He mentally applauded her willingness to be honest. “Yes. While it was unfortunate for you to . . . do whatever you did. I rather missed the whole mess, but onlyyoucan let it define you, Miss Grace. And I, for one . . .” He took a step closer to her. “Rather thought you stronger than that.”
He issued the challenge, offering the opportunity to rise to the occasion rather than offer sympathy.
Sympathy was for fools, for those too weak to accept the challenge of rising above. And he was quite certain that Miss Grace needed the gauntlet thrown, rather than a soft word and kind pat.
Like a pet Yorkie.
Ramsey gave a slight shiver at the thought.
“I just made a cake of myself,” she retorted with enough heat to warn him, but not loudly enough to draw attention.
“I know.”
“And yet, you want me to waltz right out there—”
“I wouldn’t waltz if I were you;thatmight draw attention. Most people simply walk, but . . .” He hitched a shoulder.
She glared, clearly not appreciating his attempt at humor.
Ladies were so irritatingly literal when they were angry. Annoying, that.
“Well, what are you going to do? Hide? Let them win? Cower? I guarantee that is exactly what they think you should do, and then they will whisper behind your back, and then to your face.”
“They’ll whisper regardless.” Miss Grace shrugged, giving a very unladylike eye roll to punctuate her statement.
Even if it was unladylike, Ramsey had to agree with the gesture. London elite had earned many an eye roll from him as well. “Yes, but the question is . . .” He took a step forward, met her gaze with a frank one of his own, and continued. “What do you want them to whisper about? How you ran, or how you had the bravery to rise above?”
Her green eyes sparkled, then kindled with what looked suspiciously like courage, but then she glanced down to the floor, hiding his view of her expression.
The first measures of the waltz started playing, and Ramsey turned to the ballroom, watching the dancers start to assemble in the middle of the floor.
Before he could second-guess his instincts, he held his hand out.
Miss Grace glanced from his hand, to his eyes, then back, her brows arching in a question.
“Or was I wrong? Are you not brave enough?” he challenged.
It wasn’t a second later than her hand was firmly placed on his arm, following him from the alcove into the room.
As they stood in the frame of the waltz and began to melt into the other swirling dancers, it was only then that Ramsey realized that he had given the London Ton something entirely different to whisper about.
Himself.
