Chapter 17
He would not?
It was not the duel (though the outcome of that encounter rankled deeply enough to keep her awake for a week) that angered Lottie so.
No, it was Jasper Deverell himself! He was, without question, a menace…
a rake with far too much wit and far too little decency, who could turn the act of not touching her into the most devastating seduction of all.
With his words alone, he had filled her head with images so vivid she feared they might be written plainly across her face.
Damn his self-command. Damn his honourable impulses! It was as if he had invited her to the fire, promised heat, and then left her standing in the smoke. That man was unforgivable.
“I should like to name my forfeit,” he said, extending a hand. His expression was perfectly composed, the devil. “May I have the honour of a dance, Miss Tolliver? Here and now.”
“A dance?” The word came out more sharply than she intended. The man could ask anything of her, and he wanted to dance?
Jasper’s mouth twitched. “Unless you object.”
Object? She wanted to strike him in the face. She wanted to seize him by his immaculate cravat and demand whether he made a habit of conjuring disgrace in a lady’s imagination only to retreat at the decisive moment.
Surely, there was some devilry here. There had to be. The man did nothing without mischief.
“Why a dance?”
His brows lifted. “Must every forfeit be immoral?”
“With you? Yes.”
“A harsh judgement.”
“An informed one.”
He chuckled, but his hand was still outstretched. “May I?” he asked again.
“Very well,” she said with narrowed eyes, placing her hand in his. “But I warn you, Mr Deverell. If this proves to be a trick, I shall make you regret it.”
He smiled and drew her back towards the centre of the gallery, where the rug had been rolled away and the sunlight lay in long bright panels across the bare floor. “Mr Deverell, is it? I recall you dispensed with formalities yesterday morning and called me by my Christian name.”
“That was before you became so insufferably honourable.”
“My dear Charlotte, I was born insufferable.”
He placed one hand at her waist and took her right hand in his other. Her other hand he guided to his shoulder, where the fine cloth of his coat was still warm from exertion.
Lottie stiffened.
His eyes flicked to hers. “A waltz, Miss Tolliver. Not an abduction.”
She rolled her eyes. It was a pity Lord Marchmont had not known the difference.
Mr Deverell stepped forwards, and Lottie, being no fool, yielded backwards. One, two, three. One, two, three.
There was no sound at all, save the distant birdsong beyond the open windows and the soft slide of their boots over the polished boards. It was absurd how well they moved together.
One, two, three. One, two, three. They turned once beneath the high windows, sunlight flashing over his hair. He drew her through a slow half-rotation, checked their momentum, then sent them smoothly onwards again, as though the empty gallery had become a ballroom.
“Do you know why, Miss Tolliver?” he asked.
“Why you are impossible? I have my theories.”
“Why I chose a dance.”
He guided her backwards three steps, then turned her neatly beneath the light. His hand remained steady at her waist, never wandering nor tightening beyond what the dance required. Somehow, that restraint was more provoking than licence.
“No,” she said. “But I suspect you are about to tell me anyhow.”
He smiled and drew her back into the frame of his arms, closer than before. “Because I have no desire to make you fall to your knees for me,” he said softly. “Not unless you wish to.”
The next step deserted her. Jasper caught it, of course. He covered the mistake with a turn so smooth that no one would have noticed, had anyone been there to notice. His hand steadied her at the waist; his eyes did not leave hers.
She said nothing, for her tongue was caught between a dozen biting retorts, and her heart had done something most inconvenient.
It had softened—only a little, of course, but enough to recognise that, beneath all his wickedness, there was a line he would not cross unless she stepped over it first. Horrid man.
Jasper’s smile deepened. “How extraordinary. Have I discovered a method of silencing you?”
“Do not congratulate yourself,” she managed. “It is a temporary affliction.”
“I shall enjoy it while it lasts.”
He kept them moving, slow and unhurried. It was really very lovely, and so Lottie did what she tended to do when she felt vulnerable. She attacked.
“I wonder,” she said, “whether you shall remember this as the day you bested me, or the day you did not have the courage to claim what you truly wanted.”
His steps faltered for a moment and then resumed more slowly. “I shall remember it,” he said, “as the day I survived a skilled opponent.”
Oh, how tiresome. He would not rise. Well, if one thrust failed, one changed the line of attack.
“You hide very well behind all of it, Mr Deverell.”
“Do I?”
“Oh yes. Your fancy cravats and waistcoats. Your wicked smiles. All that lazy, pretty nonsense.”
He only kept them turning, his hand steady at her waist, his face all smooth amusement.
“A dandy’s armour, don’t you think?” she said, watching his face carefully. It was gone almost before she saw it: the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth, a little darkening behind the eyes.
“My dear Miss Tolliver,” he said, guiding her neatly through a final turn, “if this is your attempt to wound me, I must warn you—it does nothing of the sort.”
But it had wounded him. She knew it to be true, though she could not have said why she had wished to hurt him.
It felt rather like kicking a dog that had offered its paw.
Indeed, dear reader, it is a sad truth that wounded people do not always become soft in the places they have been struck.
Very often, they become sharp, and when they find another creature with a hidden bruise, they may press it before they understand why.
When Mr Deverell bowed, he did not kiss her hand, but simply looked down at her, long enough that the silence felt louder than any ballroom quartet. “I shall see you at our next engagement, Miss Tolliver,” he said softly. “You may expect a note.”
He offered the barest smile, turned on his heel, and crossed the sun-drenched gallery in long, unhurried strides. Then he was gone.
Lottie reached up absently and adjusted her collar, though it was not the collar that was the problem. She needed air, or brandy, or more likely both—poured liberally and administered in quick succession while she lay flat on the drawing room carpet with a maid fanning her like an ailing heiress.
Good God, she sounded just like her mother.