|
Scene #41
"I'm deeply honored by your hand," said Mr. Malahide, pulling her
into the pattern of the waltz. "Now explain to me the nature of
this feminine skulduggery." Lydia glared at a spot past his
shoulder. She could of course stop dancing and walk away. That
would thwart him, swiftly. She preferred to thwart him at
length. "I have no idea to what you refer," she said.
"Please, Miss Sims. I know sport when I see it." That was a voice
used to command. Had he learned it as a soldier, or had he always
spoken that way? "Two different ladies have attempted to lure me
to the dancing-floor tonight. Not remarkable in itself, perhaps,
but made so by the fact that each time, the other lady was posted
nearby to observe. As were you." Even peripherally, she could
feel his sharpening attention. "Shall I presume you would have
been the third such petitioner, had I not forestalled the effort by
dragging you out here myself?" "That would be presumptuous
indeed. I have never in the least desired to dance with you."
He cocked his head to study her through heavy-lidded eyes. "Do I
believe this? Or does it rather put one in mind of that player
Queen, who protested with such vigor as to persuade her audience
that the truth of her heart lay somewhere opposite to her words?"
"There is the last resort of a man who has no good argument to
make." Really, she'd expected a bit better from him. "You charge
me with wanting to dance with you. If I say I did, you win your
point. If I deny the charge, you have only to say ‘The lady doth
protest too much,' and you claim your point all the same."
"Tone of voice matters too, and vehemence, and context." Through
the fine kid of her glove she felt his shoulder flex. Like granite
brought to life. "But in this case I will believe you. You didn't
want to dance with me." His speech slowed for emphasis. "You
don't, in fact, like me." "You say that as though it were
some stunning aberration." "To be perfectly honest, it is.
Rarely does a woman of your sort find nothing to enjoy in me."
"Your self-opinion bears the reversal admirably. Steer to the
left. This part of the floor is crowded." Woman of your
sort. Harlot, that meant. "What a delight you must be to
take driving," he said in an undertone even as he guided her clear
of the crowd. "Tell me why those ladies wanted to dance with me,
and what was your part in the affair." Why shouldn't she tell
him? He might even be humbled, and high time, too. "The ladies
have noticed you never dance. A dispute arose between two of the
more idle-minded ladies as to which of them was most likely to
tempt you. They decided to put it to the proof." "And your
role was what? Some sort of official witness?" "They had a
wager." She could allow him a glance. "I was to mark how rapidly
you succumbed to each, that a winner might still be declared in the
event you danced with both." "You were timing me." "By
seconds. I counted." "I see." His mouth twisted, not quite
into a smile, and his dark eyes got darker. "It's a uniquely
edifying experience, I must say, for a man to learn he's viewed as
something slightly better than the latest untried entry at
Newmarket." "I warned them against the wager. I said you
would act in whatever way could vex them both, as indeed you did.
I only did not foresee you would find a way to vex me into the
bargain." Though that wasn't entirely true anymore, the vexing
part. To speak so bluntly with a man was novel, and agreeable.
And he waltzed very well. His movements were languorous; his touch
light upon her. He led her with devious ease. "They wanted
vexing, those two." His fingers tightened briefly on hers.
"Beautiful women develop the most astounding notions of what's due
to them; don't you agree? We gentlemen spoil them, I think. Why
should a woman's beauty command any tribute beyond the appreciative
looks; the words of admiration she already receives? Why should
the most exquisite ladies stand up in set after set, while a lady
of more modest attractions, knowing herself to be a better dancer,
is made to sit by and watch?" If he continued to puzzle over
why she disliked him, she could point him to remarks like that one.
What reaction did he expect to inspire in her? Gratitude at his
having chosen to waltz with her instead of with someone beautiful?
A girlish blush at the apparent compliment to her dancing, once she
had exhumed it from among his artful little slights and affronts?
Not in his lifetime. "Those are questions to which I have
never given any thought." Airy. Unconcerned. Occupied by
worthier things. "But speaking of skill in dancing, I find you a
more accomplished waltzer than I expected, and I wish you would
give up trying to converse with me that I might better enjoy this
dance." "Pretty words." Now he did smile. "‘Keep quiet,
that I may better enjoy this.' I suppose I should have been
privileged to hear something similar had I drawn you into that dark
corner of the library instead of onto the dancing-floor?"
This particular strain of nonsense would go no further. She tipped
up her chin to meet his gaze. "I have a protector," she said, "as
you will perhaps recall from spying on us in the library. And even
if I hadn't, it's common knowledge you don't wish to keep a
mistress. Your attempts at flirtation are a waste of my time and
yours." "Yours, maybe," he murmured, his eyes unreadable.
"But not a waste of mine."
| 
