reply was that sometimes she was easier to love. I was smothering my son with hugs while I was saying it, I hasten to add.”
Ben had spoken scarcely a word. At this rate he was going to feel worse when he left than he had before he arrived. For if he did not apologize now, he never would, and he would forever feel in the wrong—as he was, dash it all.
Mrs. McKay might be a considerable beauty, but he really could not like her, perhaps because she had held up a mirror in which he had seen the ugliest side of himself. He caught Beatrice’s eye and raised his eyebrows. Good manners probably dictated that they leave very soon.
“Lady Matilda,” she said, “I fear I have eaten too many of those excellent biscuits and would welcome some exercise before the drive back to Robland Park. Would you be willing to take a turn on the terrace with me?”
Lady Matilda looked anything but willing. However, she was a lady and her social manners prevailed.
“I shall fetch my bonnet and cloak,” she said and left the room.
Beatrice drifted after her, having asked Mrs. McKay apologetically and rhetorically if she minded. That lady looked as if she did mind, though she answered politely enough to the contrary. She looked down at the hands clasped in her lap when she and Ben were alone together, and silence descended, apart from one contented sigh from the dog, who had looked interested in the stroll on the terrace but had decided against making himself one of the party, perhaps because its number was to include Lady Matilda.
Clearly Mrs. McKay had no intention of breaking the silence.
Ben cleared his throat. “Mrs. McKay,” he said, “I believe I owe you an apology.”
“Yes.” She raised her eyes and looked so directly into his own that he felt himself move his head back an inch or so even though she was some distance away from him. “You believe correctly, sir.”
Well. Had he expected her to simper and assure him that he had done nothing to offend her?
“What happened the other day was entirely my fault,” he said. “I ought not to have jumped that hedge without knowing what was on the other side. And when I did jump it and almost killed you, I certainly ought not to have thrown the blame upon you and ripped up at you as I did.”
“We are in perfect accord upon that,” she assured him, her chin up, her eyes steady, her whole manner disdainful. She continued. “I suppose it would be a bit absurd if every rider felt obliged to dismount and push through a hedge before he jumped it just to make sure that some stray pedestrian was not strolling along on the other side. He could, perhaps, cry out a tallyho! as he came, but that might sound rather peculiar. What happened was an accident. No one was to blame for that, at least.”
The fairness of her response only cast him more abjectly in the wrong.
“But someone was certainly to blame for what followed,” he said. “I was, in fact. My immediate reaction to throw all the blame upon you and your dog when you were both clearly innocent of any offense was unjust and unpardonable. I hope you will pardon me, nevertheless, ma’am, when I assure you that I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. And I beg forgiveness for the appalling language I am sure I must have used in your hearing, though I hope none of it was directed at you personally.”
She was still looking unwaveringly at him, and it struck him that those dark eyes of hers were a quite lethal weapon. He had to resist the urge to move his head back another inch and lower his own eyes.
“Except for one damn it,” she said, “which was added after you had called someone woman. Since I was the only female present, I was led to understand that you meant me.”
He grimaced. Dash it all, he did not remember that.
“What caused me most indignation, however,” she added, “was the fact that you did not get down from your horse when you saw that I had been knocked over—even though the knocking was done by my own hysterical dog rather than by your horse. Unfortunately, I was forced to relinquish much of my wrath when I saw you on Sunday and understood why you had not dismounted.”
“I ought to have explained at the time,” he said. “I ought to have shown far more concern for the fright you had taken and the harm I may have done you. I ought to have—” He sighed with frustration and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, the long and the short of it is that I behaved atrociously in every imaginable way. I understand that you are offended I even had the effrontery to present myself here. I will, in fact, remove myself without further ado.”