Elizabeth Mansfield (9 page)

They did not speak as they joined the buffet line with their platters. While Isabel allowed the waiters to pile up her plate with mushrooms and oysters and seafood cakes and assorted soufflés, Edward waved most of it away. He was seething. "I don't see why you want me to dress like Brummell," he muttered at last

"All the other men dress like him," Isabel answered, taking a bite of a pistachio-nut croque.

"I don't wish to be like all other men. Besides, I've dressed like this for sixty years."

"Then it's time you changed," she said as they found places to sit at a litle round table set with flowers.

He glared across the table at her. "I didn't believe, when we first became acquainted, ma'am, that you were the sort of woman who always wants to change a man—to
improve
him."

Isabel did not like his tone, or indeed, the whole tone of this conversation. "I am not any 'sort of woman.' I'm my own sort." With a deep breath, she made an attack on a seafood patty as if in preparation for an attack on her escort. "And I've yet to meet a man who didn't need improving."

"If we're speaking of improving one another," Edward riposted, determined to prove that a strong offense is the best defense, "if
I
were troubled by middle-aged plumpness, I should certainly not eat both of those lobster cakes on my plate."

That was a blow below the belt. As any woman who's the least bit overweight can tell you, there is only one way for a man to deal with a woman's plumpness, and that is to deny—vehemently!—that it exists. Nothing else that Edward could have said would have been more disastrous. Isabel, her face reddening, laid down her fork and rose slowly to her feet. "How
dare
you, sir!" she said in a voice that was dangerously low and controlled. "If you find me so objectionably plump, then I see no reason for you to seek out my companionship for another moment." She raised an arm and pointed to the doorway. “Take yourself
out of my sight!
"

Poor Edward, unable to grasp how this erstwhile-very-pleasant relationship had so suddenly and so completely degenerated, stumbled to his feet. "But Isabel," he cried, "
I
did not object to your plumpness.
You
did."

"If you didn't object to it, you would not have chosen to criticize my menu." She pointed to the door again. "Just go!"

Feeling helpless, Edward made an awkward little bow and turned to leave. But he'd only gone a few steps when he turned back. "You, ma'am, are not at all what my first impression led to me expect," he accused. "When I first met you, I thought you were ... er... the word that comes to mind is
serene."

"I am serene," Isabel snapped back. "If I weren't, I'd have dumped the contents of this platter on your stupidly powdered head!" That said, she sat down, lifted a lobster cake on her fork, and, with a defiant glare at her antagonist, took a large bite.

SIXTEEN

After dancing for more than an hour, Kate decided she could steal out of the ballroom without any notice. But no sooner had she escaped into the hallway when Percy came up behind her. "They're playing a Congress of Vienna," he said. "Stand up with me."

"Please excuse me, Percy," she told him firmly, "but I'm weary to the bone. I'm going to slip out and go to bed."

He fixed a disapproving eye on her. "I protest, ma'am! One cannot with impunity leave a ballroom before midnight."

The formal language, contrasting with his outlandish appearance, made her giggle. "I protest, sir, that one cannot with impunity ask a young lady to stand up with you three times in one evening."

"Almack's rules," he sneered. "Seriously, Kate, no one takes those rules seriously in a private home."

"Seriously, Percy, many do. But I'm determined to go up to bed, so the question is moot. However, don't let my absence spoil the ball for you. Go back inside and press your favors elsewhere. With your talent for alamodality, no stylish female could refuse you. Try for the hand of that young thing sitting over there, for example—that vision in the burgundy-colored gown."

"Very well, I will!" he retorted, throwing up his hands in disgust. "And I'll have a very good time of it, too. Positively!" And he turned and strode back inside.

She watched from the doorway as Percy marched directly to the girl in the burgundy gown. After a short exchange, the young lady rose and took his hand. As he led her toward the dance floor, where the dancers were forming a set, he threw Kate a self-satisfied grimace over his shoulder that said more clearly than words, "So there!"

Laughing, Kate turned and went down the hall to the library.

Benjy jumped up eagerly at her entrance, and the dance lesson was under way at once. Though the boy moved awkwardly, especially because of his incapacitated arm, he soon managed to learn the basic steps of a country dance. It wasn't long before they were moving about the room in time to the music emanating from the ballroom.

"Step forward, bow, step back, turn," Kate was instructing, when a voice from the doorway interrupted them.

"Ah! So this is where you're hiding!"

"Harry!" Benjy clarioned cheerfully. "Kate's teaching me to dance."

"You might have chosen a more propitious time for it," Harry scolded. "You're making her miss the ball."

Benjy's face fell. "I know. I shouldn't have."

"Don't scold, Harry. It was I who—" Kate began.

Harry stopped her with a gesture. "Very well, I'll put off the scold until tomorrow. Meanwhile, it's off to bed with you, Benjy. You should have been there hours ago."

"Yes," the boy sighed. "I'm sorry, Kate. Good night. And thank you."

"Good night, Benjy," she answered, smiling at the boy. "We'll continue the lesson tomorrow." She threw a sarcastic glance at Harry. "After the scold, of course."

Benjy nodded and scooted out.

Harry studied Kate with a disapproving frown. "I won't scold, ma'am, if you admit that you shouldn't have permitted this," he said. "The boy had no right to coax you into missing the ball."

"He didn't coax me," she said, uncomfortably aware that she was again finding herself forced to argue with him. "I coaxed him."

"You coaxed him?"

Kate put up her chin. "Yes, I did. And being so
strong-minded
as I am, I managed to prevail."

"Come now, Kate," he said with a conciliatory smile, "there was no good reason for you to keep yourself from the ball for his sake. He had quite a full day.

I know you meant to be kind, but it wouldn't have been a tragedy for him to go to bed."

"I didn't do it to be kind. I
preferred
being here. It was no tragedy for me to miss some part of the ball." She turned away from him and sat down on an easy chair near the fire. "It hadn't occurred to me before," she said thoughtfully, staring into the dying flames, "but I believe I rather dislike balls."

"Rubbish!" Harry declared, perching on the hearth in front of her. "Every young woman I've ever met would admit to finding balls to be among her life's most significant moments—the happiest moment if she dances every dance, and the cruelest if she is left sitting beside the ferns. You, of course, have never had to sit beside the ferns, so a ball must, therefore, be a happy occasion for you."

"You must not judge all my sex by the women of your acquaintance. We are not all the same."

"But even you will admit that, in the game of love, significant things can happen at a ball." He glanced up at her curiously. "For example, Sir Percy might have found tonight's ball an appropriate place to declare himself to you."

She stiffened. "Might he, indeed? And what gave you such a far-fetched idea?"

"The man himself. Last evening on the terrace, he spoke quite freely of his feelings for you."

She felt her fingers tense. “Too freely, if you ask me," she snapped.

"Perhaps. But he led me to believe that you'd offered him some encouragement"

"Then he has obviously misinterpreted something I said or did."

"Did he?" Harry got to his feet and looked down at her. "Are you saying you do not wish for him to declare himself?"

She eyed him coldly. "I don't see why the matter should concern you."

"You don't?" With a swift, purposeful motion, he grasped her hands and pulled her to her feet. "But I've told you quite plainly that I have certain designs on you. I should not wish to pursue them, however, if you and Percy Greenway are approaching—"

She twisted her hands from his grasp. "I and Percy Greenway are not approaching anything. But as to your designs on me ..."

"Yes?"

She dropped her eyes. "I can't remember your telling me any such thing."
 

"Can't you?"

"No, I can't. I only remember your declaring more than once that in the game of love, you're not a participant." She turned and walked away from him to the library table. "Besides, having 'designs' sounds so dreadfully unseemly," she said, rubbing her wrists, "that I'm sure, if you'd said such a thing, I would remember."

"I may not have used that exact phrase, but my intent was plain," he said, following her. "Having designs on a lady is not necessarily unseemly. Designs, after all, are only intentions. They may be evil, risqué, unseemly or innocent, but that's all they are—mere intentions. They mean nothing unless—or until—they are carried out."

"And you told me of such 'intentions' toward me?"

"Yes, I did." He took hold of her shoulders and made her face him. "You must remember it, ma'am. I came to your door to tell you of my designs, and you peeped out and dared me to be explicit. That's when I told you quite plainly that I had designs on your mouth."

"My m-mouth?" Either his hands on her shoulders or the words he was shaking—or both—had a disquieting effect on her. Her knees grew weak and her heart began to pound. But she could not let him see how disturbed she was. She clenched her fingers and drew herself up to her full height. "Oh, yes, I do remember," she admitted. "You said it was ... er..."

"Kissable," he supplied with a leer.

"Yes, kissable." She eyed him with frank curiosity. "Is that what you mean by 'designs'?"

"Exactly."

With an air of haughty disdain, she shrugged off his hold on her. "I suppose I ought to make a show of shocked disapproval," she said, turning away, "but because, as you say, your 'designs' don't mean anything unless—and until—they are carried out, I have no need to be concerned."

"Oh, yes, you do," he said, grasping her arms and turning her back to him, "for I'm the sort who carries out his intentions." And with one quick movement, he had her in his arms.

Before she quite realized what was happening, she found herself being very decidedly kissed. She tried at once to free herself, but his hold on her was amazingly firm. She could barely move. There seemed to be no point in struggling.

Once she ceased resisting, she began to experience an entirely new sensation. In the past, Percy and a few other young men had tried to kiss her, of course, but she'd not permitted them to complete the act. If she had, she knew it would not have felt like this. Her knees, which already had been weak, now felt as though they would give way completely. Only his arms, holding her so crushingly tight, kept her erect. She wondered if all rakes were so adept at holding a girl as Harry seemed to be. She felt her own arms, completely without direction from her whirling brain, move up over his shoulders and her hands clasp themselves behind his neck. Astoundingly, her mouth pressed itself against his as if it would never be close enough. In one small part of her brain, she wondered with a sting of alarm if he'd notice what her mouth was doing. Moreover, being clutched so tightly against him made her conscious of the pounding of her heart. She feared he would hear that, too.

All too soon, they paused for bream. Keeping both arms about her, Harry looked down at her with a disturbing gleam in his eyes. "It seems I was quite right about your mouth," he murmured.

"And I was q-quite wrong to be unconcerned!" Despite the disdain of her words, her voice was choked with her inner struggle to regain her composure.

His appealing grin made its sudden appearance. "Are you then going to make 'a show of shocked disapproval'?"

"Yes, I am!" she declared, breaking loose from his hold, a tide of anger rising up in her.

"What will you do? Scream? Stamp your foot? Slap my face?"

"Slap your face!" she retorted promptly and lifted her hand to do so.

But he caught it by the wrist and held it fast. "Of all females," he remarked, "there is none so difficult as a strong-minded one."

In a fury, she wrenched her arm from his grasp. "Of all males," she shot back, "there is none so detestable as a rakish one." And, determined to hold on to the small satisfaction of having managed to get the last word, she stormed out of the room.

SEVENTEEN

Kate closed the door of her bedroom and leaned against it, trying to catch her breath. It took a moment before she realized she was shivering. Evidently, Megan, in following her orders not to wait up, had banked the fire too early, and the room was now bone-chillingly cold. Kate couldn't be angry at the abigail, however, for Megan had thoughtfully laid out a clean, white nightdress on the bed for her and had set a candle on the table at the bedside. It wasn't Megan's fault that Kate had allowed herself to be so long delayed in the library.

She hurried to the fireplace, got down on her knees, and poked up the fire. As the flames flickered into life, she stared at them unseeing. She knew it was not the fire that was making her cheeks burn and her lips feel bruised. And the fact that she was trembling all over was not entirely caused by the chill of the room. The encounter with Harry had shaken her to the core. Troubled, she sat back on her heels and asked herself why she was still trembling over so minor an incident. Why?

True, she'd been very soundly kissed, but at her age a kiss, even a sound one, should not have been so disquieting and confusing. At the advanced age of twenty-four, a woman should know how to evaluate the meaning of a kiss. She, however, was too inexperienced to make sense of it. What did it mean? Did Harry care for her, or was this the way a rake behaved with any woman who was near at hand?