Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(53)
Percy peered down at her with his fox-like eyes. This close, she noticed that his eyebrows were rather bushy, though they were so pale a red that it appeared from a distance as though he had very little. His eyelashes, too, were pale as snow. “Are you any good at dancing?” Percy asked, to which Signa responded with an indignant, “Are you?” too quietly for Marjorie to hear. His laugh was little more than a puff of breath.
It wasn’t that Signa was a poor dancer, but one without practice—unless the nights she’d spent alone in her room counted, when she’d pretended to dance with a handsome prince who’d sweep her away from her current hovel. Signa hadn’t known any true steps back them. She’d learned them over the past week, when Marjorie had spent hours beating them into what the woman had so kindly referred to as Signa’s “thick, stubborn head.” This would be her first time practicing with a true partner, and she couldn’t deny Percy was the perfect choice. He was made for society, an aristocrat born and bred. He’d likely be able to do any dance backward, should someone request that he do so.
Percy extended a freckled hand, and as Signa took it, the pianoforte came alive with a waltz.
Signa’s gaze dipped immediately to her feet, counting her steps. She could say them silently in her head but felt it better to whisper them as she danced, to ensure she wouldn’t miss any. The concentration stilted her steps so that they were almost mechanical.
“Oh, dear cousin.” Percy snorted. “You dance as though you were made of wires and gears.”
She shushed him so sharply that his neck retracted like a turtle’s. He tripped over the rug and winced when it caused Signa to stumble, stepping on his toes with the heel of her boot. She didn’t apologize as he pulled his foot back with a gasp—it was his fault for interrupting her after all—and continued her counting.
“If you’re going to attempt to court men with those moves, the least you could learn to do is look up so you don’t trample them,” Percy hissed. “Whoever you dance with will be expecting a lady, not a mathematician. Look up.”
Signa lost her count. She jerked her eyes up to him, a sneer ready when she realized that her body was still following the steps.
Percy’s face spread into a victorious grin. “Ah, there we go!” He tightened the grip of one hand and braced the small of her back with the other as he hastened their pace to spin her around the parlor floor.
“Percy—” Marjorie warned him, speeding up the tempo as he surpassed it, pulling Signa along into his shenanigans. His laughter was so light and infectious that Signa found herself joining in, dissolving into a fit of her own as he kicked an ottoman out of their way and twirled her across the rug. They tripped over each other, nearly tumbling to the floor several times but always righting themselves in the end with some dramatic flourish.
“Still full of gears and wires?” she taunted him.
“Oh absolutely,” he shot back. “If not for me, I’m certain you’d still be crawling along the dance floor, counting from one to three.”
Signa stepped purposefully upon his toes.
So lost in their fun were they, delirious with their quips and laughter, that neither noticed Elijah Hawthorne had stepped into the parlor until Marjorie stood and the music came to a sudden halt.
Elijah’s eyes were unlike Percy’s. They were the blue of forget-me-nots, their spark hollowed out and concealed beneath shadows. Yet when he looked at his son and heard the young man’s laugh, a light shone from behind that dark shroud. A break in the storm.
Elijah opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by his butler, Warwick, who hurried into the room. Footsteps echoed behind him, as did a low thunk-thunk-thunk of something heavy against the mahogany parlor floor. Byron Hawthorne strolled in behind Warwick, shoulders rolled back and a scowl upon his lips. Signa dared a look at Marjorie, who clenched her jaw and gripped the edge of the piano tightly.
“My apologies, Master Hawthorne,” Warwick began. “He insisted—”
“Where are our shipments, Elijah?” Byron demanded, removing his gloves and handing them to Warwick. In his grasp was the same walking stick Signa had seen him use when she’d met him: rosewood, with a brass handle carved into the shape of a bird’s skull. Byron smoothed his thumb over it as he addressed Elijah, scratching a fingernail into its wood. “Grey’s will be out of food before the week’s end. If you don’t want to sign the checks, then sign the deed and be done with this game.”
Elijah held up a hand. He nodded to Percy and whispered, “Go on. Continue.”
Percy drew away from Signa. There was a hunger in his eyes. Determination in the sharpness of his jaw. “Let me fill an order.” His voice didn’t waver. “I have contacts that can expedite it. We’ll have everything no later than Wednesday.”
Elijah ignored him. “I want you to continue.” His eyes landed on Signa with such severity that she felt compelled to obey. She reached out to Percy to take him by the arm, hoping to ease the situation. The last thing she wanted was another cake incident.
But her cousin’s focus was locked on his goal. Percy clenched his fists and took three steps toward his father. “I promise I can take care of it. I know what to order, and I know where to get it. I’ll see to the delivery myself and ensure its quality upon arrival. If you’d only let me try, you’d see—”