“Patsy.” William’s unsettling green eyes pleaded with me from beneath sandy lashes. He shook his head and sighed. “I’m going about this all wrong. Please, I’ll beg a thousand pardons if you’ll only give me the chance to explain myself.”
Before I could answer, I was forced to contend with the expectant gaze of the duke’s son. Extending a hand to me that displayed the most elegant lace cuff I’d ever seen, the chevalier asked, “Mademoiselle, is this dance not promised to me?”
“Yes, it is . . .” I braved a look at William Short, whose expression barely masked his displeasure at the other man’s interruption. Confusion so gripped me that the decision was more instinctual than purposeful. “But I’m afraid I’m feeling dizzy. Will you forgive me for sitting out?”
The chevalier narrowed his eyes in concern and glanced between us. “Please, if you’re unwell, Mademoiselle, let me see you to—”
Mr. Short stepped between us. “I’ll tend her, Polignac.”
The two men must’ve been acquainted because a poisonous look passed between them. In fact, the chevalier wouldn’t withdraw until I rested my fingertips upon Mr. Short’s arm.
“As you wish, Mademoiselle Chefferson,” Polignac said, as if he no longer knew quite how to pronounce my name. “Another evening, perhaps.”
Given his high color, I doubted very much that there’d be other evenings with the duke’s son, as he’d obviously taken my refusal for a snub. I ought to have chased after him and explained myself, but all I wanted was to hear what William Short had to say.
Infuriatingly, he said nothing. Instead he guided me to the grand marble staircase, wrought in iron and tipped with gold. Arm in arm, we descended, together, very slowly, awkwardly passing the Duke of Dorset, who raised a curious brow, making me wonder just what the Tufton sisters had told him of my feelings for William.
Finally, William said, “I never meant to leave you feeling a fool.”
A hollowness filled my chest. “Then why did you? Without a word of explanation!”
“Please understand that a year ago, when I begged a hearing of your father on the matter of my feelings for you, he made clear that he still considered you—a mere schoolgirl—too young to be wooed much less wed.”
I suspected as much, nevertheless, I swallowed on the word wed. “Didn’t you try to persuade him otherwise?”
“And risk losing his esteem forever? No, Patsy. Only time would persuade him my intentions were honorable. So I gave us that time by traveling, by trying to convince your father, in my letters, that I want to provide for a wife and a family.”
I sniffed, trying to hold firm against the words I’d long yearned to hear. “He said nothing to me of these letters.”
“Your father cannot have mistaken my meaning because he wrote with advice on how I might best build a fortune with which to support a wife. Now I’ve returned to Paris to find everything changed.”
“Changed how?”
We stopped on the landing and Mr. Short put his hand on the railing, his gaze searching mine. “The moment I set foot in the Hotel de Langeac tonight, I asked after you. Your father told me that you were no longer in the convent and that he’d let you come out into French society.”
Had Papa also confided in him my desire to take my vows as a nun? While I wondered, Mr. Short continued, “That’s why I came straightaway to find you. I knew, at long last, I could speak openly. I didn’t want to let another hour—not another second—tick by without declaring myself.”
I swayed on my heeled shoes, quite fearing a swoon. “What is it you wish to declare?”
He looked down, almost shyly. “I’ve so often planned what I’d say in this moment that it should be ready on my tongue. But poetry has suddenly fled from me . . . how can I find the words?”
I stared, expectantly, wondering if he might dare to take my hand and kiss it. If he might scandalously twine his fingers with mine. If he might lean close to whisper in my ear. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled forth the little piece of folded paper, now worn and creased with time, and unfolded it for me to see my hair still pressed within. “Patsy, this token has never left my possession. It’s been a reminder, every day. What I want to declare—what I want to offer—is quite beyond abiding friendship.”
I gulped, then forgot to breathe. “You kept my hair, all this time?”
“Yes. Near my heart. A year ago, I adored you. But now I adore you even more than before. For you’ve grown into a graceful and beautiful woman.”
How could I believe him? Perhaps I was graceful. Shapely, too, with the added allure of an ample bosom and ginger hair. But even then, in the flower of my youth, I knew that I wasn’t so much beautiful as appealing, my face a delicate rendering of my father’s. Maybe it was the very resemblance to my father that accounted for the beauty Mr. Short saw in me—for I was a feminine reflection of a man he idolized.
But still, I was wary. “There are prettier ladies in Paris.”
“Not in my eyes,” he insisted, emphatically.