Page 32 of The Dragoneers of Longbourn and Pemberley
“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 hisinterference, 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 ledoutside. 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.
