“I’m not hiding, Captain Grayson.”
“Really?” he replied. “I only ask, because it seems an odd vantage from which to view a ball—
through this barrier of foliage. Hardly the place for a young lady to stand, should she wish invitations to dance.”
The nerve of the man. As if she would receive any invitations to dance. Still, she couldn’t allow him to fluster her. Hetta was not a woman who became flustered. But then, she was not a woman who hid behind potted trees, either. Drat.
“I was not hiding,” she repeated evenly, determined to give as good as she received. “Are you?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, it seems an odd place, here behind the shrubbery, for a gentleman to troll for a dancing partner.”
“Why would you say that?” His lips quirked at the corner. It wasn’t a smile. “I’ve found one, haven’t I?”
Her heart fluttered in her chest. “You don’t mean—”
“What don’t I mean?”
Curse the man. He knew. He knew she’d developed this embarrassing, girlish infatuation with him, and now he was teasing her about it, right here in front of everyone. Or rather, right here behind a potted tree. And now she knew she would blush—she was fair-skinned and freckled, after all—and that would make everything even worse. Oh, Lord. She was already lurking in the greenery. Where did she run and hide from here?
His hand captured hers. Neither of them wore gloves. His skin was smooth and warm—which made her immediately conscious that her own hand must be cold.
“Come dance with me, Miss Osborne.”
“But we can’t!”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why can’t we?”
Because she was out of place in this elegance. Because she barely knew how. Because she found it annoyingly hard to breathe in his presence. For a hundred different reasons, all of which swarmed in her stomach like wasps, and none of which she dared let escape. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea, that’s all.”
He stared out over the ballroom. “Hm.”
What sort of remark was that? Was he agreeing with her? Arguing with her? Dismissing her?
Hetta waited for some further, less cryptic response. None came.
“I’m not in the mood for dancing this evening,” she said casually, trying to sound as though she turned down offers of this sort every day. There, that ought to put paid to the discussion. Still, he did not acknowledge her with a reply. Her hand remained in his, however. It warmed, began to grow comfortable there. Traitorous appendage.
“That’s all right,” he said at last. “I shan’t require you to enjoy it.”
He pulled her onto the dance floor and within moments had her trapped in his embrace. There was no way to escape without creating a scene. And before Hetta knew it, she was dancing. She, Hetta Osborne, freckled, plain physician’s daughter with little romantic inclination and even less grace, was circling a ballroom in the arms of a tall, handsome gentleman. He led with such agile command, she forgot that she scarcely knew the steps. She almost forgot that she had feet. She floated in his arms, and her wits lay scattered behind her on the waxed parquet. Hetta was breathless.
Unfortunate, then, that her partner wished to converse.
“I’m to take up legal studies soon,” he said. “With Sir Toby’s brother-in-law, Mr. Reginald Tolliver. It was just decided this evening.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“You did?” He frowned at her, then made a gruff sound of annoyance. “I should have known. Nothing surprises the unflappable Miss Osborne.”
“Did you wish me to be surprised?”
“I suppose not.” A few measures passed before he continued, “Have you no reaction to the idea?”
“What reaction should I have?” If he would tell her, she would attempt to oblige. If he would put a bit more space between them, she might be able to devise replies of her own.
“I don’t know.” Beneath her hand, his shoulder tensed. The slight flex of his muscle sent a dangerous thrill through her. “I thought you would be interested. You’re determined to take up medicine, although its practice is barred to you. I am determined to study law, although its practice is barred to me. We have something in common.”
“We do?” Hetta tripped slightly as they whirled past the orchestra. She tried—desperately—not to ascribe any deeper meaning to his remark. She struggled mightily against any stirrings of hope. She failed. “And you wish to explore our common interests?” It was the closest to flirting she’d ever come.
“That is the simplest method of beginning conversation, is it not? To remark on common interests?”
Of course. He didn’t mean a thing by it. Most definitely, he didn’t mean to impress her. Why would he care what she thought of him?
He didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of him, and that was what made him so attractive. During Isabel’s illness, Hetta had spoken with the man daily and observed him in the company of others. Unlike his rakish half-brother, Joss Grayson wasted no effort on charm and made only passing attempts at civility. He did not disguise the general contempt with which he regarded the world, nor did he hide the constant pain in his eyes. She’d never met anyone like him. The man was one giant, angry, suppurating wound, and he didn’t care who saw it. Wounds like that were difficult for most people to look upon. Most people would rather turn away, and Captain Grayson knew it.
But Hetta was not most people. She was a physician, and inured to the sight of blood and the marks of human suffering. She didn’t find him difficult to look upon. To the contrary, she found herself hard pressed to look away. He wasn’t simply handsome; he was defiantly so. His jaw was permanently set, teeth gritted on some imaginary leather strop—as though he were steeling himself for an incision. And his eyes fascinated her. They were the rich brown shade of mahogany, and twice as hard.
Drat. She was staring at him again.
Was it her turn to speak? She cleared her throat. “So, you asked me to dance so we could talk?”
“No. Had I merely wished to converse with you, I might have invented any of a dozen excuses. But dancing affords me the excuse to touch you.”
His fingers fanned over the small of her back, gathering her closer to him. Hetta gasped. He noted it. “You see? A little noise like that is most gratifying. Next, I mean to make you quiver.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears. He couldn’t possibly intend to court her, she told herself sternly, or even to seduce her. Surely there was some mistake, some other explanation. But once again, some unreasonable wisp of hope would not be repressed. It floated blithely about her chest, evading all her attempts to squash it flat.
A strange expression overtook his face. One she’d never seen him make before. It was a smile. Not just a smile, but a devastatingly handsome grin. That smile could wreak havoc in an assembly of ladies. It was a fortunate thing he saved it for rare occasions. She blurted out, “Why are you smiling?” Because she was dying to know, and asking seemed the most efficient way to find out.
“I’m enjoying your distress.”
Not quite the answer she’d been expecting. Not the answer she’d been hoping to hear. Stop that. No hoping.
“I’m not distressed,” she lied.
And now he laughed. Laughed! It was a brittle chuckle, rusty with disuse. “Oh yes, you are distressed. Distressed, blushing … dare I say, mortified? And it is most satisfying to view, after weeks of your cool competence. The unfeeling Miss Osborne proves human after all.” He swept her through a turn and lowered his voice. His breath teased her ear. “Allow me to give you a word of advice. It is a dangerous thing, for a woman to cultivate such an air of selfpossession. It brings out the base insecurities of men. We long to see her unnerved, made helpless, brought low. We take perverse pleasure in inciting such states.”
“So you are distressing me on purpose.”
“Yes.”
“And taking amusement in it.”
“Yes.”
“I see.” To her dismay, she could not keep her voice from heating a degree. What a fool she’d been. She actually had believed they shared something in common. That here, at last, was someone who might intuit the reason for her cool demeanor. Someone who might understand that Hetta had to work ten times as hard as any other physician for each scrap of respect she might gather, and that she didn’t dare compromise that hard-won reputation for anything so pejoratively feminine as emotional display.
If she could look straight through his hardened, bitter exterior without flinching … she’d fancied he might see through hers, too, and glimpse the woman’s heart within. But no. He saw nothing. He called her “cold” and “unfeeling.” Well, for a cold, unfeeling stone of a heart, hers was doing a credible impression of breaking.
Oh, Hetta. This is your own fault. You’re an intelligent woman. You should have known better than to dream.
“Do you …” She swallowed. “Do you despise me, then?”
He pulled back and regarded her with those hard, dark eyes. “A little. Or perhaps I merely envy you and despise myself for it.”
“Kindly release me.” She squirmed in his embrace. “I don’t wish to dance any more.”
He tightened his arm around her waist, forbidding her to leave. “Come now, Miss Osborne. We’re having a grand time, indeed. Don’t you delight in being shocking?”
“What do you mean?”
“Haven’t you noticed? Everyone is watching us.”
She had not noticed. She’d been entirely focused on him. But now that Hetta surreptitiously viewed the room, she realized how many eyes tracked their progress around the dance floor. He said dryly, “We must make quite the striking couple.”
Hetta contemplated striking him.
“But then,” he added smoothly, “I’m accustomed to being the object of curiosity. People stare at me a great deal.” He gave her a pointed look, steering her toward an empty corner of the ballroom. “You stare at me a great deal, Miss Osborne. Why is that? Am I an object of curiosity to you?”
Oh, why did the worst five minutes of her year have to happen all in a row? Hetta planted her feet. He would not dance her a single step further. “Why are you doing this? What have I done to you?”
“You’ve unsettled me,” he said, gripping her wrist until it hurt, “and I thought to repay the favor. So tell me, how do you enjoy being made a public spectacle? How does it feel, to know you’ll be the talk of the ladies’ retiring room—the milk-and-roses English miss, dancing in the arms of the bastard half-breed?”
What? As if a woman like Lady Violet would care what sort of gentleman Hetta danced with. As if Hetta would care, should Lady Violet deign to object.
“If I am unsettled,” she whispered hotly, wresting her arm from his grip, “it has nothing to do with the censure of others, and everything to do with my own sad error in judgment. I am not some ‘milk-and-roses miss,’ Captain Grayson. I am a woman, with a name and an education and a profession, and even after this humiliating evening, I still lay claim to a shred of dignity. And as for you … I had thought you were a gentleman.”
A strange emotion flashed in his eyes.
Hetta didn’t stay long enough to decipher it. She backed away, desperate to flee. The potted trees were no longer an option, but surely somewhere there was a secluded alcove or insectplagued balcony where she could fall to pieces in private.
“Thank you,” she told him, stumbling away. “For showing me the bastard you truly are.”
CHAPTER NINE
Isabel hadn’t meant to go looking for The Book.
Really, she hadn’t. She came across it almost entirely by accident. Sophia and Gray were out that evening, attending yet another ball. Bel had stayed home, presumably to rest—but she found herself unable to sleep. The closer her wedding day approached, the more her sense of nervous excitement grew. Ridiculous, really. Weddings were meant to be solemn, quiet affairs between a man, his bride, and their God. The pomp and extravagant display that would accompany the ceremony were for the benefit of drawing public notice, not to swell Bel’s own vanity.