A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(36)

“That’s all right,” he said at last. “I shan’t require you to enjoy it.”

He pulled her onto the dance floor and within moments had her trapped in his embrace. There was no way to escape without creating a scene. And before Hetta knew it, she was dancing. She, Hetta Osborne, freckled, plain physician’s daughter with little romantic inclination and even less grace, was circling a ballroom in the arms of a tall, handsome gentleman. He led with such agile command, she forgot that she scarcely knew the steps. She almost forgot that she had feet. She floated in his arms, and her wits lay scattered behind her on the waxed parquet. Hetta was breathless.

Unfortunate, then, that her partner wished to converse.

“I’m to take up legal studies soon,” he said. “With Sir Toby’s brother-in-law, Mr. Reginald Tolliver. It was just decided this evening.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“You did?” He frowned at her, then made a gruff sound of annoyance. “I should have known. Nothing surprises the unflappable Miss Osborne.”

“Did you wish me to be surprised?”

“I suppose not.” A few measures passed before he continued, “Have you no reaction to the idea?”

“What reaction should I have?” If he would tell her, she would attempt to oblige. If he would put a bit more space between them, she might be able to devise replies of her own.

“I don’t know.” Beneath her hand, his shoulder tensed. The slight flex of his muscle sent a dangerous thrill through her. “I thought you would be interested. You’re determined to take up medicine, although its practice is barred to you. I am determined to study law, although its practice is barred to me. We have something in common.”

“We do?” Hetta tripped slightly as they whirled past the orchestra. She tried—desperately—not to ascribe any deeper meaning to his remark. She struggled mightily against any stirrings of hope. She failed. “And you wish to explore our common interests?” It was the closest to flirting she’d ever come.

“That is the simplest method of beginning conversation, is it not? To remark on common interests?”

Of course. He didn’t mean a thing by it. Most definitely, he didn’t mean to impress her. Why would he care what she thought of him?

He didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of him, and that was what made him so attractive. During Isabel’s illness, Hetta had spoken with the man daily and observed him in the company of others. Unlike his rakish half-brother, Joss Grayson wasted no effort on charm and made only passing attempts at civility. He did not disguise the general contempt with which he regarded the world, nor did he hide the constant pain in his eyes. She’d never met anyone like him. The man was one giant, angry, suppurating wound, and he didn’t care who saw it. Wounds like that were difficult for most people to look upon. Most people would rather turn away, and Captain Grayson knew it.

But Hetta was not most people. She was a physician, and inured to the sight of blood and the marks of human suffering. She didn’t find him difficult to look upon. To the contrary, she found herself hard pressed to look away. He wasn’t simply handsome; he was defiantly so. His jaw was permanently set, teeth gritted on some imaginary leather strop—as though he were steeling himself for an incision. And his eyes fascinated her. They were the rich brown shade of mahogany, and twice as hard.

Drat. She was staring at him again.

Was it her turn to speak? She cleared her throat. “So, you asked me to dance so we could talk?”

“No. Had I merely wished to converse with you, I might have invented any of a dozen excuses. But dancing affords me the excuse to touch you.”

His fingers fanned over the small of her back, gathering her closer to him. Hetta gasped. He noted it. “You see? A little noise like that is most gratifying. Next, I mean to make you quiver.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. He couldn’t possibly intend to court her, she told herself sternly, or even to seduce her. Surely there was some mistake, some other explanation. But once again, some unreasonable wisp of hope would not be repressed. It floated blithely about her chest, evading all her attempts to squash it flat.

A strange expression overtook his face. One she’d never seen him make before. It was a smile. Not just a smile, but a devastatingly handsome grin. That smile could wreak havoc in an assembly of ladies. It was a fortunate thing he saved it for rare occasions. She blurted out, “Why are you smiling?” Because she was dying to know, and asking seemed the most efficient way to find out.

“I’m enjoying your distress.”

Not quite the answer she’d been expecting. Not the answer she’d been hoping to hear. Stop that. No hoping.

“I’m not distressed,” she lied.

And now he laughed. Laughed! It was a brittle chuckle, rusty with disuse. “Oh yes, you are distressed. Distressed, blushing … dare I say, mortified? And it is most satisfying to view, after weeks of your cool competence. The unfeeling Miss Osborne proves human after all.” He swept her through a turn and lowered his voice. His breath teased her ear. “Allow me to give you a word of advice. It is a dangerous thing, for a woman to cultivate such an air of selfpossession. It brings out the base insecurities of men. We long to see her unnerved, made helpless, brought low. We take perverse pleasure in inciting such states.”