Ironskin

He leaned close, considering.

 

Surely her chest did not always rise and fall this much; surely her breaths were usually even and regular, barely disturbing the profile of her dress. Water, she thought, water to suffocate the flames. I could not bear it if he raged at me.

 

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I am certainly angry that this happened to you, but I have felt that since shortly after we met.”

 

“Perhaps you have more practice dealing with strangeness, because of Dorie.”

 

“Perhaps I have too much anger of my own to tell. If a man is steeped in bitter anger every day of his life, how then would he notice a small additional fire? Particularly when the fire comes in the presence of…”

 

She was silent as his eyes searched past her veil for hers. He was the source of all that she wanted, she knew that now, and the burdens of that were too much for one man to bear. She was insignificant; she could not be to him a tenth of what he represented to her.

 

And yet, she felt something as he leaned in. It was oddly similar to the way she had seemed to sense Dorie’s feelings. Not her desire … but his?

 

His breath made his voice rumble. “Words, I fling words at you, and still you bear up under them, Jane. Yet if you knew what I had seen, accepted, nay, desired … it would shock you. You are too unspoiled. If they knew, they would all leave, all those women, and good riddance. But the hurt to me is that I would lose your good opinion forever.”

 

The accusation of na?veté echoed Alistair’s words, and she could not bear it from him. Oh, why did everyone think that because she was a scarred governess that she understood nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing?

 

“I cannot believe you are evil,” she said. “If all the world spat on you, what care I for the world? If they all left you in a great flurry of fear, I should still be here, and stay by your side.”

 

“I almost believe you would,” he said softly.

 

The silence was too charged on that, and she rushed on: “Anyway, I know what you have done.”

 

“You know…?”

 

“Nina mentioned certain things and I uncovered the truth of the matter to my satisfaction. You are no mere artist in clay, but another sort altogether.”

 

“Jane.”

 

She lowered her voice. “I understand why you keep it hidden, why none of your clients talk. It would be embarrassing for them, surely.”

 

His lips opened to speak, while that same rushing desire for normal welled up in her like a river that could not be contained, a waterfall that threatened to break open upon her lips.

 

“Jane, I—”

 

“Mr. Rochart, if—”

 

“Oh, Edward!” cooed a young voice from the lawn, and another girl giggled. “Come see what we have made for our little pet.”

 

Silence.

 

“You are called,” said Jane, and she bent her head away from those amber eyes.

 

“Of course, Miss Eliot.” A sharp bow, and he straightened with a smile, stiffened his spine as if arming for the fray. “Miss Davenports One and Two! I have been too long deprived of your company.”

 

The two girls, Dorie, and Edward formed a happy little knot on the lawn, laughing and flirting as if nothing could possibly be more important. It was very like the happy moment in the bedroom that night he brought her the golden dress, except this time she was on the outside looking in.

 

The waterfall of desire spilled over into her eyes and she turned away from the group into the bushes, shoulders jerking, trying to regain her composure. “Not for you,” she whispered fiercely. “Not for you.”

 

It was some minutes before she could turn back to the lawn. Edward was surrounded by Blanche and Mrs. Davenport, each clinging to an arm and holding a very spirited discussion about what Edward should do next. The younger Miss Davenport was off finding croquet mallets with a gentleman, and the elder Miss Davenport was sulking. Jane blinked, blotting her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve.

 

Dorie was nowhere in sight.

 

The sketchpad and pencil fell from nerveless fingers, thumped to the damp grass. Jane whirled, looking up and down the lawn. Any second she would see Dorie’s curls bouncing around that willow, see her tumbling down the slope, showing off for the pretty ladies.

 

No Dorie.

 

Jane ran—her feet took her to the sulking girl on the divan, and though Jane had never spoken to her, she did not even notice that now she spoke firmly, commanding—“Where’s Miss Rochart?”

 

The elder Miss Davenport sat up straight, saw for herself the girl’s absence, started babbling. “It’s not my fault, I’m not in charge of her, you can’t blame me…”

 

There was fear in her eyes, and Jane pressed further, harder, seized the girl’s silk-trussed arms and shook her. “Where did she go?”

 

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