Cardington Crescent Read Online Free Page A

such greetings and comments before at last finding herself alone in her carriage with George beside her, stiff and more distant than a stranger.
    “What on earth is the matter with you, Emily?” George said after they had sat in silence for ten minutes, while carriages ahead of them picked up their owners. Finally the way ahead was clear down the Strand.
    Should she lie, evade the moment of commitment to the quarrel which she knew he would hate? George was tolerant, generous, of an easy nature, but he wanted emotion only at times of his own choosing, and most certainly not now, when he was full of the echoes of such civilized enjoyment.
    Half of her wanted to face him, let all her scalding hurt burst out, demand he explain himself and his wounding and outrageous behavior. But just as she opened her mouth to reply, cowardice overcame her. Once she had spoken it would be too late to draw back; she would have cut off her only retreat. It was so unlike her—she was usually mistress of herself so coolly, with such measured reaction. It was part of what had first drawn him to her. Now she betrayed all that and took the easy lie, despising herself, and hating him for reducing her to it.
    “I don’t feel very well,” she said stiffly. “I think perhaps the theater was a little hot.”
    “I didn’t notice it.” He was still annoyed. “Nor did anyone else.”
    It was on the tip of her tongue to point out how profoundly he had been otherwise engaged, but again she avoided the crisis.
    “Then maybe I am feverish.”
    “Spend tomorrow in bed.” There was no sympathy in his voice.
    He just wants me to stay out of the way, she thought, before I become even more of a nuisance and an embarrassment to him. Tears prickled in her eyes, and she swallowed hard, painfully grateful to be in the close, sharp darkness of the carriage. She said nothing, in case her voice betrayed her, and George did not pursue the subject. They rode through the summer night, their way lit by the hundred yellow moons of the gas lamps, hearing nothing but the steady clop-clop of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wheels.
    When they reached Cardington Crescent the footman opened the doors, and Emily climbed down and went up the steps under the portico and in through the front door without even glancing to see if George was behind her. It was customary to attend a dinner party before the opera and a supper party afterwards, but old Mrs. March did not feel her health equal to both—although in fact there was nothing whatsoever wrong with her except age—so they had forgone the supper. Now a late meal was served in the withdrawing room, but Emily could not face the laughter, the bright lights of the chandeliers, and the probing eyes.
    “If you will excuse me,” Emily said to no one in particular, “it has been a delightful evening, but I am rather tired and I would prefer to retire. I wish you all a good night.” Not waiting for a reply, she continued straight on to the foot of the stairs before anyone’s voice held her back. It was not George, as she ached for it to be, but Jack Radley, only a pace behind her.
    “Are you all right, Lady Ashworth? You look a little pale. Shall we have something sent up to you?” Already he was at her elbow.
    “No, thank you,” she said quickly. “I am sure I shall be quite well when I have rested.” She must not be seen to be rude—it was so childish. She forced herself to turn and look at him. He was smiling. He really did have the most remarkable eyes; he contrived to look intimate even when she barely knew him, and yet it was not quite enough to be intrusive. She could see quite well how he had gained his reputation with women. It would serve George right if she fell as much in love with Radley as George had with Sybilla!
    “Are you sure?” he repeated.
    “Quite,” she answered expressionlessly. “Thank you.” And she went up the stairs as rapidly as she could without appearing to run. She was only