His hand closed reassuringly on hers. There was a curious expression on his face, as though he was surprised at something. “There is nothing to alarm you,” he said. “I am not going away, but I want to procure you a glass of wine.”
“I don’t know how I came to fault,” she said childishly. “I have never done so before. But I did not know what to do, and—”
“You fainted from the heat,” he interposed. There was a note of finality in his voice; he did not seem to want her to say any more. He disengaged his hand and rose. “I am going to get you something to drink.”
Miss Taverner watched him walk away, and tried to marshal her wits into order. It dawned on her that she was lying at full length on a sofa in the Regent’s Yellow Drawing-room, and that the Regent himself was present, looking sulky, and very much aggrieved. She managed to sit up, and to put her feet to the ground, though her head swam unpleasantly. She now remembered with tolerable clarity the events which had preceded her swoon. How Worth came to be there she had no notion; nor could she imagine what had possessed her to cling to his hand like a frightened schoolgirl. She said, trying to speak with composure: “I must beg your pardon, sir, for being so troublesome. I have disgraced myself indeed.”
The Regent’s brow cleared a little. “Oh, not at all! not at all! I daresay the room was a trifle warm. But you are better now; you will not object to my shutting the window again?”
She looked round, and saw that the striped curtains had been pulled back, and one of the long windows flung open. “Certainly, sir. I am quite recovered, I assure you.”
The Regent hurried over to the window, and shut it. “The night air is very treacherous,” he said severely. “And I am particularly susceptible to chills. It was shockingly careless of Worth—however, I say nothing, and we must trust that no harm will come of it.”
She assented, leaning her aching head on her hand. The Regent regarded her with considerable anxiety, and wished that Worth would make haste to come back. Miss Taverner was looking very sickly, and it would be extremely awkward if she were to swoon again. There had never been anything so unlucky, to be sure. How could he guess that the girl was such a prudish little fool? McMahon—to whom he would have something to say presently—had grossly misled him. And as for that damned fellow Worth not concerning himself with his ward, that was another of McMahon’s unforgivable blunders. Worth had stalked in without ceremony, without so much as common courtesy, and not only had he not believed a word his Prince had said, but he had had the insolence to show it. It was really a great deal too bad of the girl to place him in such an uncomfortable situation. For he had done nothing, nothing at all! But to be found clasping a swooning female in his arms, to be forced to explain it all in a great hurry to the girl’s guardian, wounded his dignity, always his most vulnerable spot. He had been made to appear ridiculous: he would find it hard to forgive Miss Taverner. However, she did seem to be behaving more sensibly now; he had had a horrid fright upon her first coming-to, that she was going to pour out some nonsensical, untruthful version of the affair to Worth.
He peered at her anxiously. She still looked very pale. If he had not been bound to consider his own health he would have felt tempted to open the window again. “A glass of wine will make you feel very much more the thing,” he said hopefully.
“Yes, sir. It is nothing, and I am ashamed to have put you to so much trouble. I beg you will not neglect your other guests for my sake. Your absence will be remarked. If Mrs. Scattergood could be sent for—”