Page 61 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“Miss Deepa!” Jonathan bounded up to her that night at The Songbird, his arms full of flowers and an expression of anxious, shining hope in his eyes. She already knew he was about to instigate a conversation she didn't want to have. “May I speak to you privately?”

Swallowing a sigh, she took him to an empty table near the back. The dressing room was too private, and she wanted to be able to make a quick escape. Taking a seat, she invited him to join her, but he remained standing, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as if unable to contain his nervous energy.

“These are for you,” he said, holding up his enormous display of flowers. Roses, peonies, and ranunculus made up the fattest bouquet she'd ever seen, all of them soft and pale and pink, dreamy and fit for a princess’s wedding.

“I know you prefer longer-lasting gifts, but you look so good with flowers, and I thought — I hoped — that I might have the opportunity to give you something more valuable next time.”

“The flowers are very beautiful, Jonathan,” she said tiredly. “Thank you. But I'm—”

“Wait,” he blurted. “Wait, I have a whole speech prepared, and I really need to get it out in one go if I’m going to get it right.”

She cringed. “Oh, no, please don’t go to the trouble—”

“I know you get proposals from men every day,” he said in a rush, “and maybe I'm a fool to think you’ll accept mine when you've turned down so many others. And I know you turned me down too, the first time, but that was—”

That was when he’d tipsily but heartfeltly proposed to her naked in the middle of the night, the one time she’d taken him to bed. They both winced at the memory.

“But I truly adore you, and I would be so good for you, Miss Deepa. I’d worship the ground where you walk. And I know, I know that's easy to say, and I'm sure you've heard it before, but it's the truth. You're so beautiful, and so talented, and I would be such a good husband to you, I promise. I can give you everything you want, everything in the world. I have a good flat and a nice car, and my parents would adore you. You’d never have to so much as think about money, never mind worry over it. I'm no prince, but I’ll treat you like a queen, if you'll only let me.” He took a deep breath, his face brave and hopeful. “What do you say?”

What could she say? Jonathan was young, rich, handsome, and he adored her with the kind of helpless puppy love that, as long as she gave him a kind word now and then, would last years into the future. He had the means to give her a good life, with far fewer strings attached than any of the more aggressive, controlling proposals she'd heard from other men. His wealth wasn’t on Appleton’s level, but that only meant his family was more likely to accept their class difference.

Jonathan would be kind to her, she knew. He would be as sweet on their fifth anniversary as he was on their first. And her mother would be impressed, if not with Jonathan’s intellect or work ethic, both of which were negligible, then with his good looks and reputation, at least. She would stop fussing over Deepa and worrying that her time was running out to find a decent husband.

In another life, Deepa would have been tempted to say yes. Yes, trade her independence for security, trade her constant efforts for luxury. Let him take care of her and her mother.

But Deepa couldn’t do it. She didn’t love him, which hardly mattered except for her curse. Even if she wanted to give up her independence and her constant con artistry, even if she wanted a genuine husband, she couldn’t say yes. Not while she was turning into a leopard every night.

And she couldn’t do it to Roz.

“Jonathan…” He was one of the few men frequenting The Songbird who didn't want a siren, a temptress, or a mistress, so much as a friend. That alone softened her, though one could hardly build a friendship out of the idol worship he aimed her way. “I think very fondly of you. You know that, yes?”

He nodded, still buoyed by hope.

“Then please believe that I mean this with all my heart: I can’t marry anyone right now. If I could, you would be perfect for it.”

“You can’t?” he asked, all confusion.

“Personal matters prevent me. And it's not the sort of problem you can solve,” she added quickly, when he opened his mouth to propose a solution. “I can't marry you or anyone right now, or possibly at all.”

“I can wait!”

“You could be waiting a terribly long time. I can’t do that to you.”

Finally, his face fell, and his frame drooped like a plant denied water for too long. “I see. Well, I went in knowing it was a longshot, what? It was worth a try.” Straightening up, he pulled himself together and offered an approximation of his usual sunny smile. “In any case, I hope you won't think worse of me for making the attempt.”

“Of course not.” It was inevitable; eventually, every man in her vicinity felt the need to try their luck. It wasn’t their fault. She orchestrated it, after all.

“Would you mind accepting the flowers anyway? It’s just that they’re awfully heavy, and I got them especially for you. I wouldn’t really know what else to do with them.”

Opening her arms, she allowed him to pass the bouquet over, silk-soft petals brushing her bare arms and under her chin as she gathered them up. They were indeed enormously heavy, and must have cost a fortune. While they were yet stood close to one another, she leaned in to press a brief, red-painted kiss to his cheek.

“I would have chosen you,” she murmured, a tinge of regret colouring her voice, and it wasn’t even entirely a lie. When she stepped back, Jonathan was blushing, and he looked over the moon at having received even such a small gesture.

“If you don’t mind,” he said faintly, one hand pressed to the lipstick mark she’d left, “I think I'm going to chuck it in early. Maybe a drink or two, then some time alone to lick my wounds, what?”

“I hope this won’t keep you away from The Songbird for long.”

“Oh, no! If you don’t mind seeing me around, I'd certainly like to come back.”

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