Chapter Ten #2
She was beautiful.
“Miss Darwish,” he said with a bow. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Willow House belongs to my aunt.”
“You’ll have to excuse my ignorance. People have been whispering about this event for days now, and no mention was made of the hostess.”
“No, of course not,” she said. “In any case—”
“Shall I introduce you to my companions?” Oliver interjected, gesturing to the men that stood behind him.
Kalila’s gloved hands tightened around her fan. “No, that’s quite all right. I really should be—”
“Take pity, Miss Darwish,” Oliver said, lips lifting in a wicked smile. “Can’t you see you’ve already piqued their curiosity?”
Kalila gave him a long-suffering look that he most certainly deserved. What she didn’t know was that he’d rather eat his hat than expose her or put her in danger of any kind. While his contemporaries were sharp, they had never met Dameer Rafiq. She was perfectly safe.
With you, his mind added.
Shaking his head to chase away the thought, he presented Kalila to the gentlemen that were gawking at her. To her credit, her face betrayed nothing. It was as if he were truly introducing her to complete strangers.
“Miss Helena Bamber,” Jennings said, referring to the woman next to him.
At this, Kalila quirked her eyebrows in an almost imperceptible gesture of interest. Like Oliver and the others, she was probably wondering what sort of woman Miss Bamber had to be to acquaint herself with the likes of Andrew Jennings.
Oliver already knew the tragic answer to that question. In the short amount of time he’d spent with Miss Bamber, she’d shown herself to worship the ground Jennings walked on. She seemed to think him a veritable genius which, of course, was beyond laughable.
The group scattered as the beginning notes of a waltz sounded, each seeking out their dance partners. Oliver nodded at the card that was dangling off the end of Kalila’s fan. “Have you promised yourself to anyone?”
Indignation made itself clear in her large eyes. “No. Why?”
“Would you care to dance, then?”
She stared at him as if he’d asked her a question in a completely different language. “I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“Dance,” she clarified. “Usually.”
“Because you don’t like to?”
“No!” She cleared her throat and began to fiddle with her fan. “I don’t mind it. I just—never mind. We can dance.”
The decision made, Oliver allowed himself to be led to the floor. Kalila expertly fitted herself in his arms and soon proved that she was a more than adept dancer. For the first time, she did not smell only of plain soap. Rather, she smelled of almond cakes. Marzipan.
Desperate to know, he murmured, “Why won’t you dance, Miss Darwish?”
“It isn’t polite to pry.”
He pulled her closer against him, hearing her breath hitch in her throat. She was soft beneath his hands. Pliant and willing and oh so sweet. “I’m not polite.”
“Clearly,” she said, lifting her chin as if to indicate she had accepted his challenge. “I don’t dance because I’m rarely asked to.”
“Because you live in the country,” Oliver said.
“Here, I mean,” she corrected. “At Willow House.”
He frowned. “That can’t be true. You mean to tell me that your dance card doesn’t fill up at every event?”
A soft laugh escaped her, honeyed and genuine and heart-wrenching.
“You’re the one who asked the question. It isn’t my fault you don’t believe the answer.
” She paused, pressing a hand against his waistcoat.
He felt the gentle pressure through his layers of clothing, his pulse jumping in response. “What’s in your pocket?”
“Do you mean to distract me, Miss Darwish? Because it won’t work. I’ve more questions for you.”
“Your spectacles,” she decided, dropping her hand as the waltz came to a close. “They looked nice on you.”
He gave her a lopsided smile, offering his arm to her as the other couples dispersed. She took it, and he walked her out onto the dark terrace. He knew people were watching. He just didn’t care.
“I try not to let people see me in them,” he admitted as they reached the railing.
“Well,” she said, looking out at the scattered groups that meandered through the gardens, “I doubt my opinion will change your mind.”
He kept his back to the railing and leaned closer to her. “It might. I looked nice, did I?”
A pink flush began to creep up her neck. “That is what I said, yes.”
“How nice?” he pressed. “Are you sure you didn’t mean to say handsome? Perhaps devastatingly handsome?”
She scoffed. “I tend to think before I speak, Mr. Booth. The word ‘nice’ was very carefully chosen.”
I know you do, he thought. Every word she said was measured. Clever and precise.
She turned away once more, and he took the opportunity to examine her features. She was a breathtaking portrait of intelligence and wit and the realization of all that had had to happen for them to wind up on this terrace together brought with it a wave of wonder and affection.
Affection?
What else could it be? It was what he felt now, gazing upon her as her curls became tousled by the balmy breeze. It was affection that he’d felt when he’d held her against him as they’d danced.
It was affection that he felt every time she opened her mouth to speak.
Clearly, he had learned nothing from the mistakes his parents had made, because here he was, ready to make the very same ones.
“Why aren’t you asked to dance, Miss Darwish?”
She raised her eyebrows at him as if he’d asked an exceedingly stupid question. “My presence in a room does not usually inspire interest in men. And those who do approach me soon discover that I’m far from demure.”
“I—”
“Disagree, I’m sure. It’s the polite thing to say.”
“I’m not polite, remember?” he countered. “Only honest.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her hazel eyes piercing in their intensity, before saying, “Hm.”
He shifted to prop his forearms against the railing, bringing his face close to hers. She didn’t pull back. “You are the most interesting person at this ball by far.”
Her pink lips tilted in an uncertain smile. “And you aren’t being polite.”
“No,” he promised. “I’m not polite. When can I see you again?”
Her smile disappeared, a frown taking its place. “What?”
“I’d like to see you,” he said, even while knowing that whatever spell they’d been under had already shattered. If Kalila was the sort of person to be careful with her words, Oliver was the exact opposite.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
She pushed herself off the railing and knit her brow. “I don’t understand why you’d want to.”
He could tell from the way she held herself that she wasn’t being meek or coy, but rather truthful.
“Why wouldn’t I want to?”
Kalila paused, seeming unsure of how to answer. She was thinking and thinking hard.
“I don’t know,” she said eventually, wrapping her arms around her middle, her insecurity finally evident. “But I cannot make any promises either way.”
Of course she couldn’t. He would see her the next morning disguised as her cousin.
“Could you at least promise not to avoid me?” he asked. “Not to slam doors in my face, maybe?”
She laughed. “Yes, I can promise that much.” Something he couldn’t identify ghosted across her features, and she began to walk away from him and back toward the crowd. “I don’t think I could avoid you even if I wanted to.”
“Isn’t that lucky?” he called after her.
She snorted. “Not the word I would use.”
But certainly the one he would.