Mr. Short winced and shook his head. “I only meant to make clear that I came straightaway, from your father’s house.”
Accustomed to loss and calamity, I was thrown into instant worry and dropped my arms. “Has something happened to Papa? To Polly?”
He stepped closer. “No. They’re both well. But I didn’t want to miss seeing you tonight, so I dared not delay in coming here.”
I frowned. He wanted me to believe he’d come to the ball to see me? I could scarcely credit that. “I’m very curious to know what has happened to make you so suddenly remember my existence.”
His hand went to his heart. “I never forgot you, Patsy. Never.”
I quite nearly snorted. Men were apt to say sweet nothings. Some men more than others, and Mr. Short was a practiced diplomat. How could I trust anything he said?
It sent a surge of rage through my veins. But rage was a forbidden emotion, so I forced myself to be aloof, to resist his flattery and his handsome face as I’d resisted all the other men in Pari sian ballrooms. I waved my fan. “Will you be returning to my father’s service at the Hotel de Langeac?”
“Eagerly.”
Mon Dieu. When he’d lived at the embassy before, I spent most of my days and nights at the convent. Must we now live together under the same roof? I thought it such an injustice, I could manage only a bland nicety. “Well, then. Welcome back, Mr. Short. My father will be happy for your return.”
“Patsy,” he said, drawing nearer still. “Please don’t retreat behind a polite facade.”
An ache of desire opened up inside my chest, an ache my heart said would only be assuaged by giving in to his entreaties. But I still remembered how much worse was the pain of the heartbreak he’d caused. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”
“You and your father both do it, but whereas Mr. Jefferson can’t help himself, being too vulnerable otherwise, you’re resilient enough to say what you think and feel.”
How his words provoked me! Certain that I’d make a fool of myself if I didn’t flee, I snapped, “Mr. Short, be glad I’m not ill-mannered enough to say what I think and feel. You must excuse me. They’re calling the next dance.”
Regret and contrition slipped into the cast of his green eyes. “You’re angry.”
“Ladies are never angry.” I was livid.
He blocked my avenue of escape. “Ladies and angels are never angry. But Amazons . . .”
I didn’t laugh at his little joke. Instead, I felt penned in, tormented by his use of words that had once meant something between us. My words came out as a hiss, leaking past the tight seal of my lips. “You never sent me a letter. Never in all the months you were gone.”
“How could I, without offending your father? I asked after you whenever I wrote to him and sent my best wishes. You’ve no idea the anxiety it put in me to hear that you and your sister were so very ill this winter.”
That had been months ago. Whatever anxiety he felt wasn’t enough to make him return. Not enough to mean anything. “You can see for yourself that I’ve recovered.”
“Yes.” His green eyes traveled with appreciation down my face, over the pale mounds of my bosom, which heaved over the gold satin bows on my gown. Finally, his gaze moved up again, on an intake of breath. “Beautifully . . .”
Heat touched my cheeks. “They’re calling the next dance,” I reminded him, my own breath shallow. “I’ve promised another dance to—”
“Polignac?” Mr. Short turned to see the approach of my chevalier. “Refuse him.”
Outrageous. “What cause do I have to be so rude to a suitor?”
“Refuse him,” Mr. Short repeated, more emphatically. “Tell him you’re tired, tell him you’re ill, tell him—I don’t care what you tell him, but refuse him.”
Gripping my closed fan, I gave an exasperated shake of my head. “Why should I? Why would you even ask such a thing of me?”
“Because I hate him,” Mr. Short said with uncharacteristic malice. “He’s a monarchist. An enemy of liberty. And, more importantly, you just called him your suitor. You’ve danced with him before?”
Having let loose my temper, it now slipped dangerously out of my control at this apparent show of jealousy. “Yes, I’ve danced with him before. And other men besides. I’ll have you know that I am being pursued by the Duke of Dorset—”
“The British ambassador?” Mr. Short broke in, with a note of abject horror. “Does your father know?”
I had mentioned Dorset more to stoke William’s jealousy than because I believed the duke’s flirtations to be earnestly intended. But now I wondered if I’d been foolish not to mention it to Papa, given the politics of the situation. “I don’t wish to speak of it. Not with you. Besides, why should you mind? You left me feeling quite a fool and I will not be fooled again—”