Chapter Nine #3
“Yes, I’m well aware of your face and how pleasing its symmetry is considered,” she declared. “But you are not the only one who can see themselves verily. I’m well aware of my defects, Mr. Berab.” She raised her chin in defiance.
Leaning back farther in his chair, he crossed one booted foot over his knee. “Such as?” he asked, raising the single brow.
Ugh. Did he truly want her to recount them? Not that she was weak enough to be embarrassed to do so. Not at all.
“For starters, my plainness isn’t a secret,” she told him, wrapping the ends of her braid around her fingers and tugging it tight. She stroked the ends.
He gazed at her for another long moment, as if he was actually analyzing the veracity of the statement. “Only to those without refined taste,” he said.
She gave a harsh laugh. “Oh yes, so refined,” she said, waving a hand over the awkwardly buttoned garments.
“The gentiles have believed our women who look like you are irresistible for centuries,” he returned.
Rebecca squinted at him. “Truly?”
“The red hair and the blue eyes,” he explained, waving a hand over her person. “There are paintings.”
“Are there?” she asked, frowning a little as she turned the information over in her head.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Quite a few, actually.”
“And we’re depicted how? As evil succubuses?” She frowned for a moment, pondering the word. “Or is that succubi?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he returned. “I prefer reality.”
“Yet you’re arguing this point.”
“Perhaps you need a different pair instead of merely mended spectacles,” he returned picking up that finger once again. “But—you’re right, let’s not debate that point. What other alleged defects do you care to acknowledge?”
Rebecca snorted. “ ‘Alleged’ is a strong word. If you asked most people in the community these days, it’s common knowledge that I’m considered a shrew.”
His lip curled. “You? A shrew? Impossible?” he said with faux umbrage.
“You had better hope your brother never gambles away all your money, as you don’t have a future on the stage,” she joked.
A shadow passed over his face. “God forbid,” he murmured, his expression turning adroit again. “But we weren’t speaking of me.” He pressed his palms together, touching his chin. “Many men enjoy—”
Rebecca snorted again. “You’re truly going to attempt that sort of argument?”
Berab gave a shrug. “I don’t know. Who’d want a woman with a weak will and no opinion?”
And she smiled at that. “I believe quite a few men, actually.” Of all types, within and outside their community.
“To use your favorite expression.” He smiled in turn. “Fucking schmucks.”
She laughed. Oy, for a man so obnoxious, his humor did have quite the je ne sais quoi, as the French would say.
“Every woman in my life has both. My family would not have survived all we did without it,” he explained. “They’re just good at hiding it in the proper company.” He gave her a small wink, which made her stomach fizzle.
Because apparently, despite her superior brain and all her continued efforts to rely on it and it alone, she was a fool. Or, as he’d said, a “fucking schmuck” who needed to be reminded that no matter what he said, she would never be the right sort of woman for him. Not that she wanted to be.
Rebecca swallowed, forcing herself back into the conversation. And the reality it expressed.
“Which is sadly my problem as well,” she said, with more of a sigh than she intended.
“I don’t know.” Now his voice was thoughtful.
“I suspect you’ve accomplished something similar when it was important to you.
You just seem to have a limited range of what you consider worthwhile.
Perhaps judicious, perhaps shortsighted, who can say?
” And before she could ask what he meant by that, he rose.
“Thank you, Miss Adler,” he said with a small bow.
“What?” she stuttered.
“For being a lovely diversion,” he told her.
She stared at him. “Are you mocking me?”
He shook his head. “No. Not at all. The most stimulating hour I’ve spent in a long time.” He lifted his drink and held it toward her once more. “Still sure you wouldn’t care for a sip?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” she said, shaking her head, no matter how tempted she now was, especially upon hearing the word “stimulating,” which had not only forced her mind back into the memories it should not wander through, but for her cheeks to heat as well.
As if she were squeamish about such matters.
Which she was not. The only shame she felt about that other night was her chosen partner, and tonight did not change that. Not at all.
“Your loss.” He brought the glass to his lips and drained it. He set it down on the table once more next to the Debrett’s before sauntering past her and out the door.
“Where are you going?” she called after him.
“To bed,” he said, not bothering to turn around. “You should consider the same. The hour is late, and I don’t see you as the sort to wake at a fashionable time. Thus I’m sure the household would prefer you in a better, not worse, humor.”
She stared after him, wondering what exactly had happened. No. Bed, it was time to go to bed.