Page 18 of The Viscount's Promise
She blinked myopically at the abrupt change in subject. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Though her brain was beginning to function again, she still could not make sense of his new and unexpected line of questioning. “I am good at it, and it allows the others to dance. I have no wish to join them, so what is the point of having one of the other young ladies perform?”
But he was shaking his head. “You do want to dance.”
“No, I do not.” Truly, her head was beginning to ache from this bizarre and twisted conversation.
“Yes, you do,” he insisted. He pointed to her leg, which was bouncing in time to the music. “You give yourself away.”
Flushing, she pressed down on the traitorous appendage with both hands.
“So why don’t you dance?”
She shrugged. What would he say if she told him no one ever asked her? Not once in all the impromptu dances they’d held with their cousins and other local families had she been asked.
He leaned forward again. In his eyes was a new light. “So dance now,” he said, “with me.”
Belatedly she recalled the unexpected thought she’d had while at the pianoforte, wondering what she would do if he asked her to dance. She had believed her first instinct would be to say yes. Yet now, in the moment, she wanted nothing more than to politely decline and run from the room as fast as she could.
But at the sight of the challenge in his nearly black eyes, a gleam of excitement called to her. He was pushing her on purpose again, she realized. Trying to drag her from the protective shell she typically wrapped herself in. Was he being kind in trying to draw her out? Or did he get some kind of sick pleasure from seeing her squirm? But more importantly, now that she knew, would she retreat and duck back inside herself? Or would she respond to the dare in his expression?
Taking a deep breath, she reached out and, with only the slightest hesitation, placed her trembling fingers in his own.
Chapter 7
Malcolm hadn’t thought she would actually take him up on his challenge. Yet she reached out, accepting the gauntlet he had thrown down with a quivering touch of her fingers.
He stood there for a moment, stunned, waiting for her to renege. She merely looked up into his face, her little chin stuck out at a mulish angle that was altogether endearing. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he guided her to the milling couples, pride in her making his chest expand to such a degree he thought he might burst the buttons of his waistcoat.
Granted, she appeared ready to drop on the spot. And she clung to his arm as if she were dangling from the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Even so, here she was, walking out into the middle of the drawing room floor. She took her place beside him in the circle that had formed, her eyes darting about with quick, panicked movements. Her breath came hard and fast, her curtsy to him as the music started up stiff. He worried for a moment he had pushed her too hard. Perhaps he had read her wrong, and she truly hadn’t wanted to dance.
Then they joined hands with the other couples and began Le Grand Rond. And it was as if someone had dipped her in magic. He had gotten the distinct impression that she did not often have the chance to dance. One would never know it from the way she moved. Her steps were light, her touch delicate, each movement done with absolute precision. But it was her face that sent him reeling. There, the transformation was stunning. She looked positively radiant. Her eyes, normally so shuttered, fairly glowed, their pale gray depths lively and carefree. No longer did she look as if she were hiding from the world. No, she was grace personified.
It was when they joined hands and faced one another, however, that the breath left his body entirely. For it was then she smiled. And not a small, polite smile, but one that encompassed her entire face. The slight pull of her scar tilted it slightly to one side, giving it an endearing and captivating crookedness. Her joy blinded him to anything else.
Her happiness had made her beautiful.
No, that wasn’t right. She had already been beautiful. Now she was stunning.
The music was a distant buzz in his ears now. His entire attention was centered on her face, hoping for one more smile. Surely his reaction had been from mere surprise. He could not be affected by something as simple as a smile from a slip of a girl, and Willbridge’s sister at that. He was hardened to such things, after all. But there it was again, that faintly crooked smile that seemed to make time stop.
Before he was aware of the fact, the music came to a close. Something seemed to drain from her at its loss. She looked suddenly a bit less colorful, the joy in her gone like a puff of smoke. As if waking from a dream, he inhaled deeply and broke his gaze from her, troubled by the ache that had started up in his chest. He immediately caught sight of Willbridge and Imogen inside the terrace doors.
Only once had he seen his friend even come close to crying, and that had been at the death of his brother Jonathan all those years ago. The glint of tears shone in Willbridge’s eyes now, though much happier in origin. Close by, Willbridge’s mother looked on her daughter with equally moist eyes, one hand held before her mouth. Imogen, at Willbridge’s side, was fairly beaming.
Alarm shot through him. If they bombarded Lady Emily with compliments and praise, all her progress would be for nothing. She would revert right back into her protective shell again.Let them pass it off as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he pleaded silently. And for a moment it seemed as if his request had been answered. They all kept to their places, and Lady Emily turned to him to thank him, her smile not full of the ecstatic happiness it had been earlier but still there, still lovely to look at.
But then Lady Daphne burst on the scene and all Malcolm’s hopes were dashed to pieces.
“Oh, Emily, how wonderful you dance. I vow I could not believe my eyes when I saw you on the floor. Why have you never danced when we’ve had our dinner parties with our cousins? You must next time; they will be so very surprised. Though I think perhaps we can ask Mother or Imogen to play, as I would hate to miss dancing myself. I vow, you shined. Everyone had their eyes on you. You caused quite a stir.”
With each sentence spoken by her voluble sister, Lady Emily seemed to shrink more and more into herself. By the end of Lady Daphne’s monologue, Lady Emily’s face appeared almost as pale as the gray of her gown. Malcolm could only watch helplessly. And matters grew worse as the other young couples surrounded them. Every fiber of his being urged him to step close to Emily, to pull her into his embrace and shield her from the bombardment of attention. Before he could make an utter fool of himself, however, Imogen came forward, putting her arms about Lady Emily and giving her a supportive squeeze. Her eyes met Malcolm’s, and he could see that Lady Daphne’s loud proclamations had troubled her as much as they had him.
But Lady Emily had the support she needed. He could leave her in capable hands. Dancing with her had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. He could see now that he could think clearly that it had been a mistake of the first order. Once again she had managed to touch something deep inside of him that he did not want revived, something he wanted to keep dead and buried.
He pulled back, intending to put some much-needed distance between himself and Lady Emily. In that moment, however, the lady herself did just that. Pulling from Imogen’s hold, she turned and walked from the room without looking back.
