by JayneFresina
Pip hastened to assure the fellow that he was in no danger of her requiring such a doubtful "favor" from him. "I'm not the sort of female who feels that her existence, her entire purpose in life and all her hopes for happiness, revolve around a man."
Despite that deliberately bland expression, when his gaze wandered to the base of her throat and slowly back up the side of her neck, it left a considerable number of goose-pimples in its wake. How he did it, she had no idea. If only she had a berry spoon at hand with which to rap his knuckles.
"Indeed," she choked out on a thin breath, "the very opposite is true. I find men to be wholly disadvantageous— obstructive to my contentment, destructive to my equanimity and, ultimately, adversaries to my success in life."
He folded his arms. "So many big words to say so little of consequence."
"So little of consequence?" she repeated flatly. "Very well, I'll make it simpler for you, Lord Boxall. This woman no marry."
But as she turned away he caught hold of her arm. "A woman shares in her husband's triumphs, naturally. What need does she have for her own?"
Now he was really getting her dander up. "Marriage, sir, is an inconvenience put in our way to stop us from reaching our full potential. A woman of a certain age must have a husband, so I am told, to keep her out of trouble and away from sin. In other words, to prevent her from having any enjoyment in life."
"Sounds reasonable to me."
"I'm sure it does. To a man with the reasoning capacity of a walnut."
"You think marriage is any more convenient for a man?" He released her arm, and Pip wondered why she had not shouted at him to do so before that. "The management and training of a wife is an onerous, mostly thankless task. A sensible fellow shouldn't take up the burden unless he's prepared, understanding how his own pleasures will be curbed, his patience tried, his time commandeered for wasteful pursuits, and his finances depleted."
She stared. "I cannot decide whether you are the most awful man I've ever met or the most comical clown."
"Or a walnut."
Again she studied his face, trying to ascertain whether he was teasing her.
"Have they decided on our wedding date yet?" he asked, while restraining what appeared to be a yawn.
"Who?" she exclaimed crossly.
"Your aunt and my godmother, of course. The architects of this most heinous plan to end all joy in our lives."
"I don't think even my aunt would get that far ahead of herself as to plan a date."
"Excellent, because I'd rather it not interfere with Ascot and then, of course—" He rubbed his chin, pondering the air above her head. "—There is Glorious Goodwood, followed by the grouse season."
"I can assure you I won't interfere with any pleasure of yours. You can attend every horse race and hunting season you care to. I have no plans to be managed and trained."
"But this introduction is the first step toward the fate ultimately awaiting us." He waved a long finger in her face. "Awful as it might be, some things cannot be avoided, young lady."
"Oh yes they can. Surely you don't care to be pushed into this either. I very much doubt anybody has control of you."
"Of course not." He gave a curt laugh. "I'm a man."
"You say that as if it's a qualification, rather than a shortcoming."
"I have no shortcomings."
She studied him thoughtfully. "Despite that remarkable, seed-ox confidence, there must be something amiss for your godmother to be pushing you at somebody like me. I would have thought you'd have a hundred prospects from which to choose. Safe, properly raised, dainty, English roses, who will never argue or even speak unless spoken to. They will play the harp for you until their fingers bleed, whereas I should just as soon crack you over the head with it the first time we quarrel."
Had he just moved closer? Perhaps it was merely the pushing crowd that made him sway in her direction. "It's inevitable that we'll quarrel?" he asked.
"I doubt you and I would ever do anything else."
"Oh, I can think of a few things—"
"You're a dreadfully smug, officious Englishman, and I'm a willful, independent-minded American. Oil and water have a more convivial relationship. Two brick walls have nothing to do, except stand against each other."
His gaze had returned to her face, where it settled with a slightly quizzical squint. "Shouldn't you stop talking?" he muttered gruffly. "And be— what was it you said— amiable? I'm not sure we have the same definition of that word."
"Shouldn't you apologize for ruining my shawl?" It was no good, she couldn't stop her tongue. His brazen, arrogant gaze lured it out of her, as music from a conjuror's pipe drew a serpent from its basket. "I thought English gentlemen were supposed to be chivalrous at the very least. Don't you pride yourself on it?"
With a deep sigh, he reached inside his coat and brought out a worn leather wallet. "This should more than cover the cost, so you can stop squawking about it. In fact, I'm being generous. You carelessly let that bit of flotsam drag along the carpet. And you needn't expect an excess of pin money when we're married, so you'd better start looking after your garments with greater care."
"I don't need your money!"
"What are you whining on about then?"
"A genuine 'sorry' would cost you nothing. This lace was made by nuns. In a convent."
"Really? I don't know much about nuns, but I daresay they need something to pass the time between prayers and self-flagellation."
"My point being that this is extremely rare craftsmanship, labored over for months, perhaps years. Probably irreplaceable. What am I to tell my sister when she sees this?"
"I would imagine the hole speaks for itself. Like the one in your face."
She ought to be offended, outraged and all those other good words. He ought to be slapped. But Pip could give as good as she got, she loved a good debate and there was nobody to stop her enjoying this one. "Don't you look where you're putting your big feet?"
"They're not generally in the vicinity of delicate lace. At least..." the wicked hint of something like a smile briefly lifted one corner of his mouth, "nothing that's seen the inside of a nunnery."
Yes, she could well imagine.
His godmother's description had done him an injustice. Unconventional, yes, that much was true. And handsome— vayan as her aunt said. But that barely touched the surface. How was such a man to be described?
Her thoughts momentarily wandered off, along with other parts, until she corralled them back into proper territory. "Might I suggest you stamp about with greater caution in future?"
"I'll stamp where I please." Again the quirk of his lips, evocative of sly amusement. "The beauty of not having an interfering wife. Yet."
"Not that you'd feel any obligation to listen to her anyway."
"Well, she is meant to be mute and amiable, so I'm told. I'm not holding out much hope."
Clearly, getting a proper apology from the rude fellow was out of the question.
Her next statement was, perhaps obvious, but she felt it needed to be said. Just to clarify. For the both of them.
"We're not going to get along, you and I, are we?"
"Good God, I hope not."
* * * *
A dancing coil of her hair had become dislodged above her right ear. With every word she sputtered, that curl bounced indignantly, like an exclamation mark of sorts, but she seemed unaware of it. Or perhaps she didn't care.
He kept looking at it, resisting the near overwhelming urge to put it back in its place.Made his palms itch and his jaw grind.
He gave the knot of his neck cloth a terse tug and cleared his throat. But the urge to touch her and see if she was real remained undiluted.
She was a curious, apparently fearless creature, with far too much to say for herself. Leaping to conclusions about his identity— with only a little encouragement from him.
He ought to walk away and leave her there, but he couldn't seem to do it. She had sprung up behind him without
warning and now gave him her full attention, not looking slyly for anybody else in the room or sneakily checking her reflection in the mirrored wall panels. It was almost as if she existed solely for him and, if he left, she would disappear in a puff of smoke. She seemed to be all alone and nobody else was looking at her. Perhaps, he mused, she really wasn't there.
But from what part of his usually sensible, highly intelligent, no-nonsense brain would he construct such a creature?
Warily he took stock of the image before him.
Her lips were very full; her eyes an extraordinary color— dark purple, luxuriant, like the fine cloth once reserved only for royalty. In this candlelight her skin was honey brown and yet seemed to hold within it a silvery glow. The translucent, shimmering quality of her complexion reminded him of the seedpods of Lunaria Annua — or 'honesty' as the plant was more commonly known. What would Americans call it? He had no idea. It was one of the few plants he could name as he'd always been drawn to it and, as a boy, had put some on his mother's grave every spring. It was his mother who had called it 'honesty', although he had only learned that from his father. His mother died when he was barely two, so he had no memory of her. Pity.
Oh, Christ. Why these rambling thoughts about flowers, seedpods, and his dead mother? He was usually much too busy and sensible to ruminate over childhood memories, or regret the lack of any.
That stray, dancing curl had somehow become entwined around her teardrop earring— amethyst, like her eyes.
Before he thought about what he did, he had reached toward her with one finger and flicked the curl free. It was soft, smooth, light as a whisper.Almost a kiss.
Where the devil had she come from? And he didn't mean the country of her origin. He wouldn't be at all surprised to find that she had been put in his way to cause trouble. In that moment a simple, chance collision seemed the most implausible reason of all.
As his father would say, women were always up to something.
Mulier est hominis confusio. Woman is the ruin of man.
The last time he saw his imaginary partner in crime — the little girl he'd once called "Nonesuch"— she was standing on the cliffs, waving goodbye as he rode off in the mail coach for boarding school at the age of ten. He thought he'd left her behind forever, along with boyhood. She wasn't happy about it then, didn't like to be dismissed and sent back to whatever creative part of his imagination she'd come from. He should have known she wouldn't go quietly.
Well, now, apparently, she was back for vengeance.
Chapter Four
Preparing to make her grand exit once again, Pip found herself stuck, almost pulled off balance. This time his foot was on the hem of her gown and she felt the stitches straining where bodice met skirt.
Looking arrogantly down at her, arms folded again, he said, "Since there is nobody here to introduce us properly, shouldn't you tell me your name?"
With a proud angling of her shoulders and a flourish of that torn shawl, she announced, "My name, sir, is Epiphany Piper. Let that be a warning to you."
"Hmm. No doubt your reputation precedes you and I ought to know the name."
"You suspect correctly, Lord Boxall." She tried to free her skirt by tugging gently on it, but she was stuck fast. "Perhaps you could take your great, muddy paw off my gown, before that too is destroyed."
"But you can't go, because you belong to me."
She could scarce believe her ears, although they were usually most reliable. "I beg your pardon?"
"I thought we just decided to give it a try. Now that you've warned me."
"Are you quite mad?"
"But it's been decreed by your aunt and my godmother. Clearly you haven't met my godmother, or you'd know she's not to be gainsaid."
"Lord Boxall, I wouldn't give it a try with you if your queen herself decreed it."
"Why not?"
Again she had cause to doubt the veracity of her hearing. She squared her shoulders and faced him boldly. "Because you are arrogant, insufferably rude—"
"You don't find me at all attractive?" He looked mystified.
"I— no, I don't. I mean to say, I'm sure that you are." She flapped her fan wildly. "In a common way. But I don't. Find you. That."
He looked at her for another long minute, stormy eyes scanning her person as if they read a lurid pamphlet all about her antics, printed on her clothing. Usually, once a man discovered the extent of her awfulness, he made some hasty excuse to go back to the unchallenging comfort of his port and dice. But this one was not going anywhere. Neither was he letting her escape. He must enjoy a good fight too. Probably never lost one.
He had a raw, heated masculinity, forceful and unapologetic. Just like his large feet. Lace shawls, she mused, were not the only things such a man could ruin without remorse. She ought, perhaps, be somewhat afraid. But none of the sensations currently careening through her could be mistaken for fear. Even the ones she couldn't name.
Then, finally, his lips parted and he exhaled a low, reluctant grumble, "Just as well I'm not Bertie Boxall then, isn't it?"
She stared, a cold rush of blood apparently leaving invisibly through the soles of her feet. "You're not...he?" Her fan closed with a snap and she gripped it tightly, until she felt that rapid beat of her heart finally slow to a calmer trot. "So you lied." And why should that surprise her? He was a man, wasn't he?
"You came up with the idea. I didn't disabuse you of it."
Of course he would not act contrite about that either. "I suppose you amused yourself with my misconception."
"Immensely." He smirked.
"I might have known." She sighed, shaking her head. "You didn't look the sort to have much familiarity with harps."
He had made a fool of her.
And she had made a bigger one of herself by leaping to conclusions? Chagrinned, she must admit that it had not taken much luring for her to make a wrong turn and think what she wanted about him.
Pip felt her pulse falter uncertainly. Her fingers were digging hard into her closed fan and for once in her life she didn't have another word to say.
"Damon Deverell," he announced suddenly.
Having waited a moment and found nothing more forthcoming, she regained command of her tongue, her wits and her pulse. "Is that your real name? Or a condition of the English digestive system that prohibits a smile and good manners?" She imagined her sister chiding, hardly the sort of thing one talks about...
But he, still not scared away, merely inclined his head a half inch toward her and said, "It's a warning in return for the one you gave me."
"Duly noted." Deverell. Where had she heard that name before? For some reason she could hear her father pronouncing the name in his mellow voice, his tongue lingering over the ls and rolling the r.
She saw him glance at the dance card she wore on a string around her wrist.
"I'd write you in," she said pertly, "but I haven't one free space to spare."
"I can't dance anyway," he replied.
"Feet too big, I suppose."
"I'm not invited to the ball. In fact, I'm likely to be escorted out by four or five burly footmen very soon."
Ah, that explained the lack of evening clothes. A young man who turned up at events to which he was not invited could only be trouble. She was amused, though, that he had to tell her the footmen would be burly and several in number, just to be sure she wouldn't think him capable of being thrown out on his ear by one slight fellow.
"What are you doing here then, if you didn't come to dance?" she asked, intrigued even further.
"Business."
"What gentleman brings business to a ball?"
"I'm not a gentleman. I'm a lawyer."
"Ah. That explains so much." She laughed. "As my father would say, can't teach a pig to sing."
"Your father has something against the law?"
"Just against those who take advantage of other folk's misery."
"I don't apologize for making a living."
"You do
n't apologize for anything, do you?"
"Why incriminate myself?"
"You must be a great pest. Do people avoid you in the street?"
"Not if I see them first."
"So you chase them down in places like this."
But looking over her head, he had caught sight of someone in the crowd and his expression changed, hardened again. Following the path of that fiercely direct gaze, she found a tall, slender blonde woman at the end of it. Very handsome and very much aware of the fact, pretending that her pale blue eyes did not see the young man who watched her. When the woman nodded stiffly in response to something her companion said, her diamond earrings glittered like a winter's sun on a frosty window pane, blades of cool light cutting across her slender neck.
In that moment the surly young lawyer seemed to have forgotten Pip's presence, and she was not a girl who stood around waiting to be remembered. Of course his attention would be stolen by a woman like that one over there, she thought glumly. He might be English and peculiar, but he was, above all else, a man.
However, his foot still imprisoned her skirt hem and when he felt her trying to get away again, he grumbled, "A minute, Miss Piper. I'm not done with you yet."
She thought abruptly of a cat toying with a mouse. And she no more enjoyed being toyed with than she did being made a fool, or forgotten about.
"Where are you staying in London, madam? Tell me. I insist."
No, if you please...; no, if you would be so good as to... "Why? Do you mean to visit? I shan't be at home to callers so you'll have a wasted journey."
"How do you know you won't be at home? You don't know when I might call."
He questioned her as if they were in court, she mused. "For you I'll make a point of being out. I don't forgive men who've deceived me for their own amusement. Besides, Englishmen are tremendously boring."