Duainfey

by Sharon Lee

  "Good evening, sir. How good of you to come!"

  "Worth my life and my comfort to stay away," he said, with a sidewise grin at his lady that was so fond it that took any possible sting from the words. He caught Becca's hand between both of his big, rough palms and smiled down at her.

  "You've heard I've decided not to sell that mare at present?"

  "Yes, Ferdy had told us." She looked up at him, wondering at the pause, but before she could lay tongue to something to say, he pressed her hands and let them go.

  "You and your mother will be calling on my lady day after tomorrow," he said. "It will be my pleasure to speak with you then, if you'll have a moment for an old man."

  "Of course, sir!" Becca assured him, hiding her confusion behind an honestly affectionate smile. "I am at your service!"

  He smiled again, seemed about to say something else, then simply made her a small bow before moving on to Dickon.

  "Evening, Becca." Ferdy's handshake was firm.

  "Good evening, Ferdy. I'm glad you came."

  He reddened slightly. "Well, you said you wanted me, which is reason enough," he said, which from Ferdy was gallantry of a high order.

  "I will have to think of some other things that you can do for me," she said, trying to tease him and prolong his stop. She was not looking forward to meeting Leonard Jestecost, or Celia Marks.

  As it happened, she need not have worried. Leonard satisfied himself with a cool, distant bow, and Celia with a sniff, treating Dickon with the same medicine, which was, Becca thought, hardly fair. Not that Leonard had ever considered fairness, and if Celia Marks had ever thought of anything but herself and how to gain advantage, Becca had yet to see evidence of it.

  She sighed quietly, shook her head slightly and looked to the first line, wondering who they might have next.

  A tall gentleman in chocolate velvet, his thick, buttery hair tied back from his boldly etched face, bent in an attitude of courteous attention toward Caroline, who had her hand most shockingly on his sleeve, her face turned up to his like a flower, while Mother's entire attention was engaged with Mr. and Mrs. Eraborne.

  Oh, dear, thought Becca, and sent a glance to Dickon, but her brother was watching something through the open doors of the ballroom. She could scarcely leave her place in line and drag Altimere out from under her sister's hand before anyone else noticed her behavior, and yet—

  As if he had heard her thought, Altimere turned his head, his amber eyes meeting hers. One elegant eyebrow arched, and Becca instantly felt that they were sharing a delightful secret, though his face was grave and bland. He inclined his head to her, then brought his attention once again to Caroline. It seemed to Becca that he spoke briefly, a word—two at most.

  Caroline blinked, her smile fading as her hand dropped from its improper nestle along his sleeve. She turned, and moved a step to the right, smile brightening again as she greeted Mrs. Eraborne.

  Released, Altimere moved forward, walking with a wholly unconscious grace, as if, Becca thought, he were some wild, velvet-furred predator—a great cat or a lone wolf—that had wandered into their hall by chance . . .

  He was at her side now, bowing his fluid, boneless bow.

  She lifted her hand languidly and he received it as if it were a priceless treasure, bending over it while his eyes—amber, as if the jewels she wore had taken fire and life—were locked with hers.

  "Miss Beauvelley," he murmured, and his voice lifted the hairs on her nape and started a shiver of pure pleasure in her stomach. "Allow me to say that you are most extraordinary. We must dance, and you must tell me everything about yourself."

  She shook her head, smiling ruefully, belatedly remembering to slip her fingers free of his. "Of me," she said, hearing the words as if she were standing just to the left of herself, "there is nothing to tell, sir. Also, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I do not dance."

  He smiled, very slowly, and there came another shiver of pleasure as he leaned close to murmur, for her ear alone, "I am persuaded that you do dance, Miss Beauvelley, and I beg that you will be kind to me, a stranger in your land." He straightened, though his warm amber gaze never left her face. "And to say that there is nothing you wish to tell—I think you are toying with me."

  "I—"

  "Hold!" He lifted his hand, the lace falling around his long fingers like sea foam. From the ballroom came the sound of music, barely heard above the din of conversation.

  "The music begins!" said Altimere, and extended his hand, imperiously. "Come, let us show the room what dancing is!"

  She took a breath, gathering herself to decline—and paused as Dickon turned to them.

  "Altimere—good to see you," he said, giving the tall Fey an easy nod. "Becca, I haven't seen you dance in an age. It would do me a world of good to see you on the floor."

  Shocked, her eyes flew to meet his. He smiled, and nodded. She felt her mouth tug into an answering smile.

  Still smiling, she looked up at Altimere, and put her hand in his.

  "Miss Beauvelley," he murmured, as they turned toward the ballroom. "You do me great honor."

  Chapter Ten

  To dance with Altimere was to be aware of every sensation—the nap of velvet against one's palm, the flow of silk down her ruined arm, the firm grip of long fingers. To dance with Altimere was to be delighted by the interplay of muscle and flesh, taking fierce pleasure in every movement.

  "You dance with passion and with grace," he said into her ear, his voice warm and intimate. "Everyone who sees you must delight in your beauty, and yet you would have denied them. Have they angered you?"

  Becca laughed, and tipped her face up to his. "No one wishes to see a cripple dance, sir. Doubtless, when we are done, we will find that they are angry with me."

  "Can this be so?" he murmured. "How strange is this land!"

  She laughed again. "Do you not, in your own country, put aside the imperfect in preference to those things which are . . . not ruined?"

  He paused as they described an abandoned and quite delightful loop across the crowded floor.

  "To be present when one invokes her kest," Altimere said slowly, "that is a gift. I do not understand, perhaps, this word 'cripple.' "

  Becca looked up into his face. "But what is kest?"

  Altimere smiled slightly. "I lapse twice in the space of a sentence. Kest . . . perhaps in your tongue it would be power."

  "Power?" She shook her head. "Perhaps another word—" she began, but the music ended just then, and they perforce came to a halt among the rest of the dancers.

  Her partner bowed. "Shall we, again?" he asked.

  She should, she knew, make her curtsy, seek out her affianced husband and content herself with sitting out the remainder of the evening in his company. She had, she reminded herself, begun this evening with the very salutary project of becoming friends with the man.

  Her body, though—she was aquiver, as if every thread of her being were—electrified, exhilarated, without the agony that had come from Sir Farraday's equipment.

  As she struggled with herself, the music began again. Altimere extended his long, white hand, his eyes smiling down on her—and she could not refuse him.

  She smiled and curtsied and held out her hand to his.

  "Yes," she said, putting her hand in his. "Let us, again."

  Sir Jennet was awaiting them at the edge of the floor when they finally left it, having danced every dance in the set. Her right hand was resting on Altimere's arm, and she was alive to every step, every breath of air and flutter of scent. Her nerves thrummed as if the players had plucked their music directly from her heart, and she was not in the least bit tired. Indeed, she could not recall a time when she had felt so energized, so alert, so—

  "Rebecca." Jennet held his arm out with an air of command, his red face stern.

  Altimere checked, head to one side as he considered the stout gentleman.

  "Miss Beauvelley," he murmured. "Who is this person?"

 
; "My fiance," she said softly. She inclined her head. "Sir Jennet, allow me to make you known to Altimere of the Elder Fey. Altimere, Sir Jennet Hale."

  Sir Jennet's face, already alarmingly red, grew redder still.

  "I see, as does the rest of the room, that the two of you are on terms," he said icily. He produced a brief, frigid bow—"Sir"—and again extended his arm meaningfully. "Madam."

  "I did promise that I would sit with him," she told Altimere's questioning gaze.

  He hesitated, then inclined his head. "Of course, Miss Beauvelley," he murmured. He raised her hand from where it rested on his sleeve, bent, and kissed it lingeringly.

  "Good evening, sir!" Jennet snapped.

  Altimere smiled slightly and bowed, a brief and achingly supple imitation of Jennet's angry gesture.

  "Good evening, Sir Jennet Hale," he said gravely, and passed effortlessly through the curious knot of onlookers.

  Becca moved a step forward, meaning to put her hand on Jennet's arm. That she was in for a scold seemed certain—nor would it be undeserved. You are quite as outrageous as Caroline, she told herself—

  Pain knifed up her weak arm, taking her breath. She stared at Jennet. He smiled with a certain grim satisfaction, his fingers tightening around her wrist, until she lost his face in a spangle of tears. Then and only then did he lead her off the floor, pulling her along as if she were grubby five-year-old.

  Becca blinked her sight clear—and it was well that she did so, for Jennet was striding headlong toward the chairs arranged in neat clusters at the edge of the floor, making not the least effort to be certain that she followed easily. Happily, she did not stumble, and managed not to tread on anyone's foot, though she came very near to making an exception for Celia Marks, who smiled sweetly at her as she passed, and whispered, "Bad little broken Becca."

  "Here, madam, is your chair." Jennet pulled her forward with such vigor that she staggered, her arm screaming agony. She did not, however, fall, if that had been his intent, and within the pain, Becca's temper flared.

  "Thank you, sir," she said icily, meeting his eye boldly. She inclined her head and sat, adjusting her skirts with her good hand, and taking her time about it.

  "Now that you are seated," Jennet said in an angry undertone, "I expect you to remain seated, and to refrain from embarrassing me again." He took a hard breath. "Your father assured me that the . . . incident . . . in your past had broken your willful—"

  "Sir Jennet." Becca heard her own voice with an astonishment no greater than his, assuming that his sudden lapse into silence was from shock rather than fury. Still, silence it was, and before he could make a recover, she continued.

  "If your wish is for an end to notice, then perhaps you may wish to hold your scolding until we are private."

  Really, she thought critically, if his face became any ruddier, he would have an apoplexy.

  That fate was averted, however narrowly was not to be known. Jennet bowed, stiffly. "Your servant, madam," he stated.

  With nothing else, he turned and walked away.

  Becca, following him with her eyes, saw him on course for the refreshment alcove. Perhaps he would bring her something cool to drink, she thought, and tried to imagine him regretting his anger.

  Unfortunately, the set of his shoulders as he strode onward discouraged such pleasant imaginings. Becca closed her eyes and tried to compose herself. The pain in her arm had subsided to a dull ache, though she would not be surprised, she thought, should she show bruises on the morrow.

  On reflection, it surprised her to find Sir Jennet quite so high-tempered, but she supposed a second son, only lately come into his elder brother's honor, might have some retroactive pride. And certainly any man, she told herself sternly, might be somewhat . . . annoyed to find that his affianced wife preferred dancing with an exotic stranger than sitting quietly with himself.

  Indeed, she continued, warming to her own scold. It had been very wrong in her to dance with Altimere once, much less the entire set! Good sun, no wonder Jennet was angry.

  Still, she thought, settling more comfortably in her chair; it had been delightful to dance again. She sighed, more blissful than regretful, and closed her eyes.

  "Well, then, my dear, where is your escort?"

  Becca opened her eyes and smiled at Lady Quince.

  "Why, he's given me up to my proper escort, of course." She shook her head at the older woman in mock sternness. "We are both of us irredeemable scamps, ma'am."

  "Are we not?" the lady said comfortably, settling her skirts. "Are we not, indeed." She leaned over to whisper in Becca's ear. "He is a handsome one, eh? The pair of you made quite a pretty spectacle on the floor. I haven't seen you dance for an age, Becca! I'd forgotten how graceful you are."

  "Yes, but, ma'am, Sir Jennet is . . . rather angry . . . with me."

  "Posh!" She disposed of Sir Jennet and his anger with a flick of her fingers. "He'll come about. Men like to possess things that other men want, though he's bound to be a little tempery until that aspect of the matter makes itself felt. Now . . ." She leaned closer. "Quince has asked you to come by and see me on the day after tomorrow, has he not?"

  "Indeed, he has, but—"

  "He means to make you a gift of that filly of his," Lady Quince interrupted, and raised her hand as Becca began to speak. "Peace! The man's mind is made up, and I will testify, my dear, that once Quince's mind is made up, it's the work of days to change it. In this case, however, he has made a decision with which I am entirely in accord."

  "Ma'am, you know that I will be going to the Corlands in—"

  "Indeed, I do," Lady Quince interrupted amiably.

  Becca eyed her. "You are not about to take 'no' for an answer are you, ma'am?"

  The lady smiled and fluttered her fan. "You've known me all your life, missy; what do you think?"

  "Well, then . . ." Becca looked out across the room, but failed to find Sir Jennet among the gentlemen standing nearby, though she did see Ferdy Quince, speaking with—or rather, listening to—Robert Trawleigh. She really was very thirsty. Perhaps—

  "Ah! Ferdy!" Lady Quince brought her son to her with a wave of her hand.

  "Mother?" he asked.

  "Miss Beauvelley is thirsty, my son. Pray procure her some punch."

  "Certainly." Ferdy seemed relieved to be of service—or perhaps only relieved to be out of Robin's orbit. He smiled at Becca. "Unless you'd prefer tea, or—"

  "Punch will be delightful," Becca interrupted. "Thank you so much, Ferdy."

  "Indeed, you have been well brought-up by someone," his mother observed calmly.

  Ferdy bowed. "Would you like any refreshment, ma'am?"

  "Thank you, I've been well provided for. Now off with you before Miss Beauvelley expires of thirst."

  Ferdy bowed once more and moved away toward the refreshment table.

  "That coat is an abomination," Lady Quince said comfortably. "Well, well. He'll be going to my brother in the city when the harvest is done. A bit of town bronze will go a long way, I'm thinking. Not that he isn't a good lad, mind you. Steady. Dependable."

  As if she hadn't known Ferdy all her life, Becca thought, and knew how much of his mother's heart was in his pocket.

  "Indeed, ma'am," she murmured, "I'm very fond of Ferdy. He's always been kind to me, and I will miss him very much . . ." she had been about to say, when he goes to town, but it struck her abruptly that it was she who would leaving first . . .

  "I daresay he'll miss you, too," Lady Quince said. "In fact, I am certain of it." She folded her fan with a snap.

  "Here comes the gallant young man with your punch," she said. "And I see Anastasia Snelling waving to me." She gave a broad wink, looking in that moment almost exactly like her husband. "Must harvest the gossip, eh? It was delightful to chat with you, my dear. Do come and call on me, like a good child." She rose ponderously, and shook out her skirts.

  "Ma'am—" But Lady Quince had turned away, sailing placidly across the pitching seas
of the dance floor, and here was Ferdy, just as she'd said, bearing her punch.

  She composed herself to give him a smile and accepted the cup gladly.

  "Thank you," she said. He nodded and sat next to her.

  "Sir Jennet's in the card room," he said in his abrupt, unpolished way. "Your father and Snelling have a piquet table set up."

  Anger flickered. Becca pushed it down and smothered it. Having hurt her, now Sir Jennet wished to punish her, did he?

  "Why did he bring you over here to sit, if he didn't wish to—to be with you?" Ferdy asked, sounding much younger than she, though, in fact, he had been born a month earlier than Dickon.