America's First Daughter: A Novel(55)

That had been months ago. Whatever anxiety he felt wasn’t enough to make him return. Not enough to mean anything. “You can see for yourself that I’ve recovered.”

“Yes.” His green eyes traveled with appreciation down my face, over the pale mounds of my bosom, which heaved over the gold satin bows on my gown. Finally, his gaze moved up again, on an intake of breath. “Beautifully . . .”

Heat touched my cheeks. “They’re calling the next dance,” I reminded him, my own breath shallow. “I’ve promised another dance to—”

“Polignac?” Mr. Short turned to see the approach of my chevalier. “Refuse him.”

Outrageous. “What cause do I have to be so rude to a suitor?”

“Refuse him,” Mr. Short repeated, more emphatically. “Tell him you’re tired, tell him you’re ill, tell him—I don’t care what you tell him, but refuse him.”

Gripping my closed fan, I gave an exasperated shake of my head. “Why should I? Why would you even ask such a thing of me?”

“Because I hate him,” Mr. Short said with uncharacteristic malice. “He’s a monarchist. An enemy of liberty. And, more importantly, you just called him your suitor. You’ve danced with him before?”

Having let loose my temper, it now slipped dangerously out of my control at this apparent show of jealousy. “Yes, I’ve danced with him before. And other men besides. I’ll have you know that I am being pursued by the Duke of Dorset—”

“The British ambassador?” Mr. Short broke in, with a note of abject horror. “Does your father know?”

I had mentioned Dorset more to stoke William’s jealousy than because I believed the duke’s flirtations to be earnestly intended. But now I wondered if I’d been foolish not to mention it to Papa, given the politics of the situation. “I don’t wish to speak of it. Not with you. Besides, why should you mind? You left me feeling quite a fool and I will not be fooled again—”

“Patsy.” William’s unsettling green eyes pleaded with me from beneath sandy lashes. He shook his head and sighed. “I’m going about this all wrong. Please, I’ll beg a thousand pardons if you’ll only give me the chance to explain myself.”

Before I could answer, I was forced to contend with the expectant gaze of the duke’s son. Extending a hand to me that displayed the most elegant lace cuff I’d ever seen, the chevalier asked, “Mademoiselle, is this dance not promised to me?”

“Yes, it is . . .” I braved a look at William Short, whose expression barely masked his displeasure at the other man’s interruption. Confusion so gripped me that the decision was more instinctual than purposeful. “But I’m afraid I’m feeling dizzy. Will you forgive me for sitting out?”

The chevalier narrowed his eyes in concern and glanced between us. “Please, if you’re unwell, Mademoiselle, let me see you to—”

Mr. Short stepped between us. “I’ll tend her, Polignac.”

The two men must’ve been acquainted because a poisonous look passed between them. In fact, the chevalier wouldn’t withdraw until I rested my fingertips upon Mr. Short’s arm.

“As you wish, Mademoiselle Chefferson,” Polignac said, as if he no longer knew quite how to pronounce my name. “Another evening, perhaps.”

Given his high color, I doubted very much that there’d be other evenings with the duke’s son, as he’d obviously taken my refusal for a snub. I ought to have chased after him and explained myself, but all I wanted was to hear what William Short had to say.

Infuriatingly, he said nothing. Instead he guided me to the grand marble staircase, wrought in iron and tipped with gold. Arm in arm, we descended, together, very slowly, awkwardly passing the Duke of Dorset, who raised a curious brow, making me wonder just what the Tufton sisters had told him of my feelings for William.

Finally, William said, “I never meant to leave you feeling a fool.”

A hollowness filled my chest. “Then why did you? Without a word of explanation!”

“Please understand that a year ago, when I begged a hearing of your father on the matter of my feelings for you, he made clear that he still considered you—a mere schoolgirl—too young to be wooed much less wed.”

I suspected as much, nevertheless, I swallowed on the word wed. “Didn’t you try to persuade him otherwise?”

“And risk losing his esteem forever? No, Patsy. Only time would persuade him my intentions were honorable. So I gave us that time by traveling, by trying to convince your father, in my letters, that I want to provide for a wife and a family.”

I sniffed, trying to hold firm against the words I’d long yearned to hear. “He said nothing to me of these letters.”

“Your father cannot have mistaken my meaning because he wrote with advice on how I might best build a fortune with which to support a wife. Now I’ve returned to Paris to find everything changed.”

“Changed how?”

We stopped on the landing and Mr. Short put his hand on the railing, his gaze searching mine. “The moment I set foot in the Hotel de Langeac tonight, I asked after you. Your father told me that you were no longer in the convent and that he’d let you come out into French society.”

Had Papa also confided in him my desire to take my vows as a nun? While I wondered, Mr. Short continued, “That’s why I came straightaway to find you. I knew, at long last, I could speak openly. I didn’t want to let another hour—not another second—tick by without declaring myself.”