Page 61 of Nothing But a Rakehell
“Ow! Oh . . . Ow.” Glory collapsed back onto the ground. “Keswick? What are you doing here?”
He stared at her while probing his brow. “What am I doing here? I’m going to the village. The question is—what are you doing out here?”
“I . . . Nothing.” She rolled to her side and climbed carefully to her feet.
“Nothing?” he said in disbelief.
Wincing and holding her head, she gestured toward the bank. “I’m going to go and sit down a moment.”
“Nothing, you say?” He followed her. “You are alone out here. At this hour. Twirling about in the dark like a demented sprite! And you say it’s nothing?”
Her hand dropped and she looked back over her shoulder. “Truly?” She sounded horrified. “Did I look demented?”
“The fact that you are out here alone at all is demented. What were you doing?” A stray, unanswered question popped into his head. Something Miss Munroe had said. “Dancing lessons. Is that what you are up to? Dancing?”
“Apparently not.” She sounded truly upset. “Apparently I am doing my best impression of a demented fairy, convulsing under the moon.”
The moon did chase quick, shining streaks throughout her hair, which had been pulled loosely back and bound at her nape. He forced himself to look away. She started toward the bank again, her back stiff and her shoulders slumped inward. “I’m sorry. I should not have said that.” He’d distressed her. “I was just surprised to find you out here.” He touched his forehead. “And I was in pain.”
She didn’t answer, just carefully lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bank.
He stepped around her, full of remorse, and knelt before her. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. I was frightened when you fell.”
His heart clenched when he caught the faint tracks of tears reflecting the moonlight. He reached out a hand to wipe them away.
She shifted, turning away. “It’s fine. I am sorry, too. I am only being . . . me.”
He hated the sadness, the note of defeat in her tone, but she wiped her eyes and looked at him. “‘Scorch and burn it?’” she asked.
He gave an embarrassed laugh. “Yes. It’s one my mother used to say. I’m pretty sure it comes from an old Irish curse—Scorching and burning upon you!”
“Bloodthirsty. Final.” She nodded. “I like it. I might borrow it.”
“Shocking, coming from a young lady.”
“Better to be denounced for cursing than as a demented sprite.”
He winced. He had struck a nerve. “Tell me about the dancing.”
She sighed. “Miss Munroe calls it another arrow in my quiver. I just want to give myself as many chances as possible to appear normal.”
“Normal.” He snorted.
“It’s nothing to snort at from the outside.”
Reaching for her hand, he held it between his. “You are a thousand times better than anyone normal.”
She pulled in breath and her eyes closed. “Thank you,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. She met his gaze, then. “It means so much, hearing you say that, because I believe you mean it.” Her hand slid out of his. “But I think we should go back—back to the place between us where you don’t say such things.”
He knew she was right.
“I have to make the best of my situation as it stands. There will be no escaping London, I suppose, much as I would prefer to bury my head in the sand and stay here.” She sighed. “You could be right, though, and someday, some kind man might look past my differences. Maybe he will ask me to dance.”
Keswick hated him already. He hated all the men in London who were to be given the chance to see her, to choose her.
“And if he does,” she continued, “then I would like to be able to accept him, for at least one dance.” Her shoulders slumped. “It is difficult, though. Not as difficult as learning to walk again, but still, challenging.”
“You’ll do it,” he said roughly. He looked back toward the field. “But it’s likely not wise to be hard on yourself, when you are practicing in the dark and on uneven ground.”
