by Jen Turano
Scribbling her observations down as quickly as she could, even though she wasn’t certain she did justice to the Star Quadrille since her view had become blocked by a large number of guests who’d moved in front of her, Permilia realized she’d gone through fourteen dance cards. The only card she had left to her was the one Asher had written his name on in order to claim not one but two dances, and for some reason, and one she didn’t want to consider too closely, she was reluctant to besmirch that particular card with her notes.
Realizing she was in need of more dance cards, but dreading the very idea of having to seek out the Vanderbilt butler in order to procure those cards since he was more than a little intimidating, Permilia stepped out from her hiding place.
She found herself freezing on the spot a moment later, though, when her gaze was caught and then held by a dashing-looking gentleman dressed as a swashbuckling pirate—a gentleman who was smiling far too charmingly back at her.
He didn’t have the look of a reporter about him, considering his costume seemed to be of a quality that most reporters would find far too dear to possess. But he wasn’t a gentleman she’d ever seen before, that circumstance a cause for concern since she’d made it her business over the past two years to acquire the names and intricacies of all the members of society.
Information about dashing gentlemen was always required of a successful society columnist. And the very idea that she had no inkling as to the identity of the man directing his smile her way was troubling.
Knowing the only way to remedy that situation was to approach the man, even though that idea made her rather queasy, Permilia lifted her chin, took a single step forward, and then found herself incapable of further movement since her nerves seemed to take that moment to get the best of her.
Fortunately, the dashing gentleman evidently took her single step as an encouraging sign because he began to walk her way. Resisting the urge to bolt in the opposite direction, one that wasn’t all that difficult to resist since her feet seemed to have become stuck to the floor, Permilia tried to summon up a smile, hoping that she wasn’t actually grimacing at the man instead.
She’d been told by Ida on more than one occasion that gentlemen did not care to spend time in the company of ladies who spent their time grimacing.
Coming to a stop directly in front of her, the gentleman presented her with a very impressive bow, sweeping his pirate hat off his head in the process. He then straightened, put the hat back on his head, and reached for her hand. Bringing it to his lips, he placed a kiss on her knuckles as he caught and held her gaze.
Being a lady who truly was unaccustomed to such attention, and finding that attention to be completely unnerving, Permilia felt her cheeks begin to heat as she floundered for something to say, something that wouldn’t have her embarrassing herself or, heaven forbid, her family.
Unfortunately, not a single witty thought fluttered to mind, nor did a single sound pass through her lips when she opened her mouth. Luckily, the man still holding her hand didn’t appear to notice her dilemma as he began speaking.
“My dear lady,” the gentleman said, “I do hope you will take what I’m about to disclose in only the most complimentary of ways, but I’ve been longing to speak with you ever since I saw you walk through the entranceway. You bewitched me in that moment, and I would have approached you then, but I lost you in the crowd. I have been desperately searching for you ever since, longing to make your acquaintance.”
Permilia opened her mouth, discovered she was still unable to utter so much as a single word, but was spared the embarrassment of an uncomfortable silence descending over them when the gentleman continued with his flowery speech, as if he had yet to notice his audience was suffering from a certain case of muteness.
“I can only pray that you’ll honor me with a dance or two this evening, as well as disclose your name to me or else I fear I will descend into a state of deepest melancholy, unable to . . .”
The rest of the gentleman’s speech got lost when a loud clearing of a throat interrupted him right before another gentleman joined them—a gentleman Permilia found herself, oddly enough, relieved to see.
“Ah, Mr. Slater, I see you’ve made the acquaintance of my very dear friend, Miss Permilia Griswold,” Asher said as he ever so casually took hold of Permilia’s hand and began tugging it away from Mr. Slater, who seemed somewhat reluctant to let go of it, that troubling situation resulting in a brief tug-of-war erupting between the two gentlemen.
Just when Permilia thought she was going to be parted with her hand for good, Asher won the day—doing so, if Permilia wasn’t much mistaken, by stepping ever so discreetly on Mr. Slater’s square-buckled shoe. Asher then tucked her arm into the crook of his, going so far as to give it a reassuring pat.
Mr. Slater, to give him his due, only let out the slightest hint of a grunt when Asher stepped off his foot, right before he beamed another charming smile Permilia’s way and inclined his head.
“It is a true honor to meet you, Miss Griswold. And since your astonishing beauty has apparently caused Mr. Rutherford, a gentleman I readily admit to not knowing well, to forget his good manners, allow me to extend you my name. I’m Mr. Eugene Slater.”
To Permilia’s complete horror, when she opened her mouth to acknowledge Mr. Slater, the only sound she seemed capable of making was a squeak, a less than acceptable response if she’d ever heard one.
To her relief, Asher immediately came to her rescue again.
“Miss Griswold freely admits, at least to those close to her, such as myself, that she has not been blessed with the gift of conversing easily with strangers, Mr. Slater. Since it does appear as if Mrs. Vanderbilt has included far more guests than the usual four hundred tried-and-true members of society, I’m afraid Miss Griswold finds herself placed in an overwhelming situation tonight. That being said, I’m certain she’s absolutely delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Permilia managed a nod in Mr. Slater’s direction, ducking her head a second later as she felt heat settle on her cheeks.
She’d always been a lady who blushed easily, but she was fairly certain she wasn’t blushing because of Mr. Slater’s attention. If she were honest with herself, she was blushing simply because Asher had just extended her one of the sweetest kindnesses she’d ever been extended.
She’d never felt at ease in social situations, bungling introductions left and right when she’d first been presented to society. That bungling had only increased the more diligently she’d tried to be accepted into the fashionable set, her failures giving Ida one opportunity after another to voice the many disappointments she suffered due to the extent of her stepdaughter’s deficiencies.
No one, however—not her father, stepmother, Lucy, or anyone else she’d met over the many seasons she’d been out—had ever taken the time to stand beside her and explain her peculiarities away in such a matter-of-fact manner, as if turning mute simply because one was introduced to a person was an everyday occurrence and didn’t merit the slightest bit of condemnation.
The very idea that the person to have done such a thing was Mr. Asher Rutherford was certainly surprising and lent credence to the idea that she may very well have been wrong about the man—especially the part where he was unlikable, churlish, and argumentative all the time. Although . . . she had actually enjoyed a few of their skirmishes, especially the ones centered around his products and what he was charging for those—
“I’ve always found ladies who are shy and modest to be quite compelling,” Mr. Slater said, his words jolting Permilia back to the situation at hand, where she still, unfortunately, seemed incapable of uttering the most basic of words.
“And while I would never care to distress you or make you uncomfortable, Miss Griswold,” Mr. Slater continued, catching her eye, “I promise that if you agree to honor me with a dance tonight, I’ll do everything in my power to put you at ease.”
Unfamiliar as she was with any attention from gentlemen, yet now f
inding herself the recipient of two gentlemen paying her marked attention, Permilia felt her lips curve into an unexpected smile. Drawing in a deep breath, she felt actual words begin to form in her throat, but before she could get a single one of them past her lips, Asher squeezed her arm and spoke for her yet again.
“I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment tonight, Mr. Slater, since all of Miss Griswold’s dances have already been spoken for.”
Mr. Slater’s smile faded right before he set his sights on the dance card Permilia had forgotten she was still clutching in her hand, the one Asher had signed his name to, and the one that had numerous dances still waiting to be claimed. Lifting his hand, he quirked a brow her way. “May I see your card?”
“I’m afraid there’s no time for that, Mr. Slater,” Asher said, plucking the dance card straight out of Permilia’s hand before he stuck it in one of his jacket pockets. Tightening his grip on Permilia’s arm, he sent Mr. Slater a jerk of his head that might have been his attempt at a nod. “I believe the musicians are preparing to begin the music for the Go-As-You-Please Quadrille, a dance Miss Griswold has already promised to me. That means we’ll need to bid you a good evening.”
Mr. Slater, instead of stepping aside to allow Permilia and Asher to get on their way, actually took a step toward her, blocking the direct path to where the dancers were, indeed, now gathering.
“While it appears you have no dances left unclaimed, may I dare hope you’ve yet to promise your company to anyone for dinner?”
Permilia initially thought she’d misheard the gentleman. Lifting her head, she caught Mr. Slater’s eye, and the intensity in that eye convinced her he truly did seem determined to spend time with her. Clearing her throat as her thoughts began to whirl with how to agree to dine with him in a manner that would allow him to believe she possessed at least a touch of sophistication, her thoughts faded straightaway when Asher cleared his throat.
“I do hate being the bearer of distressful news, Mr. Slater,” he began. “But while Miss Griswold finds conversing with strangers uncomfortable, dining with one is downright disastrous for her, given that she suffers from a constricted throat throughout the meal, which does make her prone to, well . . . choking. Since I’m quite certain you don’t want to be the cause of Miss Griswold’s untimely demise, I’m sure you’ll understand why she simply can’t sit down to dine with you.”
With that, and leaving poor Mr. Slater with his mouth gaping open, Asher tightened his grip on her arm and urged her into motion, hurrying her into the crowd before she had the presence of mind to stop him.
Chapter
Six
Jostling his way across the crowded ballroom, Asher suddenly found it somewhat difficult to jostle—that difficulty a direct result of Permilia deciding, for some curious reason, to begin dragging her unusual sparkly heels. Realizing that the scraping noise he was now hearing was coming from the vicinity of her feet, clear proof she truly was reluctant to continue forward, he brought them to a complete stop. Lifting his head, he caught her eye and waited to discover if she’d recovered her ability to speak.
“Honestly, Asher,” she began a mere second later, “I simply cannot recall a moment in my entire life when I’ve been so thoroughly embarrassed. Why, I’m quite certain that Mr. Slater must find me to be a complete ninny right about now.”
Finding himself remarkably pleased by the notion that Permilia did seem to be completely comfortable speaking in his presence, although uncertain as to why he was so remarkably pleased, Asher gave her arm a squeeze. “I’m sure he simply finds you to be extremely modest and shy, qualities I do believe the gentleman appreciates in a lady since he did mention something about those qualities earlier.” He smiled. “And my modesty aside, I thought it was quite brilliant on my part to spare you from having to sit down to dine with the man by inventing a malady that gave you the perfect excuse to refuse his offer.”
“Forgive me, but to refresh that obviously faulty memory of yours, I was not given the opportunity to refuse him since you took it upon yourself to do so in my stead. Furthermore, while I do appreciate what I’m fairly certain was your attempt at chivalry, I’m not convinced your excuse was entirely brilliant, considering you told him I suffer from a constricted throat. That is not exactly considered a malady, and the idea that Mr. Slater is now under the impression I suffer from such an unusual condition makes me seem even more peculiar than I actually am.”
Asher’s smile faded straightaway. “You didn’t want to dine with Mr. Slater, did you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “It hardly matters now since that gentleman is most likely counting his blessings, thankful that he was spared the horror of having to dine with a madcap woman who suffers not only from muteness, but an inability to eat a meal in polite company as well.”
“When you put it that way, you do come across somewhat like a lunatic.”
She released what sounded exactly like a snort. “All thanks to you.”
Unused to ladies snorting at him, and having no idea how to appease this particular lady since she was quite unlike any lady he’d ever met before, Asher did the only thing that sprang to mind, that being summoning up another smile. “On the bright side, though, being thought a lunatic has a certain amount of charm to it in an unusual sort of way.”
Another snort was her first response to that. “No, it doesn’t, and I’ll thank you to not bring up the word lunatic again, if you please. While I don’t mean to come across as churlish because you did intervene on my behalf, something the good Lord alone knows how infrequently occurs in the world I now reside in, I can’t help but be a touch disgruntled with you.”
Asher blinked. “Why in the world would you be disgruntled with me?”
“You lost me the very rare opportunity of actually sitting down to dine with a gentleman who is not at his last prayers. That, unfortunately, is a condition I fear most of the gentlemen who are pressed into service to escort me in to dine at every society event suffer from.”
She heaved a resigned-sounding sigh. “It would have been a nice change of pace to dine with Mr. Slater, a gentleman who seems to possess a bit of an adventurous spirit, given that he was dressed as a pirate.”
“I’m dressed as an adventurous aristocrat.” He winced when he heard what sounded exactly like a touch of animosity in his tone, although why he was suddenly feeling less than amiable toward the world at large he couldn’t actually say.
Permilia began rubbing his arm in a rather soothing type of way, quite like one would do with a cranky child. He could not claim to be soothed, more along the lines of embarrassed over his less than manly behavior, but—
“Well, of course you are looking exactly the part of an adventurous aristocrat,” Permilia said, giving his arm another rub. “And forgive me if this comes out a little forward, but you make a very dashing aristocrat as well. However, you did not ask me to dine with you, Mr. Slater did. Although . . .” Her lips pressed together for a brief second as her eyes turned wide. “Good heavens, that certainly didn’t come out the way I intended, and I do hope you understand that I wasn’t attempting to secure your company for dinner this evening.”
Asher’s collar suddenly felt rather tight. “Of course I understood what you meant, Permilia. But I must now beg your pardon for not requesting your company for dinner in the first place, and for losing you a dinner partner because I, regrettably, didn’t think the matter through as thoroughly as I should have done. I truly thought you wouldn’t be interested in dining with the man since you were incapable of speech, but it was beyond rude of me to have made such an assumption without seeking your opinion on the matter first. As the situation stands, I’m afraid I’ve already promised Miss Claudia Lukemeyer my company for dinner tonight, which means . . . you’ll be dining with someone not of your choosing.”
“Thank goodness,” Permilia breathed before her eyes widened another fraction. “Not that I’m suggesting I wouldn’t have enjoyed your company, but . . .”
Asher’s brows drew together. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been partnered with a young lady who is anything but proficient with the silver.”
“Then it’s fortunate indeed that you aren’t sitting down to dine with me, because I’m constantly misusing the soup spoons. Although, in my defense, they do look remarkably similar.” Her forehead furrowed. “In all honesty, I’ve never been given an adequate explanation as to why a person is required to use a different utensil for every dish served. In my humble opinion, one fork, one spoon, and one knife should be more than sufficient as far as utensils are concerned in aiding a person with his or her meal.”
Hearing a few notes of music coming from the direction of the orchestra, Asher pulled Permilia into motion, turning to catch her eye as he did so. “While I cannot claim to disagree with your point regarding the silverware, it might be wise for you to not voice that particular point to anyone else. We in society do enjoy clinging to our snobbish ways, and it won’t benefit your position within this particular society to voice opinions that differ from the tried-and-true beliefs of the times.”
“I don’t really have a position in society that can be harmed overly much,” she said in a remarkably cheery tone. “And as I mentioned before, since I’m normally escorted to dinner by members of the more elderly set, most of my partners are hard of hearing, so there’s little to no danger of offending them even if something of a questionable nature does manage to slip past my lips.”
“I thought you were jesting about dining with elderly gentlemen.”
Permilia’s shoulders drooped as she slowed to a stop. “I’m afraid not. Although”—she regained her posture as if she’d suddenly recalled ladies were not supposed to slouch—“occasionally some well-meaning society matron will send the wallflower table a few younger gentlemen to sit with us, but I don’t particularly care for gestures motivated by pity. I’ve never enjoyed being on the receiving end of pity since it allows the person extending the pity to adopt a superior attitude.”