“Like most women?” Susannah retorted. Will’s hand was at her back again, a warning that only goaded her past manners, past her own good intentions where Effington was concerned.
“I’d say men are more often the ones who need order, calm, and frequent praise,” she went on, “and many can’t even manage a pleasant fragrance. They expect a lady’s hand in marriage in exchange for a few waltzes, and then she’s to content herself with bearing the heir and spare while the fellow carries on with his gaming and vice as if he had no wife at all. I can understand why many a dowager prefers the company of her dog to that of another husband.”
Silence rippled out from where Susannah stood, and across the ballroom, Della came in from the terrace on Mr. Dorning’s arm.
Oh God. Della. What have I done? But even as Susannah worried for her sister, she remained standing before Effington, barely restraining the urge to slap him.
Effington picked a dog hair off his sleeve and flicked it in Susannah’s direction.
Her hand drew back of its own volition, only to be gently drawn into Will’s grasp.
“So that’s what I’ve done wrong,” said a jovial male voice. “I’ve neglected to pant and wag my tail at the ladies. Who would have guessed it’s so simple? Perhaps a fellow ought to go courting with a stick in his mouth and a lavender sachet about his neck.”
The Duke of Quimbey winked at Susannah, and beside her, Will relaxed.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Effington said, bowing. “Though most fellows do provide the lady a ring, their good name, a home for life, and children to love.”
Jonathan Tresham appeared at Susannah’s elbow. “Some fellows, you mean. Other men live off their wives’ settlements, and provide the woman nothing but misery, as Lady Susannah suggests. My lady, Mr. Dorning, good evening. My uncle tells me he’s learned a great deal from Mr. Dorning about training my late father’s pet. How do you know where to start when the wretched beast has no care for basic manners? He’s handsome enough, and has all the breeding in the world, but one despairs of his deportment.”
Currents of male power and innuendo shifted around Susannah. Tresham didn’t turn his back on Effington—who had little care for basic manners—but Tresham, Quimbey, and Will excluded him from the conversation nonetheless. Will held forth about rewards and attention, successive commands, and patience, while Quimbey beamed good-natured boredom in all directions.
And Susannah’s pride wrestled with her common sense.
She’d spent hours in the park with Will, much of that time focused on learning to communicate with a species she didn’t even like. She’d been as pleasant to Effington as she knew how to be, and still he was condescending, mean, snide…
And Susannah was trying to win his approval?
“Mr. Dorning, will you excuse me?” Susannah said. “I forgot to mention something to Della.”
“Are you well?” Will asked, very quietly.
Susannah loved him for asking, for having only concern in his eyes, not reproach or chilly disappointment. For gently and discreetly stopping her from turning a bad moment into an awful one.
She still wanted to wallop Effington and all of his ilk. “Yes, but…I need to talk to my sister. I’ll be on the terrace.”
“I’ll bring your drink to you.”
Susannah wanted to kiss him, wanted to surrender to his embrace with half of Polite Society gawking.
“I’ll escort the lady to the terrace,” Mr. Tresham said.
“Off with you, then,” Quimbey said. “Be patient with him, Lady Susannah. He has much to learn yet about panting and wagging his tail.”
Susannah accepted Tresham’s escort, though he exuded about as much warmth as the unicorn stranded in the punch bowl.
“I thought Effington was on the verge of making an offer for Lady Della,” Tresham said.
“I did too,” Susannah replied. “Now, I’m not sure what to think. One doesn’t court a woman by insulting her sister, or the entire feminine gender.”
“Some of us can’t help ourselves, my lady,” Tresham said. “Quimbey was born charming, while I was born unable to trust others unless they are acquaintances of long standing. You might convey that sentiment to Lady Della.”
Why couldn’t more men be like Willow Dorning? He said what he meant, he didn’t indulge in stupid posturing, and he was kind.
“You may tell her that yourself, sir,” Susannah said. “Della is tolerant and sensible, though she does not suffer fools.”
“Bodes ill for Effington, doesn’t it?”
Whatever that meant. “My thanks for your escort.” Susannah curtsied. Tresham bowed and left her several yards short of where Della stood talking with Ash Dorning.
“Is Tresham not speaking to me now?” Della asked as Tresham disappeared among the crowd.