noticed.
And then she remembered who was coming that afternoon.
“I want to put on my prettiest gown, Violet. Which do you think is the prettiest?”
There were only two to choose from, for although Lily had ordered Cornelia dozens of dresses, they were not yet ready. One was white, trimmed with frills of pink chiffon and the other was pale blue, a colour that was vastly becoming to Lily, but which Cornelia had the feeling was somehow not right when she wore it
She chose the white and then, when she had put it on, regretted it. The pink chiffon frills were not flattering to her figure or to her skin, but it was too late to change. Violet arranged her hair and with a strange fluttering feeling within her throat Cornelia went downstairs to the drawing room.
Lily was still in bed, her headache was now worse she had said at luncheontime and she intended to rest in the afternoon as they were going to the Opera that evening and afterwards to a Reception at the French Embassy.
“Have you forgotten that the Duke is calling this afternoon?” Cornelia asked.
“Yes, I know,” Lily replied, “but he is coming to see you not me.”
There was something metallic in her voice and Cornelia found herself flushing.
“I cannot think why he wants to see me,” she muttered.
You must be extremely stupid then,” Lily said tartly and then before Cornelia could say any more, she added in a voice of exasperation, “do go away. Tell Dobson to bring me some eau-de-Cologne and lower the blinds. I want to be left alone.”
Cornelia felt that her aunt’s headache must be very bad for her voice sounded desperate and obediently she hurried from the room and found Dobson. Then she went downstairs to sit alone in the big, white and gold drawing room.
She thought that she ought to read, but somehow, when she had picked up a book, it was impossible to concentrate on it.
For the first time since she had come into all her money she realised that she could have redecorated Rosaril, but she had refused to spend the money because it came to her too late to bring happiness to her father and mother. They had hated poverty and it was so bitter that they should have been dead a year before she learned that she was rich.
Yet now Cornelia imagined the long low drawing room at Rosaril with new curtains and new furniture with great bowls of flowers on the tables and new pictures on the walls. Yet, even as she thought of it, the idea of altering the home she loved so well made it somehow a sacrilege. She loved Rosaril as it was, why should she want to change it?
But she knew the answer, because it came from her heart.
She wanted to change everything, including herself, at this moment so that she could be better, more beautiful and finer for the person she loved. Only the best was good enough for him, Cornelia thought and then she heard the door open.
“His Grace, the Duke of Roehampton, miss,” the butler’s stentorian tones seemed to shatter the atmosphere as if he had blown a trumpet
Cornelia saw the Duke coming towards her, tall and dark, but inexpressibly elegant in his frock coat, tall collar and white spats. He wore a carnation in his buttonhole and Cornelia wondered, as she saw it, if he liked carnations as much as her aunt did.
He came across the room towards her and she felt paralysed. She could not go towards him, she could not speak, she could not even hold out her hand in conventional greeting.
She could only tremble and was aware of an excitement mounting within her that made her feel breathless and that choked her so that the words died in her throat
“You are alone?”
It was a ridiculous question and yet she could not smile at it and could only incline her head dumbly.
“I wanted to see you alone.”
His voice was low and deep, yet still she stayed where he found her by the side of the piano, the silver frames with their smiling photographs making a background for her pale face and pink-frilled dress.
“Perhaps you have some idea of what I want to say to you?”
Cornelia could only stare at him through her darkened glasses.
She felt that they protected her, hid her feelings which she knew were shining from her eyes, revealing all that was throbbing in her heart. Never had she thought it possible for a man to seem so wonderful or so splendid.
He was waiting for her to answer him and at last she managed to force a monosyllable through her lips.
“No.”
As if her answer was disconcerting, he looked at her a little helplessly and she wondered if he was shy as well.
“I want to ask you to be my wife.”
He spoke slowly and with deliberation and yet Cornelia thought that she must be mad or dreaming.
He could not have said it, he could not have asked her this question of all questions. She stood trembling and then suddenly the full realisation of what he had just said swept over her so that she must faint from the very joy of it.
He loved her, he wanted her! He was feeling for her all that she was feeling for him.
She clasped her fingers together, but somehow it was impossible to make any reply.
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