A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)

Her pulse thundered in her ears. He couldn’t possibly intend to court her, she told herself sternly, or even to seduce her. Surely there was some mistake, some other explanation. But once again, some unreasonable wisp of hope would not be repressed. It floated blithely about her chest, evading all her attempts to squash it flat.

A strange expression overtook his face. One she’d never seen him make before. It was a smile. Not just a smile, but a devastatingly handsome grin. That smile could wreak havoc in an assembly of ladies. It was a fortunate thing he saved it for rare occasions. She blurted out, “Why are you smiling?” Because she was dying to know, and asking seemed the most efficient way to find out.

“I’m enjoying your distress.”

Not quite the answer she’d been expecting. Not the answer she’d been hoping to hear. Stop that. No hoping.

“I’m not distressed,” she lied.

And now he laughed. Laughed! It was a brittle chuckle, rusty with disuse. “Oh yes, you are distressed. Distressed, blushing … dare I say, mortified? And it is most satisfying to view, after weeks of your cool competence. The unfeeling Miss Osborne proves human after all.” He swept her through a turn and lowered his voice. His breath teased her ear. “Allow me to give you a word of advice. It is a dangerous thing, for a woman to cultivate such an air of selfpossession. It brings out the base insecurities of men. We long to see her unnerved, made helpless, brought low. We take perverse pleasure in inciting such states.”

“So you are distressing me on purpose.”

“Yes.”

“And taking amusement in it.”

“Yes.”

“I see.” To her dismay, she could not keep her voice from heating a degree. What a fool she’d been. She actually had believed they shared something in common. That here, at last, was someone who might intuit the reason for her cool demeanor. Someone who might understand that Hetta had to work ten times as hard as any other physician for each scrap of respect she might gather, and that she didn’t dare compromise that hard-won reputation for anything so pejoratively feminine as emotional display.

If she could look straight through his hardened, bitter exterior without flinching … she’d fancied he might see through hers, too, and glimpse the woman’s heart within. But no. He saw nothing. He called her “cold” and “unfeeling.” Well, for a cold, unfeeling stone of a heart, hers was doing a credible impression of breaking.

Oh, Hetta. This is your own fault. You’re an intelligent woman. You should have known better than to dream.

“Do you …” She swallowed. “Do you despise me, then?”

He pulled back and regarded her with those hard, dark eyes. “A little. Or perhaps I merely envy you and despise myself for it.”

“Kindly release me.” She squirmed in his embrace. “I don’t wish to dance any more.”

He tightened his arm around her waist, forbidding her to leave. “Come now, Miss Osborne. We’re having a grand time, indeed. Don’t you delight in being shocking?”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you noticed? Everyone is watching us.”

She had not noticed. She’d been entirely focused on him. But now that Hetta surreptitiously viewed the room, she realized how many eyes tracked their progress around the dance floor. He said dryly, “We must make quite the striking couple.”

Hetta contemplated striking him.

“But then,” he added smoothly, “I’m accustomed to being the object of curiosity. People stare at me a great deal.” He gave her a pointed look, steering her toward an empty corner of the ballroom. “You stare at me a great deal, Miss Osborne. Why is that? Am I an object of curiosity to you?”

Oh, why did the worst five minutes of her year have to happen all in a row? Hetta planted her feet. He would not dance her a single step further. “Why are you doing this? What have I done to you?”

“You’ve unsettled me,” he said, gripping her wrist until it hurt, “and I thought to repay the favor. So tell me, how do you enjoy being made a public spectacle? How does it feel, to know you’ll be the talk of the ladies’ retiring room—the milk-and-roses English miss, dancing in the arms of the bastard half-breed?”

What? As if a woman like Lady Violet would care what sort of gentleman Hetta danced with. As if Hetta would care, should Lady Violet deign to object.

“If I am unsettled,” she whispered hotly, wresting her arm from his grip, “it has nothing to do with the censure of others, and everything to do with my own sad error in judgment. I am not some ‘milk-and-roses miss,’ Captain Grayson. I am a woman, with a name and an education and a profession, and even after this humiliating evening, I still lay claim to a shred of dignity. And as for you … I had thought you were a gentleman.”

A strange emotion flashed in his eyes.

Hetta didn’t stay long enough to decipher it. She backed away, desperate to flee. The potted trees were no longer an option, but surely somewhere there was a secluded alcove or insectplagued balcony where she could fall to pieces in private.

“Thank you,” she told him, stumbling away. “For showing me the bastard you truly are.”

CHAPTER NINE