Page 77 of Me and Mr. Darcy

I shoot her a look. ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, feeling my face flushing bright red. ‘I’ll remember that.’

‘So, Spike, young man,’ begins Rose, puffing on her cigarette-holder, ‘I see Emily here doesn’t have a partner. Do you dance?’

Now it’s Rose’s turn to be shot a look. Honestly, these women.

‘Not if I can help it,’ he replies.

I feel a sting of rejection.

Huh! As if I want to dance with you. Old-man-basher.

‘Me neither,’ I reply quickly. ‘Not in these shoes.’ And picking up my hem, I wave a three-inch stiletto at him for further evidence. Except I’m not used to wearing heels, and wobbling dangerously, I grip the nearest thing to balance.

The nearest thing being Spike’s chest.

It all happens so quickly I don’t have time to think about it. One minute there we all are, having a polite conversation of sorts. The next, my right hand is grasping at the thin cotton of his shirt and I’m squeezing his left pec as if it’s a ripe melon.

‘Oops, sorry,’ I stammer, taken aback even further by the realisation that instead of it being soft and squidgy, it’s surprisingly firm. Mortified, I snatch my hand away and regain my balance. How embarrassing. ‘It’s these heels,’ I fluster, trying to explain.

‘You want to be careful with those, they look dangerous,’ he warns, throwing me a wicked look.

‘I will,’ I say coldly, furious at myself.

There’s a pause, and just to make things even more awkward, the quartet strikes up and people begin moving to the sides to make way for the couples lining up on the dance floor. Women on one side, men on the other.

‘Oh, splendid,’ remarks Miss Steane, who this whole time has been a silent observer. Clapping her hands together in girlish excitement, she smiles broadly. ‘This is an original Regency dance, popular in Jane Austen’s day. The perfect opportunity for ladies and gentlemen to get to know one another.’ She looks at Spike and me pointedly.

‘How fun,’ murmurs Maeve, hugging her elbows even tighter and looking longingly at the dance floor.

‘Not for us wallflowers,’ remarks Rose, taking a drag on her cigarette-holder.

Maeve’s face drops and she buries it in her champagne flute.

Indignation stabs. Right now she could be dancing with Ernie if Spike hadn’t deliberately put her off him by saying God knows what. I shoot him an icy look. Love-wrecker.

‘Did Mr Darcy dance?’ asks Spike, switching into journalist mode.

I feel my stomach flip. At the mention of his name, I try covertly glancing around the room. I wonder if he’s going to turn up? Damn, it’s hard to see in here, it’s so frigging busy.

‘Reluctantly,’ Miss Steane answers authoritatively. ‘He didn’t like to, but he was a good dancer. One of the finest.’

‘Not like me, eh?’ laughs Spike.

My attention snaps back. ‘No, he’s not like you at all,’ I reply quickly.

Too quickly, it seems, as I’m thrown a few curious looks.

‘You sound like you know him,’ says Spike amiably.

‘In the book, I mean,’ I qualify, nervously. ‘Not in real life. Obviously.’

Shit. Me and my big mouth.

There’s a pause and I’m aware of glances flying around me. I can see Miss Steane studying me with a strange expression on her face, but just as the conversation is about to turn even more awkward, a short man wearing a kilt interrupts.

‘Ahem, excuse me . . .’

We all turn to face him.