“May I have this dance?” Matthew asked with surprising urgency.
“Why?” Fortuity turned back to him. “Are more lovelies headed your way?”
With a pointed look over her head, he stared at something behind her. “This waltz will save us both, my lady. Is that not your favorite marquess coming toward us?”
She turned and allowed herself a groan. “Oh dear, the malodorous Lord Smellington.” She flinched. “Beg pardon. I should not have said that.”
Matthew threw back his head and laughed as he swept her out onto the dance floor before the man reached them. “Your sister always called Lord Pellington the Marquess of Debt, but I believe your moniker for him is more accurate.”
“Last season his stench caused poor Merry to gag on her lemonade and spew it all over him.” Fortuity shuddered.
“He believes bathing causes illness.”
“His lack of bathing causes illness. I nearly retch whenever he is near.” She struggled to concentrate on the steps after treading on Matthew’s foot yet again. “I am so sorry. Now you know another reason why I keep to the shadows with my scribbling.”
“You have yet to tell me the first reason, my lady.” He smiled down at her, making her heart flutter in a manner that made her breathless. “Since I rescued you from Lord Smellington, should I not be rewarded with an elevation in status from friend to confidant?”
“You are more tenacious than one of Gracie’s dogs with a favorite bone.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.” He lowered his head and looked into her eyes as if she entranced him while they spun to the music. “Tenacity is an honorable trait. Denotes patience. Perseverance. I always get what I want, my lady.”
Of that, she had no doubt. “One might also call it stubbornness, my lord,” she told him with her most blinding smile. “A trait rampant among toddlers and spoiled children who think they should always get their way.”
“I am hurt you do not trust me, Fortuity.”
“A shift in tactics, my lord? You almost sounded sincere.” She curtsied as the music ended, then stared at him in surprise when he didn’t bow. He just stood there, glaring at her. Was the man pouting like a sullen child?
Behind the mask, his gray eyes had shifted to a flintier shade, and he did not smile as he offered his hand. “Shall I escort you to Blessing?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She had hurt his feelings. It echoed in his tone. She slid her gloved hand back into his, the same hand that had tingled from his touch as they danced. “I trust you, Matthew. I simply do not wish to be laughed at to my face or behind my back.”
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and marched them off the dance floor at a quicker pace, not to her sister, but toward the double doors thrown open to an expansive conservatory of leafy plants and flowers that provided the illusion of a summery retreat for the chilly February evening.
“I would never laugh at you,” he said. “I might tease or jest to coax a smile from you, but I would never make amusement at your expense.” Just inside the conservatory doors and still within view of the guests, he halted and frowned down at her. “I would have thought you knew that about me by now, considering how observant you are, my fair, quiet watcher of every social gathering in Mayfair.”
She had not only hurt his feelings but angered him as well. Perhaps it was time to show him she was not the helpless wallflower, the plain Broadmere sister no one ever noticed or gave a second thought to. She was—dauntless. Somewhat. “How dare you.”
“How dare I?”
“Yes, how dare you attempt to make me feel guilty about protecting myself from Society’s cruel barbs. Do you think I am deaf to what they say about me? How I am the plain one? How my hair is not the angelic blonde of my sisters but more like tarnished gold? How I barely possess enough curves to prove I am female even though I have reached the ripe old age of one and twenty? That my intelligence must be lacking because my tongue becomes tied more often than not when I find myself among those who disconcert me?”
He shifted with a deep intake of air, his mouth tightening with displeasure before he bowed his head. His arm flexed beneath her fingers, then he covered her hand with his. “This conversation has taken an unseemly turn, my lady, and I must beg your pardon.” He leaned toward her, aligning his eyes with hers to prevent her from looking away. “Contrary to what you have heard or experienced in the past, you are not the plain one.” His gaze swept across her, making her catch her breath as he raked it down her body. “Your hair is the warm, rich color of ripened wheat, and your eyes the blue of a stormy sky after the rain has ceased.” He boldly swept his focus across her again. “There is no doubt in my mind that you are a woman, and I daresay your tongue has been loose at both ends this evening.”
He took her hand from his arm and cradled it between both of his. “I consider you a friend, Fortuity. One of the very few people I place in that exclusive category.” He stared down at their joined hands. “I will not trouble you again with my questions. As I said earlier, you and your scribblings merely intrigued me.” He nodded and tucked her hand back into the crook of his arm. “And now that I have made myself clear, I shall escort you to your sister.”
“No, you shall not.” She planted both feet and refused to budge. “Not until I have made myself clear.”
He stared down at her. A faint, unreadable smile tugged at that mouth of his that she had committed to memory and envisioned on every hero she had written since meeting him. He released her hand and gave her a proper bow. “By all means, my lady, make yourself clear.”
She stared up into his dark gray eyes and braced herself for his cruel laughter and disbelief that would surely come when she told him about her passion, her life’s work, her stories. She had never known him to be cruel before, but in this, she had no doubt he would be like everyone else.
Well, not exactly like everyone else. Mama and Papa had supported her dreams because they loved her and had to support her. They were her parents. Her siblings didn’t understand her need to write, but since she accepted their eccentricities, they accepted hers. Her sisters did, that was. Chance had been a complete toad about her stories. But Matthew fell into none of the categories that required him to be nice and understand her penchant for writing fiction.
“My lady?” he gently prompted her.
“My observations at all of Mayfair’s social gatherings help give my characters more realism.”
“Your characters?”
“Yes, if you must know, the characters in my stories that I mean to publish someday. Under my own name. Not some male pseudonym or anonymous labeling. Written by Fortuity Abarough will be on the title page of my books when the world receives them.” She backed up a step, clenching her fan and reticule to her middle as if they were her shields. She waited, staring at him for what felt like forever. When he remained silent, she stamped her foot. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
She wished he would take off that bloody mask so she could better read his expression. “Well, go ahead and laugh like my brother did when he found out.” She jutted her chin higher. “Blessing filled his bed with frogs when he was so mean to me that day.”
“Why would I laugh?” he asked quietly, seeming genuinely befuddled.
“Because women are to marry, manage households for their husbands, and give them children. They do not write books and publish them—as women with their real names. Or, at least, most don’t if they wish to be successful authors and not have Society label them as pitiful oddities. And my wish to do so, to write something other than gossip sheets, and have my books receive acclaim, is like hoping for lightning to strike me in the middle of a cloudless day.”
“You are aware of my love of the written word? My fondness for books, plays, and papers?”
“Yes.” A leeriness filled her, like waiting for a trap to snap shut and cleave her dreams in two. “What about it?”
“I have nothing but the utmost admiration for anyone able to create such works. To fabricate worlds and invite others into them for a brief respite from the tedium of Polite Society’s latest on dit, Parliament’s pettiest arguments, or whatever other ridiculousness the world has spawned is an astounding talent.”
The candor in his eyes threatened to bring her to tears. She swallowed hard and batted her lashes, thankful for her feathery mask. “You are most kind, Matthew. Thank you for not mocking me. Or laughing.”
He smiled and took her hands in his. “We are friends, my lady, and I would do nothing to risk that.”
Friends. A double-edged sword, that word. It stung even though she had always known they would never be anything more. She shook away the dismal feeling and squeezed his hands. “I consider myself fortunate on that count, my lord. Very fortunate, indeed.”
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