By this time, the mob of frozen statues about them was beginning to stir back to life. His trembling hostess gave a signal, the musicians dutifully began playing, and the ballroom gradually returned to a state as close to normal as one could reasonably expect, given the monster in its midst.
All the same, as his hostess led him from one group of guests to the next, Dain was aware of the tension in the air, aware that they were all waiting for him to commit an outrage—and probably wagering on what kind of outrage it would be.
He wanted, very badly, to oblige them. It had been nearly eight years since he’d entered this world, and though they all looked and behaved as he remembered polite Society looking and behaving, he’d forgotten what it felt like to be a freak. He’d remembered the stiff courtesy that couldn’t disguise the fear and revulsion in their eyes. He’d remembered the women turning pale at his approach and the false heartiness of the men. He had forgotten, though, how bitterly alone they made him feel, and how the loneliness enraged him. He had forgotten how it twisted his insides into knots and made him want to howl and smash things.
After half an hour, his control was stretched to the breaking point, and he decided to leave—just as soon as he put the author of his miseries in her place, once and for all.
The quadrille having ended, Malcolm Goodridge was leading Miss Trent back to her circle of admirers, who were loitering near an enormous potted fern.
Dain released Lady Wallingdon. Leaving her to totter to a chair, he turned and marched across the room in the direction of the grotesque fern. He kept on marching until the men crowding about Miss Trent had to give way or be trodden down. They gave way, but they didn’t go away.
He swept one heavy-lidded glance over them.
“Go away,” he said quietly.
They went.
He gave Miss Trent a slow, head-to-toe survey.
She returned the favor.
Ignoring the simmering sensation her leisurely grey gaze triggered, he let his attention drift to her bodice, and boldly studied the rampant display of creamy white shoulders and bosom.
“It must be held up with wires,” he said. “Otherwise, your dressmaker has discovered a method of defying the laws of gravity.”
“It is lined with a stiffening material and bones, like a corset,” she said calmly. “It is horridly uncomfortable, but it is the height of fashion, and I dared not risk your displeasure by appearing a dowd.”
“Ah, you were confident I’d come,” he said. “Because you are irresistible.”
“I hope I’m not so suicidal as to wish to be irresistible to you.” She fanned herself. “The simple fact is that there seems to be a farce in progress, of which we are the principals. I am prepared to take reasonable measures to help put an end to it. You set the tongues wagging with the scene in the coffee shop, but I will admit that I provided provocation,” she added quickly, before he could retort. “I will also admit that the gossip might have died down if I hadn’t burst into your house and annoyed you.” Her color rose. “As to what happened afterward, no one saw, apparently, which makes it irrelevant to the problem at hand.”
He noted that she was gripping her fan tightly and that her bosom was rising and falling with a rapidity indicative of agitation.
He smiled. “You did not behave, at the time, as though it were irrelevant. On the contrary—”
“Dain, I kissed you,” she said evenly. “I see no reason to make an issue of it. It was not the first time you’ve ever been kissed and it won’t be the last.”
“Good heavens, Miss Trent, you are not threatening to do it again?” He widened his eyes in mock horror.
She let out a sigh. “I knew it was too much to hope you would be reasonable.”
“What a woman means by a ‘reasonable’ man is one she can manage,” he said. “You are correct, Miss Trent. It is too much to hope. I hear someone sawing at a violin. A waltz, or an approximation thereof, appears to be in the offing.”
“So it does,” she said tightly.
“Then we shall dance,” he said.
“No, we shan’t,” she said. “I had saved two dances because…Well, it doesn’t matter. I already have a partner for this one.”
“Certainly. Me.”
She held up her fan in front of his face, to display the masculine scribbling upon the sticks. “Look carefully,” she said. “Do you see ‘Beelzebub’ written there?”
“I’m not shortsighted,” he said, extracting the fan from her tense fingers. “You needn’t hold it so close. Ah, yes, is this the one?” He pointed to a stick. “Rouvier?”
“Yes,” she said, looking past him. “Here he comes.”
Dain turned. A Frenchman was warily approaching, his countenance pale. Dain fanned himself. The man paused. Smiling, Dain pressed thumb and forefinger to the stick with “Rouvier” written on it. It snapped.
