Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Pemberley’s touch was politely light on her left hip, his hand reassuringly neutral gripping her right hand, outstretched together.
The dance began, and they gently spun.
Pemberley looked at their feet, and the beautiful flooring beneath. He looked around the room, at all the other couples, maybe searching for Nethenabbi or his Nedine. His eyes would occasionally rest on Valeraine’s hair, no doubt admiring Selaide’s impressive handiwork.
Valeraine had an absurd urge to tell him she hadn’t crafted the hairstyle, that it wasn’t her fault if he found it alluring. She didn’t want him making conclusions about her, particularly false ones.
Pemberley didn’t speak. Valeraine was comfortable with that. It was really the best possible situation, because then he could not insult her. She would not argue back. She knew that by starting conversation, his distaste for her would only be further revealed.
Why had he asked her to dance? Was it a chance to admire her flaws? To prove to someone she was poor at dancing, as he had claimed at the last ball? Or was it just as a favor to Nethenabbi, reluctantly done?
Valeraine knew that by speaking, she was only opening herself up to ridicule.
“This is when one of us should comment on something banal,” she said. She needed to know what insulting and distasteful thoughts were brewing in his mind. The silence was taunting her, hunting her, had caught her in its trap.
“Like what?” Pemberley asked.
“The flooring is impressive,” Valeraine said.
“It is. We have a similar design at my manor.”
“Now that I have said something, it is your turn to add to the exchange.”
They instead turned with the dance, round and round, for a few measures.
“You’re an adequate dancer, well practiced,” Pemberley said.
“Fully adequate, am I? What a compliment. Next you will be telling me of my beautiful dress.”
“I believe your gown is several years out of style, as judged by women in Kinellan City.”
“There.” This had been a terrible idea from the beginning. “I have said something, and you now have. We may now be silent.”
Pemberley followed this direction for a few more turns of the dance. Then, he said, “I asked your sister Alyce, and she said that you are the hatch-mother of Longbourn.”
“Longbourn has not had a hatchling in hundreds of years,” Valeraine said. He already knew this. He was rubbing in the inferiority of Longbourn, emphasizing their stagnation.
“Yes. But if there were one, it would fall to your care. You have never been trained with hatchlings, though? Perhaps I could provide instruction for you.”
“You do not know me, or the business of being a hatch-mother.” Valeraine would obtain an egg for Longbourn, and she would excel at taming it. There was no other option; she would not allow herself to fail.
“A woman is born to be a hatch-mother, with gentleness and instinct,” Pemberley said. “Though all your expertise is in retiring a dragon, not ushering in the new.”
“I do not hasten the retirement of my dragon.” Valeraine felt the heat rising in her, snaking up her neck. It would reach her mouth next. “You seem to be better at that, the way you ride yours in the derby.”
At that moment, the movement of the dance changed; it was time to switch hands. Pemberley mechanically took her left hand. Valeraine did not think to brace herself. She let out a gasp of pain as the motion tugged at her injury.
Pemberley’s frown had been deepening at their conversation, but at Valeraine’s gasp, it turned to a puzzled line.
Then, he looked at her in recognition. It was as if, until this point, he had always been looking past her.
Paying attention to Nethenabbi, forcing him to dance.
Paying attention to Nedine, the woman he was courting.
Paying attention to Selaide’s handiwork in Valeraine’s hair.
Now, he looked her in the eyes, and pierced her. He saw her, and knew her.
Pemberley, in time with the music, reached his right hand out and touched her left shoulder, prodding lightly at the padded bandages beneath the fabric of her dark blue dress.
He resumed the dance without comment, and his gaze left her.
Now, his eyes were on the room at large, as if he had lost all interest in her.
He knew.
Pemberley knew whom she was.
Pemberley, her enemy. First place would have been hers — in two derbies now — if he hadn’t been flying.
Longbourn would have already been saved, already dealing for an egg, if not for his interference, for his running roughshod over her.
Then he had the gall to demand to treat her, to touch her, his fingers on her, more intimate than he had any right to claim.
More pain than she had ever suffered at another’s hand.
This was the person who knew she was the masked rider. He already thought nothing for the honor of Longbourn. His own reputation was strong, his nest full of dragons, his excellence in the derbies proven. With a word to the guests around them, he could ruin her forever.
He would ruin Longbourn house. Who would deal with them — who would be impressed with Lelantos’ flying — once they knew it had been a woman at the helm?
Pemberley said nothing. He did nothing. He danced with clockwork precision, and didn’t look her in the eyes again.
The song ended, and there was a lull in the noise of the room. This was the moment when he could shout it out, expose her.
“Come walk with me. In the gardens,” he said, just to her. Softly, but with no politeness in it. He knew before he spoke that he would be obeyed.
What other choice did she have?
It wasn’t until he put his hand around her right wrist and tugged at her that she realized how careful he had been during the dance.
He hadn’t jostled her wound, his delicate touch had barely guided her through the dance.
He probably hadn’t wanted to mar the work of his stitches.
Now, he pulled her out of the ballroom, a rock rolling down a mountain.
Mamma was going to be so happy, watching them leave together. Perhaps Valeraine would get a new gown, to impress her rich suitor. The idea was revolting, in the context of Pemberley.
Pemberley dropped her hand when they had left the ballroom, and didn’t look back at her as he confidently strode the hallways of Rosings house, coming quickly to a small door that led outside.
He knew this house. He had probably stayed here as a rider for many derbies.
He was, after all, a champion dragoneer, one of the most wealthy.
Outside was calm, dark, and quiet. The hallways had been empty of people but crowded with Valeraine’s runaway thoughts. The shock of the summer air, fresh and smelling of the grasses and dragons in the nest, gave a pause to her mind. Clarity struck.
She was alone with Mr. Pemberley, skirting the edge of propriety by walking with him out of doors. He obviously had some sort of plans, some sort of intention toward her. Something that he didn’t want witnesses to.
Would he keep her secret? What would he demand for his silence?
What was she willing to give?
Valeraine thought, suddenly, of Kesley. She hoped he had seen her leave with Pemberley, that he might have followed them. She needed a witness, someone to pressure Pemberley into silence. She had nothing to bring against Pemberley, no lever to turn his opinions or intentions.
She could try seduction.
She would not try seduction.
Pemberley walked the pebbled paths of the Rosings gardens, and stopped when the hedges and vines hid them from the house. He only then turned to face her, not surprised she was still right behind him. He knew he had her tightly in his power.
His hand trembled as he reached out and put his fingers under her gown’s wide neckline. His hand felt cool, in contrast to the late summer’s warmth. But it was scorching juxtaposed with her shoulder. Her whole body felt on the verge of shivering, adrenaline coursing through her.
For a wild moment, she wished Pemberley would dip his hand a little lower.
He didn’t. Pemberley hooked his fingers on her neckline, almost chastely with how little he touched her, and dragged it a few inches, revealing the top of the bandages.
The bodice stretched uncomfortably at Valeraine’s torso, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
He dropped his hand without bothering to put the gown right again.
She would not speak first. She would not beg.
She just needed to ensure his silence for tonight. She could not risk pushing him too far. She would play the part of the chastened maiden. Tomorrow. She could handle tomorrow with the support of Kesley and her sisters.
“You ride for Longbourn,” Pemberley asserted.
Previously, Valeraine had heard his voice flatly passionless. She had heard it gently amused. She had heard it dismissive, condescending, nervous, curt, and with indignation.
Now, he was angry.
She wondered if he was about to hurt her. Perhaps he would start with undoing the bandage and stitches he had gifted her.
Pemberley took a step toward her, looming over her. “Do not try to deny it,” he hissed.
There was still nothing for Valeraine to answer, so she stayed silent.
“I do not mean you simply ride Lelantos to and fro, which is a matter of public knowledge,” he said. “I mean that you are the rider in the derby, the masked rider who races for Longbourn house on that old dragon.”
Her continued silence seemed only to enrage him further.
“Are you the rider for Longbourn?” he demanded.
He was demanding so much more than a simple yes from her.
He was demanding her honesty, her confidence, her dignity, and the reputation of her house.
He was demanding that she surrender to him, answer to him as if he was the judge determining her sentence.
He was demanding that she bow to his authority, accept his statutes.
He was demanding everything of her soul.
It was an easy thing to say she was the rider for Longbourn. She was. It was true. She had told Merna earlier today, and it had been no great sacrifice (though it had included some worry at the reaction).
Valeraine could not answer Pemberley. She was not willing to submit to him, even to secure Longbourn. In that moment, she discarded her careful intentions to go along with Pemberley for tonight. She decided to be wild instead, and take herself on the offensive.
“You are odious,” she said.
Pemberley took a step back in shock, no longer close enough to touch her. The move gave her confidence, and she stepped nearer to him, closing the space again.
“You pretend to race with honor, and yet you attack your fellow dragoneers,” Valeraine spat. “You come to the derbies looking for riders to vanquish, and then to the balls looking for families to insult.”
“You ride without honor, scared to even show your face,” Pemberley said. “You are wholly unsuited to dragoneering, both because of who you are and your lack of training.”
“You are a disgrace to your house. All of us hate you, for your haughty ways and how you refused to dance at Netherfield. We see your pride, your vanity.”
“Perhaps Longbourn was a grand house once,” Pemberley said, “but those days are long over, and what finally killed them was you supposing that you could ever be a noble rider.”
“We have a dragon — more noble than yours — and despite being hundreds of years older than your mount we nearly out-raced you today.”
“To have a woman be so poorly mannered that she supposed she could race a dragon is unthinkable, and I would have said it impossible, until you proved me wrong. You excel at that, at failure.” Pemberley stopped to take a breath, and that was his mistake.
In that moment of silence, they heard the whooshing of dragon wings, and the growl of a dragon on the hunt.
Valeraine knew immediately where the growl had come from. She had heard it before, and a ringing in her heart confirmed it.
Lelantos landed in the garden, crushing plants that were probably beautiful in the day’s light. He positioned himself behind Valeraine, his front legs bracketing her on either side, his head angling down to point his ire at Pemberley.
She could feel Lelantos’ fury at Pemberley, perfectly mirroring her own.
Amplified then by his nest-tetchiness, and his hunger, and his discomfort of not being cared for after the derby.
She could feel all of this within him, as he could feel her anger and hurt.
Smoke curled from Lelantos’ nose, threatening and barely visible in the night.
But any dragoneer knew to watch for it, and it was noticed by both of them.
Pemberley scrambled back three steps. He didn’t retreat farther than that, not one to lose his composure because of a dragon.
But then his eyes locked on her. Not on Lelantos, ready to breathe fire in his face.
The astonishment of his slack jaw was all for her, the dragoneer who had summoned reinforcements.
The undeniable bond between dragon and rider. He didn’t say another word.
Valeraine walked to Lelantos’ side, and he obligingly kneeled to let her climb on. She was finished arguing with Pemberley. He would tell whom he would that she was the masked rider, and all the arguments in the world would never sway him.
Valeraine and Lelantos lifted off.
Pemberley didn’t shout anything after her. He just watched them leave. Whatever he would do next, it would be much worse than what he had been planning to do before she had insulted him and then threatened him with a dragon — that much Valeraine was certain of.