Catching Jorge’s eye in the mirror, Isabel smiled and said, “Thank you.” Returning to her toilette, she stabbed one last red feather into her black headband and rose from the dressing bench. “I’m ready,” she said brightly.
Jorge took her hand and glided them both toward the curtain. His movements were so lithe, they sometimes made Isabel feel clumsy, as if she were a little girl trying to keep up with an older brother. He was certainly the consummate tango dancer. That was a good thing. Even when Isabel made the occasional misstep, Jorge was perfect enough to keep the both of them going.
At the moment, as they waited for their cue, he had his arm around her and was holding her close. A little too close for her comfort, but she didn’t object. Jorge knew what he was doing, and he certainly didn’t mean anything by it. Jorge had no interest in her as a woman, but only as a dance partner.
She heard the announcement of their first demonstration number, a so-called “steamy Latin dance called the tango,” the band slithered into the first couple of bars, and Jorge oozed them both out from behind the curtain. Isabel’s heart bounced slightly when she caught sight of Somerset and Dr. Abernathy in the audience.
As Jorge flung her here and there during the dance, doing his version of a modified French “Apache” dance, Isabel kept an eye on Somerset. With a sigh, she decided that Somerset appeared the very epitome of a handsome knight come to rescue her from a dismal and solitary future.
Ah, but what about the dance academy?
Dance academies were all good and well, she told herself, but she still might end up alone and lonely. Besides, she had to win the contest first.
You will win the contest. With Jorge as your partner, you can’t lose. Then you’ll be able to establish your dance academy and become the toast of San Francisco’s dance teachers.
And you’ll still be alone.
Bother.
If there were any justice in the universe, people’s hearts would behave sensibly instead of tilting one way one day and another way the next and keeping one constantly confused with their vagaries and inconsistencies. On the other hand, if hearts behaved like brains, there would be no use for both organs. And that would be fine with her.
Before the dance ended, she’d just about convinced herself that her confused emotions had sent her ‘round the bend. Then, when Jorge led her offstage amid a clamor of applause, sat her down on the dressing bench, and said, “And now, we marry, you and me,” she knew it for a cold fact.
She stared up at him, her mind a blank. “I . . . I beg your pardon?”
He pointed insolently from himself to her. “We marry now. We must. You are wasted on any other man.” He buffed his fingernails on his lapel.
He wanted to marry her? Isabel could scarcely believe him. He’d never given her the slightest indication that he cared for her. Never. Not once.
Yet it wasn’t like Jorge to make jokes.
She decided to take him seriously, although she still had trouble believing he’d actually proposed to her. “But . . . but . . . Jorge, I’m flattered, really, but . . .” She saw his eyes narrow and realized his temper was beginning to smolder; Lord knew she’d had enough practice in recognizing the symptoms. She’d managed not to aggravate him very often since they’d been partners, but keeping on his good side was a touch-and-go proposition.
“We marry,” he insisted. “It’s a matter of sense.”
A matter of sense, was it? Isabel felt a headache beginning to nibble at the corners of her brain and thought that if there was one thing on earth she needed less than she needed Jorge’s proposal right now, she couldn’t think what it might be.
“But . . . do you love me?” The question came out in a squeak, and Isabel felt silly. But, honestly, wasn’t love supposed to enter into marriage somewhere?
“Love? Love?” He stared at her as if she were crazy, which made sense to her, since she thought she must be. “Love is no matter. We belong together.”
“Oh.” Good heavens. Isabel guessed she was grateful he wasn’t attempting to make passionate love to her, but . . .
“We marry,” Jorge repeated. “We be a team always.”
Terrifying thought. Isabel frantically thought for some words that would dissuade but not enrage Jorge. “But really, Jorge, we can’t marry,” she said, feeling weak and irresolute and ill equipped to fight a battle with the man upon whom she was relying for her entire future. It sounded bad when she put it like that.
“Why not?” He stood upright before her, stamped his foot, and glared down at her, his fists on his lean hips.
“Because . . . because . . .” She was at a loss for words. She couldn’t very well tell him that she considered him vain and ridiculous and good for nothing except dancing. Then she recalled a line Somerset had spoken to her. “Because my affections are already engaged elsewhere.” Bowing her head, she tried to look demure.
“What?” Jorge exclaimed. “What that mean? Your affections are engaged? What do you mean?”
“I mean that I care for another gentleman, Jorge. Your proposal means the world to me, really,” she hurried on, lying through her teeth. “I appreciate it ever so much, but you see, I can’t marry you whilst I care for another gentleman.”
Jorge held onto his savage frown for a few seconds, then grunted, “Huh!” and marched off. Watching his back, Isabel considered what that might mean. Nothing good to her, she was sure.
As she wandered behind her dressing screen, unhooking her neck ribband and twirling her red feather in her fingers, she wondered how many other proposals she was going to get this evening. At least Jorge had offered her marriage. Most of the men who asked similar questions while they danced with her had other arrangements in mind.
She feared it was going to be a long night. The only bright spot in it that she’d discovered so far was the image of Somerset FitzRoy sitting at a supper table on the edge of the dance floor. An impulse to throw herself into his arms and beg him to have his way with her followed her through her costume change and clear out to the dance floor on Jorge’s arm.
# # #
“Now that,” declared Jason Abernathy with vibrant approval in his voice, clapping for all he was worth, “was one spectacular dance number.”
“Hmm, yes. It was.” Somerset didn’t like it, either. It didn’t seem right that Isabel and that Argentinean fairy should dance so well together. “She plans to win the contest with him, of course.”
“Of course.”
He heard Jason chuckle and turned to frown at him.
Jason held up a hand. “Don’t get jealous, Somerset. I’m sure Mrs. Golightly hasn’t a bit of interest in the fellow except as a dance partner.”
Jealous? Outrageous! “I’m not jealous,” he said loudly, embarrassing himself. He looked around, but no one else was paying any attention to their table. The music was loud, and they were all chatting and dancing.
“Oh. I see.”
Damn the man. He didn’t believe him.
Unfortunately, Somerset didn’t believe himself, either. He was jealous as sin of Jorge Savedra, and that was the unvarnished, unpalatable truth. In fact, when he boiled everything down to its essence, he, Somerset FitzRoy, a man who’d never even believed in the softer emotions, a man who’d given himself over to scholarship of a high order and who was now writing the definitive book on native American plants and their uses, was head over heels in love with Isabel Golightly, a woman who evidently didn’t care for him except as a friend.
It was a discouraging thought. Worse, he didn’t know what to do about it. She’d rejected his proposal of marriage already. He would be a cad to pursue the matter after she’d made her wishes known on the subject.
How degrading.
Somerset had been staring at his empty wine glass, but he knew when Isabel reappeared to dance with the customers. He had some sort of bee-line reaction to her presence. Whenever she was in his vicinity, he knew it. Turning his head, he discovered he was right. She and Jorge were just e
merging from behind the curtain.
She looked stunning, as usual. Clad in blue dress crafted of a feathery-light fabric, with a high waist cinched by a darker blue cummerbund, the hem was uneven, showing a good deal of her perfectly shaped ankles. Somerset’s heart felt heavy with the knowledge that he couldn’t possess that brilliant creature. Not that he wanted to possess her. Exactly. But he wanted her. Badly.
“Ask the lady to dance, Somerset,” Jason said under his breath. “Are you waiting until a dozen other men snatch her up? Get along with you!”
No further urging was required. Somerset popped up from his chair and made a dash at Isabel, trying to appear dignified even in his hurry. As he approached, he searched her face. She seemed to be upset or worried about something. He hoped Eunice hadn’t taken ill or anything. One of Isabel’s most endearing qualities was her devotion to her daughter, as odd as that daughter was. Not that he believed parents should shun odd children, but . . . oh, hang it, he knew what he meant.
As soon as she saw him heading her way, she altered her course to intercept him. Somerset took this as a favorable signal. He appreciated her wan smile, too, although he might have wished it wasn’t quite so wan. He took her hand and leaned closer to her. “Is something the matter, Isabel? Are you feeling quite the thing?”
“Oh, dear.” She laughed one of her silvery, tinkling laughs. “Do I look that bad?”
“You could never look bad.” He grinned, feeling more than a little sappy, but he was under her influence and couldn’t seem to help himself “But you don’t look as at ease with the world as you usually do. Is anything the matter with Miss Eunice?”
“Eunice? Why, no. What should be the matter with Eunice?”
“Er . . . I don’t know.”
“Oh.”
Clumsy ass. Taking a deep breath, Somerset attempted to redress his question. “Not that you could ever appear anything less than utterly charming and beautiful, but I sense a certain . . . ah . . . disquiet about you tonight.” Mentally kicking himself in the head, Somerset bitterly wondered if he might be better off if he continued the conversation in Latin. Latin couldn’t possibly be more formal and un-loverlike than that stupid speech had been.
The band struck up a waltz, bless it, since that was his best dance, and he took Isabel in his arms. She fitted beautifully there. She was as graceful as a willow tree, as slender as an iris stalk and as perfect as a rose. Her skin was as smooth and delicate as magnolia blossoms, and her eyes were as blue as—hang it, he still hadn’t come up with the right blue for her eyes. Salvia came close, although they were a little on the purple side. Isabel’s eyes tended toward the gray, not the purple. He’d keep working on it.
“You’re very perceptive, Mr. FitzRoy. Something just happened that . . . unsettled me.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” He took another breath and a chance. “Ah . . . would you like to talk about it? I may not be much of a dancer, but I listen quite well.” He smiled at her, throwing all his good wishes and any charm he might possess into the expression.
She gave him a lovely smile in return. “You dance beautifully. You needn’t ever apologize for your dancing skills.”
“No need for flattery. I know I’m no Mr. Savedra.”
This produced a huge sigh. “No, thank God, you’re not. He proposed marriage to me this evening.”
Somerset stopped dead in the middle of the dance floor, causing quite a pile-up. “He what?”
Isabel tugged him gently by the arm, and they set off waltzing again, garnering only a couple of glares and half a dozen grins for having interrupted the smooth flow of the dancing couples. “There’s no need for alarm, but that’s why I’m a little upset now. He said it only made sense that we marry, and that I’d be wasted on any other man.”
“Good God.”
Somerset didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all. He thought he’d imagined all the possible proposals and propositions Isabel might have to fend off in her career as a dancer, but he’d never even considered Jorge Luis Savedra as a rival. The dashed little fairy. Only, apparently he wasn’t a fairy. Damn, damn, damn. This was bad.
She sighed again, and he tightened his arms around her slightly. “I refused him, of course.” She actually managed a little laugh. “Can you imagine a marriage to Jorge Luis Savedra?”
“No. The thought boggles my mind.” Although the urge to hug her and kiss her soundly was so strong, he fairly trembled while suppressing it, Somerset didn’t dare become too forward in his attentions. It was his intention not to seduce her, but to marry her. She needed to know that he, of all the men in her new world, respected her and held only honorable intentions toward her.
Which made him think about Jorge. Isabel was with the man all the time. He could conceivably become ugly about her refusal. He could even, heaven forbid, take forced advantage of her. The notion made him see red.
“Listen, Mrs. Golightly, if that man offers you any insult, I’ll be more than happy to—”
”Oh, no! No, please. It wasn’t an insult. It was an . . . well, it was a proposal of marriage. That’s not insulting.” She didn’t sound sure of herself.
“I suppose not.” It galled him that she might be lumping Savedra’s proposal and his own under the same category in her mind: Not insulting. A tepid classification at best. “But do you think he’ll accept your refusal with equanimity?”
Yet another sigh. “Unfortunately, Jorge doesn’t accept anything with equanimity. His entire personality is . . . well, unequanimous. If there is such a word.”
“Perhaps you should ask Eunice.” This little quip produced a small laugh from her, and Somerset congratulated himself. He surreptitiously rubbed his cheek against her soft, sweetly scented hair. “Do you think he’ll continue to bother you?”
“Probably not. I’m mainly worried about the dance contest. If he becomes angry with me, he might not enter the contest with me, and that would be dreadful.”
“Does the contest matter that much to you?”
“Oh, yes!” She gazed up into his eyes with fervent intensity. “It means everything to me. It’s how I plan to earn money to start my dance academy.”
“Hmmm. I don’t suppose you’d reconsider my offer of a loan to start your academy, would you?”
She gave him such a wonderful smile, his knees nearly buckled. “I don’t suppose I would, but I do thank you. You’re such a very kind man.”
Kind, was he? Well it was better than unequanimous, he supposed. It still didn’t sound as if she were considering him for a permanent place in her life. Weren’t women supposed to fall for cads and roués? Somerset was afraid he didn’t qualify as either of those things.
Somerset and Isabel clapped politely when the band ended their number, and Somerset said, “Come over to the table and say hello to Dr. Abernathy. We dined here tonight in order to discuss some business, and decided to stay and dance a little, too.”
“Gladly.”
He led her to their table. Jason rose and bowed, and she smiled and gave him her gloved hand to shake. “It’s good to see you, Dr. Abernathy.”
“Likewise, Mrs. Golightly. I have something here for Miss Eunice.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small wrapped package. “It’s jasmine soap. One of my patients makes it.” His face clouded momentarily, and Somerset wondered why. He didn’t pursue the matter.
“Thank you so much. Eunice loves the soaps and lotions you give her. She’s never had such exquisite toiletries before.” Isabel lifted the small bar to her nose and sniffed delicately. “It smells heavenly. She’ll be ever so grateful.”
“My pleasure. Do you have a minute to talk, or do you need to get back to your work?”
“I’d better be available to dance with the customers. I’ll try to come back and chat after a few more dances.”
“Your tango number is spectacular,” Jason told her with a wicked grin. Somerset wanted to level him.
Blushing prettily, Isabel said, “That’s J
orge. He’s such a dramatic choreographer.”
“I must agree if he choreographed that one. It was brilliant.”
“Thank you.” She hurried off, tucking the soap into her cummerbund.
Somerset sank with a sigh into his chair and stared after her. “Jorge proposed marriage to her this evening.” He gave Jorge’s name the emphasis he felt it deserved.
“My God, did he really?” Jason chuckled.
“Yes. She’s afraid he won’t enter the contest with her because she refused him.” Somerset didn’t feel the slightest inclination to chuckle.
His fingers drummed on the table as he watched Isabel dance. And dance and dance and dance. And all the men she danced with, he wanted to murder. This was terrible. He didn’t know what to do about it.
“I doubt she has to worry about the contest,” Jason said after a moment or two.
“Really?” Somerset left off wishing all the other men in the room were dead and glanced at Jason. “Why not? He’s a weasely little scoundrel. I wouldn’t put it past him to bow out of the contest because he’s peeved with her.”
“Ah,” said Jason, “but you’re forgetting the money angle of the thing, Somerset. I seriously doubt that he’ll be willing to walk out on twenty-five hundred dollars for the sake of peevishness.”
Somerset brightened. “You’re right! I’d forgotten about the money.”
“I doubt that Mr. Savedra has.”
That was the first good thing Somerset had ever heard said about Jorge Savedra, other than that he was a swell dancer.
Chapter Fourteen
Isabel began to grow nervous as the time approached for her to leave the dance floor and get ready for her next number. What would Jorge do? Would he be angry? Would he pout? What she feared most was that he’d storm off in a huff and never come back.
But that was silly. He needed his job almost as much as she needed hers. She bit her lower lip, and the words to the tune now playing fluttered through her head. The song spoke of a woman who’d married an old man for money, and who now regretted doing it. While she seemed happy and carefree, she wasn’t. Isabel doubted that. Marrying for money seemed much more sensible this evening than it usually did.
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