“Now, why was it you forced me out here, sir?” she demanded, her voice a bit sharper than she intended.
“Force?” he said softly. “I never force ladies to do anything.”
“No? Do they simply fall on their knees begging ….” She broke off in some confusion, not exactly sure what she meant to say, and the color rose to her cheeks. To her vast relief, he merely regarded her intently for a moment, then addressed her original question.
“I feel beholden, as a gentleman, to offer you an apology. Two of them, that is. My language during our past … run-ins was inexcusable.”
She looked up at him. “It was. But I suppose it was greatly provoked. A gentleman of your stature does not take kindly to being knocked on his rump.”
It was his turn to laugh, though he made no attempt to stifle the rich baritone sound. “You should know, you have accomplished what no other man, not even Gentleman Jackson, has managed to do.”
“Set you down a peg? Someone should do it,” she muttered under her breath. “Seeing as you have a high enough opinion of yourself.”
He cocked his head to one side. “What was that?”
“Oh, never mind,” she said in a louder tone. “You may consider yourself forgiven, though I can’t fathom why it makes a whit of difference to you.”
His arm suddenly tightened around her waist and he quickened their steps, turning her in a series of intricate figures that left her a little breathless.
“It doesn’t,” he finally replied. “I care very little for what other people think. However, regardless of what you choose to believe, Lady Augusta, I wish you know that I regret my earlier rudeness. We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot with each other, but it appears we are making some strides to reaching a common ground of civility.”
He was subtly clever in his choice of words, she had to give him that. It only made her feel more awkward and unpolished. “How is it you know my name?“
“Ah, that’s right, we have not been introduced. Not formally.” He inclined his head a fraction. “Allow me to correct that. I am Marcus Leete?—”
“I know very well who you are, Lord Dunham,” she muttered, more aware than she wished to be of the pressure of his gloved hand on small of her back, and the faint, woodsy aroma of his cologne.
“Do you?” His smile was half mocking.
Augusta felt a rush of anger. Was this his intention, to fluster her with his smooth spins of speech so that she became a stammering fool again, at the mercy of his so-called wit? Perhaps he thought it a suitable revenge to embarrass and humiliate her, just as she had done to him, however unwittingly.
Well, she refused to be cowed so easily. “Indeed sir—you are a rake and a wastrel, but Polite Society looks up to you because of your title and your fortune. As for doing anything good or useful, I doubt you have ever lifted a finger to do aught but satisfy your own selfish desires.”
For a moment there was a flicker of some emotion in his eyes, and then his expression turned hard as stone. The smile remained carved on his lips but there was no humor in it. “Howvery perceptive of you, Lady Augusta. Allow me to congratulate you—your knowledge of all things, be they books or people, seems … unquestionable.”
The rest of the dance proceeded in grim silence. He still moved with faultless precision, but Augusta could feel the rigid tension in his body. She should have felt pleased, she told herself. After all, she could tell she had managed to land a blow to his precious self-image.
But somehow she didn’t. It hadn’t been anger or embarrassment that she had glimpsed in his eyes. It had been pain. For some odd reason, her angry retort had hurt him.
Her brow furrowed as she stared into the folds of his cravat. It didn’t make any sense. He had just finished saying he didn’t care what anyone thought, so why should her words have the least effect on him? She had imagined a man of his reputation to be lacking in all sensibilities, and yet it seemed he was not without a certain vulnerability.
Perhaps she was as guilty as he had been in pronouncing judgment on a stranger.
The last notes of the waltz died away and the earl escorted her back to her chair. He bowed over her hand with icy politeness, his eyes avoiding any contact with hers. “I shall leave you to enjoy the rest of the evening in more congenial company.”
“Sir,” she said quietly as he made to walk away.
He raised his brow in question.
“Now it is my turn to say I’m sorry.”
His expression remained impassive. “Why, whatever for?”
“What I said was terribly rude?—”
“No, my dear. What you said was the truth.”
Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.
