She also—and this seemed very nearly absurd—thought perhaps his feelings might be hurt. She could not quite say why she suspected this, only that she’d learned that emotions did tend to swing between poles out of defense. If not feelings, then at least his pride.
The very idea of even inadvertently visiting suffering on him when he’d already suffered bravely in so many other ways made her so restless with misery she could scarcely draw breath.
Still! He hadn’t the right to be hurt, had he?Orjealous.
She’d lingered in the drawing room for another twenty minutes or so after Hugh read that terrible poem aloud. The she’d pleaded amal de têteand had gone upstairs, taking the poem with her.
It actuallywasn’ta terrible poem, which made it somehow worse. How was she supposed to respond? Thank you kindly, the flowers are lovely but then that’s the job of roses, to look lovely, and oh, what about those appallingly familiar lines about my lips and hands? What about thecontentsof my heart? My brain? Who I am?
Once this nonsense hadn’t mattered. Then it had evolved into an irritant.
Now it flayed her. Back in her room, she’d gotten the little rock out of her reticule and held it, for no reason, except that it had been given to her by someone who knew her well. Someone she’d thought hadseenher and also cared about her. It of course yielded no comfort.
She’d spent the rest of her evening with her lamp lit, her door closed, and her sketchbook open. And she had filled it with lines and color. It was the only thing she could control.
It was still remarkably early. The stillness of her little suite suggested her family were warmly bundled and sleeping in their own comfortable beds.
She slid out of bed and dressed quickly in the nearest wool walking dress to hand, a rich brown that colluded nicely with her hair. Then she laced on walking shoes and eyed the little vase of flowers speculatively. She wanted them gone, but she couldn’t countenance wasting them.
Inspiration struck. She lifted the two little cut blooms, dripping, from the vase. She could take them down to Helene Durand Park and cover them in the soil there. At least they could become mulch and help something beautiful to grow in this strange place by the docks.
She startled a yawning maid in the hall as she locked the door, then made her way quickly down the stairs.
She’d just passed the first little door to the ballroom—it was one she suspected led right up to the stage—and was just about to pass the second one when who should appear but Hugh Cassidy, striding in buckskins and rolled shirtsleeves, lumber tucked under his arm.
His eyes flicked over her. Apart from that, not one of his features so much as twitched.
But as he strode past her into the ballroom, he sardonically mimed tugging on his forelock.
FOOSH!
Just like that, her temper ignited and leaped.
She followed him into the ballroom, quietly, and pulled the door closed, none too gently.
He dropped his burden of lumber, brushed off his hands, pivoted.
And froze.
And then he planted his hands on his hips. His face, and stare, were as hard as if he was staring down an enemy soldier.
It was daunting.
He was about to learn how fierceshecould be.
“Goodmorning, Mr. Cassidy,” she said pleasantly. “I wonder if you’d share with me what I’ve done to earn your contempt?”
An eyebrow leaped in cold amusement. “Was I not deferential enough, my lady?”
He said it softly. Mockingly.
She clamped down on her back teeth. “What if I said ‘yes’?”
He wordlessly, coolly contemplated her as though he were a bear deciding where to deliver the killing bite.
“Very well. Let’s just say that ‘contempt’ is an interesting choice of word for someone who said ‘take it away’ when presented with a bouquet of hothouse flowers.” He flicked his eyes down to the roses she still clutched in her fist. “I can imagine you saying ‘off with his head’ in the same bored tone.”
He turned his back on her again, picked up a plank from a stack of boards, then hurled it aside when he saw a hint of rot.
