Chapter 14 #3
“Oh, just idle curiosity,” Lord Alveston remarked with a smile.
“I’ve a notion to settle one of these days, and it seems like a charming spot, with many lovely things to recommend it,” he added, sending Izzy a significant glance.
Izzy shivered inwardly, and yet she wondered at the obvious tension between the two men who apparently did not know each other, remembering Alveston’s pointed questions about the castle.
“It’s not for sale,” Midwinter replied coldly, before once more holding out his hand. “Miss Honeywell.”
This time, Izzy took it without hesitation and allowed him to lead her away onto the dance floor.
They did not speak, taking their places among the other dancers. Izzy willed herself not to tremble, to concentrate on the dance. It was one of her favourites and demanded elegance and precision, always keeping one's partner at a discreet distance. How perfect for him.
His hand held hers, but there was no warmth, no connection. His touch was entirely impersonal, though her foolish heart did not know that, thrilling to have him close once more.
The dance began, and they made their way through it in stiff silence, with Izzy desperate to speak and yet afraid to do so. Why would he not just give her a word, a meaningful glance? It would take so little to reassure her.
“You dance beautifully, Miss Honeywell.”
It was a polite nothing. The kind of thing a lady expected a gentleman to say.
His voice—smooth, aristocratic, bored—sent a dart of pain through her, reminding her of the way he’d humiliated her, of the way he refused to acknowledge her when they had been so close.
She reminded herself he must have his reasons, but they could speak privately now, at least a few words. Why must he keep up the pretence?
“As do you. I wonder when you found the time to learn such a thing. But you do so many things well, like pretending cast aside a woman you care for, one who deserved a little more honesty.”
He did not so much as flinch, only sending her a curious gaze. “Are you feeling quite well? You must forgive me if I am being slow, but if it is a joke, I do not understand it.”
“You are determined to pretend you do not know me, do not remember everything we shared?”
One elegant eyebrow quirked. “If I had shared anything with you, I would remember it, I assure you.”
If his tone had been kinder, she might have been satisfied, but the words were insinuating. Izzy held onto her temper, glancing about to be certain no one was listening in. “For heaven’s sake, just acknowledge me, I’ll keep my distance and not bother you, if that’s what you need.”
His lips tipped up, those his eyes remained glacial. “Oh, bother away, my dear. I adore those ladies bold enough to pursue me, though you may find society less amused by such behaviour.”
Izzy flushed scarlet and turned away from his insinuating smirk. “Devil.”
“So they say,” he replied softly.
The dance parted them momentarily, giving Izzy a chance to catch her breath. When they came back together, she stared at him, holding his gaze. “I saved your life. Do you not owe me an explanation at least, it need not be now. We could meet—”
“I owe you nothing.”
The words were hard and clipped and implacable, and Izzy fought the tears that burned in her eyes.
Blinking hard, she concentrated on the steps, telling herself it didn’t matter, that she would be happy if she never saw him again.
But it wasn’t true. Why was he doing this?
Why would he not trust her, at least a little?
Had she not earned that much respect? She knew he was here for a reason, likely a dangerous reason, but they both knew she was aware of who he really was, why deny what was blatantly obvious?
Was this the real man, and his persona as Boreas simply a wealthy young man’s desire to live dangerously?
Had it all become too real for him, and so he’d returned to his life, this life, where he was someone she did not know?
Frustration and hurt seethed through her as the dance drew to a close.
He bowed, so polite, so remote, and Izzy saw red.
As she curtsied, she pretended to stumble, lurching towards him so he was forced to catch her.
As he did, she reached out, placing her hand on the place where he’d been shot, and pinched.
He sucked in a sharp breath, and the colour drained from his face, leaving it bleached and taut.
It was only for a moment, and then he righted himself, but Izzy stared at him in triumph.
He could not pretend now. Not to her. Not when his complexion was ashen with pain.
She felt a surge of remorse for hurting him but pushed it away.
“You had better tell me what you’re playing at, or I’ll tell Lord Beaumarsh and my sister everything.”
If his eyes had been cold before, now they blazed with blue fire, his fury at being manipulated so incandescent she felt her skin burn with the heat of it.
“Damn you,” he growled.
Izzy smiled, though the expression felt stiff and unhappy. “I’ll be at home tomorrow. I shall expect you at eleven a.m. precisely to take me for a drive in the park. Good evening to you, Mr Midwinter. Until tomorrow.”
With that, she turned on her heel and walked away.