"A hit," he acknowledged, pressing a hand to his heart. "I am wounded. Possibly mortally. Deane, you may be called upon to serve as witness when I expire dramatically on the dance floor."
"I suspect you will survive," Lord Deane said dryly. "You generally do."
There was something in the exchange, an undercurrent of tension that Vanessa did not quite understand. The two men were perfectly cordial, their words perfectly civil, and yet she had the distinct impression of hackles rising, of territory being marked.
Ridiculous. She was not territory to be marked. She was a person, with her own preferences and choices, and if Martin thought he could simply appear and disrupt her conversation with Lord Deane through sheer force of personality, he was sorely mistaken.
"If you will excuse us, Your Grace," she said sweetly, "Lord Deane and I were in the midst of a dance."
"So I observed. You make a handsome pair." The words should have been a compliment. The tone made them somethingelse entirely. "I shall leave you to it. Deane…we should talk later. There is a matter regarding the hunting rights at Thornfield that I wished to discuss."
"Of course," Lord Deane said, though his jaw had tightened slightly. "I am at your disposal."
Martin smiled that particular smile that showed too many teeth and withdrew. Vanessa watched him retreat her pulse doing something complicated.
"He is a difficult man to read," Lord Deane observed quietly.
"He is my brother's closest friend. I have known him half my life."
"That is not quite the same as understanding him."
Surely, it could not have been so! But the truth was far more complicated than Lord Deane could possibly comprehend. The truth was that Vanessa had spent six years trapped between wanting Martin with all her heart and resenting him for making her want him. She did not understand him,how could anyone understand such an arrogant, mercurial, infuriating man...but she was not at all certain that understanding was the relevant issue.
"He has his moments," she said finally, which was perhaps the most honest thing she could offer.
The dance ended. Lord Deane escorted her back to the edge of the floor, bowing over her hand with perfect propriety. "Until Tuesday, Lady Vanessa. I shall count the hours."
He departed, and Vanessa was left alone with her thoughts and the unsettling awareness that Martin was watching from across the room.
She found her mother near the entrance to the supper room, deep in conversation with Lady Haberton about something that involved a great deal of fan-waving and significant looks.
"Ah, Vanessa." Lady Wayworth turned to her with an expression of maternal satisfaction. "I saw you dancing with Lord Deane. He is quite attentive, is he not?"
"He has asked permission to call on Tuesday."
"Has he? Splendid! He is a man of birth and property, with a character that stands the test of any scrutiny. You would be wise to consider that one’s prospects rarely align so favorably.”
Vanessa knew she should be pleased that a man of Lord Deane’s quality had chosen to favour her.
And yet all she could feel was a creeping sense of inevitability, as though her future were being decided without her consent, as though she were watching her own life from a great distance.
"The supper waltz approaches," her mother continued, consulting the small watch pinned to her bodice. "I believe you have promised Lord Montehood that dance?”
"So he has informed me."
"Try not to argue with him too publicly, dear. It gives people ideas."
"What sort of ideas?"
Lady Wayworth's fan resumed its gentle motion. "The sort that require either a wedding or a duel. Neither of which I am prepared to organize on such short notice."
Before Vanessa could formulate a response to this alarming statement, the orchestra struck up the opening notes of the supper waltz. The crowd shifted, rearranging itself into pairs, and she became aware of a presence at her elbow.
"Lady Vanessa." Martin offered his hand with a bow that was, infuriatingly, flawless. "I believe this is my dance."
She could refuse. She could claim sudden illness, a turned ankle, a pressing need to be anywhere other than in his arms. She could create a scene, damn the consequences, and free herself from this particular torment once and for all.
She placed her hand in his.
