Chapter Eight
Sibyl stared. The woman, the beautiful, stunning beauty that was the Countess d’Arbley, currently had her arms wrapped around Mr. Heyter, who stood stiffly.
He shot Sibyl a pained look as the woman kissed his cheeks and stood back. “You look wonderful. It is so good to be back. I hadn’t thought I’d seen you in years and yet here you are. I thought I recognized you. How are you?”
Mr. Heyter stepped back from the woman. “Excuse me. Countess. How good to see you again.” He uttered the greeting as if having stepped in a dog’s mess.
The woman’s mouth dropped in surprise, but she recovered quickly. “Yes, it is. But now, I see I have interrupted you. And who is your charming companion?” Her eyes flicked to Sibyl.
Sibyl curtsied, conscious of many eyes on her.
“My lady, may I introduce you to Miss Sibyl Clifton, newly of London. Miss Clifton, the Countess d’Arbley.”
“Ah, a pleasure. I am the countess, but my friends call me ‘Clara.’” The woman curtsied gracefully.
In fact, all her movements, Sibyl noticed, were very big and expressive, as if she were constantly on the stage.
Sibyl gave her a polite smile. “How do you do… my lady.”
The woman looked her up and down. “How do you do? Well, I won’t bother you any longer. But I am in town for a short while. A few weeks at least.”
“How wonderful. Will you be giving a concert?” Sibyl asked.
Mr. Heyter glanced at her in surprise. The countess, who had initially ignored Sibyl, now beamed and returned her smile.
“I might.” She gave a coy wink and looked down her eyelashes at a few of the young gentlemen standing nearby, watching the exchange.
“It’s a funny thing. Almost as soon as one arrives in town, people hear about it and the invitations come in.
Just this afternoon I had a request from a woman to come along to an art exhibit at the Royal Exhibition.
My dear friend Phillippe is revealing his latest muse to the world. Are you coming?”
“No. Definitely not,” Mr. Heyter said.
“What a pity. I shall tell you all about it when our paths cross again. I’m sure they will soon. Do excuse me. Pleased to meet you, Miss Clifton.”
Then the countess swept away and was surrounded by people, bowing and curtseying. The murmur of talk and whispers followed in her wake, as did people. It was rather like watching a great ship sail past.
“My word. I had no idea you knew her,” Sibyl said. She did feel an immediate dislike of the woman, but that was due to her overly affectionate greeting of Mr. Heyter. Who was she?
“Don’t remind me,” Mr. Heyter muttered darkly.
Sibyl glanced at him. “Why should you dislike her? She does you a great honor in singling you out.”
He frowned. “Since when do you care about who I like or dislike? There was nothing honorable about her approaching me at a crowded assembly, I can tell you that.”
“Why is that? I care when it is a woman who went to embrace you, and you treated her like a stranger,” Sibyl pointed out.
They stood merely a foot away, frowning at each other.
“If you knew what I know about her, you would not be so hasty to welcome her. All your compliments do is fan her ego. She already has self-confidence in spades. She doesn’t need more people telling her how wonderful she is. All she does is sing, for God’s sake.” He practically spat.
Sibyl glared at him. “And this is your assessment. That because she is an artist, a singer, and in the public eye, she must be a vain, selfish, vainglorious figure, whose conceit knows no bounds.”
“I… In this case, yes. She is.”
Sibyl shook her head. “I had no idea you were so opinionated.”
“Me?” His mouth dropped open.
“You are so small-minded. Was it not you just minutes ago who was saying that a person’s title has nothing to do with the person they truly are? Why are you so judgmental of people who are public figures? Is it their titles you envy?”
“No. It is not. It is their rude treatment of others, their willing deceit, and their willfulness to step on anyone who gets in their way, including family, to get their way. It is this harshness that I find intolerable.” He added, “You should not be so hasty to judge me, when you do not know the particulars.”
She bit back an angry retort. He glared at her, and she glared right back. But being taller, he had the advantage of being able to look down at her, which she soon realized gave him an excellent view of her chest. Which at that point was heaving rapidly. She swallowed. It was suddenly warm.
A beat passed as his eyes narrowed, then his gaze darted to her mouth. Her lips. Her cheeks, and down to her throat.
A warm feeling came over her. They might not have been communicating with words, but he was certainly letting her know his thoughts were no longer on the countess, but her. Her mouth opened, and she wondered if he might kiss her right then and there, in the middle of a crowded ballroom.
She felt his eyes graze over her exposed skin like the warm touch of the sun and licked her lips. He watched and took a breath.
“Sibyl, there you are. I’m ready to leave. The room is overly warm and I am tired. Let us go. Oh, good evening, sir.” Mrs. Clifton took Sibyl’s arm and nodded to Mr. Heyter. “It is warm in here, isn’t it?”
“Very. Allow me to escort you outside.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful, thank you.” Mrs. Clifton followed him out, and they began to maneuver their way out of the ballroom and out to the main foyer, where they eventually procured their cloaks.
As Sibyl tied on her cloak and knotted the strings, Mr. Heyter said to her, “I fear you have not seen me at my best this evening.”
She took a breath and let it out. “No. I think we disagree about some things.”
“Then allow me to leave you then, before I say something I regret.” He bowed and left her.
She watched him go, as puzzled as ever.
That night, as Sibyl prepared for bed, and before she blew out her candle, she looked at the book he’d sent her, on her side table. Did he care for her? Was it just a gift from a friend, who wished to open her mind about books? But then, friends did not kiss one another like they had.
She sat on the side of her bed and picked up the book, feeling its smooth cover.
She remembered with a thought about the press of the book spines against her back as he’d kissed her.
She wanted that again. To feel his hands on her waist, the taste of him against her lips, and his mouth adoring her, one kiss at a time.
But… His treatment of the countess was so sudden, and strange.
She hadn’t liked his treatment of the famous singer.
They were clearly acquainted, even if he did not like it.
Perhaps they were related? Or they had been courting, once upon a time?
Had he kissed the countess in his family library as well?
Even so, that didn’t mean Mr. Heyter had had to treat the singer with such coldness or stilted formality.
There were many people in England who would be proud to claim acquaintance with such a public figure and would claim it quite loudly. But not Mr. Heyter. She wondered why.
Sibyl didn’t know the particulars of their relationship, and she tried her best not to care.
The man might befriend whomever he chooses, just as long as he doesn’t kiss them, she thought grimly.
She did mind how he treated his close acquaintances, but his firm resolve to disapprove of those who sought fame and public attention had left her cold. But more than that, she worried.
Tomorrow afternoon would mark the moment when she was revealed to be Phillippe’s muse. If the artist was to be believed, she would become known to the world. Would Mr. Heyter even still acknowledge her or would he decide she was one of the people he disliked so much?
She didn’t know. She only hoped that he would give her the benefit of the doubt. For sadly, as she put the book back on the side table, she had already developed feelings for him and did not fancy anyone else. But as she went to sleep that night, his words played in her mind.
“I imagine that some ladies, particularly the vain, attention-seeking ones, would love it. I would not, and nor would I want that for my sister.”
The next morning, Sibyl rose and dressed, same as always. Today was no different than any other day, she thought. But her hands trembled as she splashed water on her face and needed her maid to help fix her hair.
She ate hardly anything at breakfast and couldn’t focus on what anyone was saying. She went back to her room to read but read the same page about ten times. She put the book away. But all too soon, it was the afternoon. There was a knock at her door, and her maid came in. “Miss Clifton, it’s time.”
Wearing a bonnet and walking coat, Sibyl climbed into her family’s carriage with her mother and sister, and in no time at all, was pulling up to the Royal Exhibition building. Crowds were already milling about outside the main entrance.
“Goodness me. Who are all those people?” Mrs. Clifton asked.
“Art lovers, perhaps,” Sibyl said.
Following the artist’s instructions, they entered through a side entrance and were admitted, as Phillippe was there to greet them.
He shook hands and greeted them warmly. “Ah, you see the crowds? Fantastic. This is good, a very good sign. Come.” He bid a guard to lead them to a side entrance, and they heard as crowds were let inside.
Phillippe said, “This is a very grand event. These are all either ticketholders who have paid large sums to attend or are personal guests invited by me. And a few newspaper people, to say the right things.” He smiled.
“Oh, yes, how wonderful,” Mrs. Clifton said. She rubbed her gloved hands together. “Are you ready, Sibyl? You’re about to meet the world.” She laughed.
“I wish I were,” Lucy said.
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll get your turn in the light, I’m sure,” Mrs. Clifton said. “After all, Phillippe can’t have just one muse forever.” She winked and gave the artist an expectant look.