America's First Daughter: A Novel(54)
It was too late. I’d already spotted the pretty Duchess de La Rochefoucauld, and there, at her side, was William Short.
Chapter Twelve
OUR EYES LOCKED across the crowded ballroom, never wavering, in spite of the servants passing with silver trays of bubbling pink champagne in crystal glasses.
Without breaking my gaze, William Short whispered a quick word into his companion’s bejeweled ear. I hated the sight of his cheek so near to the porcelain skin of her shoulder and plunging décolletage. Then hated more when he left her side to close the distance between us, striding between plumed ladies and men swaggering about with swords on their hips.
Most violently, my heart tried to take flight, leaving me suddenly breathless and light-headed. I’d yearned for our reunion, but now that it was upon me I felt utterly unprepared.
As if sensing my plight, my friends circled to form a phalanx before me in a violent swish of petticoats and lace. Marie, who had the best reason to know the pain Mr. Short’s long absence had caused me, didn’t bother with subtle gestures. She rudely shook her dance program at him as if shooing away a fly.
“Ladies.” Wearing the warmest smile, Mr. Short ignored the flapping page and bowed. “Miss Jefferson . . .”
I just stared.
Eight months he’d been absent. Eight months, without a word. Wars had been fought and won in less time. Certainly, my whole world had changed. Yet, he addressed me as if a mere day had passed since our last visit.
William Short ought not have presumed we were still friends. No, he ought not have presumed.
I finally managed an icy, “Mr. Short. What a surprise.”
“May I have a quiet word, Miss Jefferson?”
He scarcely waited for me to nod before herding me away from my coterie. I pulled away, not letting him touch me, not taking his arm, even as I followed him into an empty alcove where gold-tasseled curtains framed a tall, elegant window. I was so dizzied by his presence that the fleurs-de-lis on the blue silk wallpaper danced before my eyes, but I refused to let him see how affected I was.
I crossed my arms, seething. “I had no word you were back in Paris, Mr. Short.”
“I just arrived in the past hour, actually, which explains my state of dress.” It was then that I realized how out of place he looked in a dark coat and breeches, an outfit more fit for travel than the ballroom. “I feared I might be denied entrance, but fortunately, Rosalie vouched for me.”
The gall of mentioning her to me in this moment! My gaze narrowed and my tone chilled even more. “Fortunate, indeed.”
Mr. Short winced and shook his head. “I only meant to make clear that I came straightaway, from your father’s house.”
Accustomed to loss and calamity, I was thrown into instant worry and dropped my arms. “Has something happened to Papa? To Polly?”
He stepped closer. “No. They’re both well. But I didn’t want to miss seeing you tonight, so I dared not delay in coming here.”
I frowned. He wanted me to believe he’d come to the ball to see me? I could scarcely credit that. “I’m very curious to know what has happened to make you so suddenly remember my existence.”
His hand went to his heart. “I never forgot you, Patsy. Never.”
I quite nearly snorted. Men were apt to say sweet nothings. Some men more than others, and Mr. Short was a practiced diplomat. How could I trust anything he said?
It sent a surge of rage through my veins. But rage was a forbidden emotion, so I forced myself to be aloof, to resist his flattery and his handsome face as I’d resisted all the other men in Pari sian ballrooms. I waved my fan. “Will you be returning to my father’s service at the Hotel de Langeac?”
“Eagerly.”
Mon Dieu. When he’d lived at the embassy before, I spent most of my days and nights at the convent. Must we now live together under the same roof? I thought it such an injustice, I could manage only a bland nicety. “Well, then. Welcome back, Mr. Short. My father will be happy for your return.”
“Patsy,” he said, drawing nearer still. “Please don’t retreat behind a polite facade.”
An ache of desire opened up inside my chest, an ache my heart said would only be assuaged by giving in to his entreaties. But I still remembered how much worse was the pain of the heartbreak he’d caused. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”
“You and your father both do it, but whereas Mr. Jefferson can’t help himself, being too vulnerable otherwise, you’re resilient enough to say what you think and feel.”
How his words provoked me! Certain that I’d make a fool of myself if I didn’t flee, I snapped, “Mr. Short, be glad I’m not ill-mannered enough to say what I think and feel. You must excuse me. They’re calling the next dance.”
Regret and contrition slipped into the cast of his green eyes. “You’re angry.”
“Ladies are never angry.” I was livid.
He blocked my avenue of escape. “Ladies and angels are never angry. But Amazons . . .”
I didn’t laugh at his little joke. Instead, I felt penned in, tormented by his use of words that had once meant something between us. My words came out as a hiss, leaking past the tight seal of my lips. “You never sent me a letter. Never in all the months you were gone.”
“How could I, without offending your father? I asked after you whenever I wrote to him and sent my best wishes. You’ve no idea the anxiety it put in me to hear that you and your sister were so very ill this winter.”