Page 4 of Kismet

It did something to Catherine to notice that he was somehow less than himself. She would simply have to try to do something to help him. Reaching the group, Catherine turned to him and spoke up with a sly smile. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, I beg your assistance, kind sir.”

Bowing with a flair that was more like himself, he responded to her comment in kind. “Oh, magnificent Artemis, how may a humble soldier such as me assist a goddess such as yourself?”

Catherine was glad to see the improvement in his countenance, even if she knew it was only temporary. It had been some time since he had called her Artemis and she enjoyed hearing him refer to her as such. When she had brought down the weasel Wickham all that time ago with a well-placed arrow, he had called her Artemis for months. It was the greatest endearment she knew. To hear it again made her smile widen. “I implore you, sir, to join me in a dance. Only then can you save me from the posturing puppies that are so eager for my time. Though it may only be one set, I will be forever grateful for the respite you will provide.”

The colonel's eyes widened for a moment, but he quickly masked his surprise with a smile. “I would fight hordes of puppies for the honor to dance with a goddess of such skill. I wonder why you wouldn't opt for a more direct approach and simply slay them as needed. Your ability to handle such a task is beyond doubt. I know you have the skill to hold off their advances on your own,” he smiled knowingly.

“Alas, the hostess would never forgive me if I stained her marble floors with that much bloodshed. She took such trouble to decorate so nicely that it simply would not be polite.” Catherine grinned at the bark of laughter that erupted from Colonel Fitzwilliam. She remained shy around strangers, but in the company of those she trusted, she displayed a sharp wit she credited to Lizzie's influence.

“You won't have to worry about the preening puppies, and the hostess won't have to complain about her ruined floors, as I shall be your dance partner.” Reaching out, he took her dance card and assigned his name to the supper set.

On the dance floor, Catherine found herself falling back into the pattern from her childhood she had grown to hate. She knew she was avoiding eye contact and was not responding to his comments as she truly wished. She spoke in a monotone, barely inflecting her voice, using as few words as possible to respond to his questions. Yet she knew of no other way of coping with how uncomfortable her current dance partner made her feel.

At first glance, Young Viscount Deerhurst was everything Catherine might want in a husband. A title was something most families sought. He had an unencumbered estate and appeared to be without debt, but that was never certain. Although he was older than her, it was not unusual in society to marry someone older. His fashion sense was always on point, even though he didn't necessarily dress like a dandy. His exacting standards were apparent in the way he dressed, with every item perfectly coordinated. He had well-formed features to go with black hair and eyes so dark brown they seemed to be black in the low light of the ballroom. So what if his dark coloring was not her preference?

She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something in his black eyes that made her uneasy. He didn't seem to care about her unease and instead appeared captivated by it. Catherine knew he was an eligible gentleman and was viewed as a tremendous catch by most of the ton, but she could not like him. Her instincts told her to escape, yet she would have to endure as it would cause quite the scandal if she ran from the dance floor.

“Miss Catherine, you are truly the most beautiful debutante to grace London for many a season.” Smiling smugly, he clutched her hand tighter than called for.

“You are too kind, Lord Deerhurst.” How could he say such things with a straight face? Catherine knew she was not exactly plain, but she certainly was not as handsome as Jane, who had her come out not two years ago. Why this very season, she knew of several debutantes considered to be more classically beautiful. Attempting not to roll her eyes, Catherine cursed her frozen tongue that kept her from demanding he stop pouring the butter boat over her head.

“So modest. You are such a—”

Thankfully, the turn of the dance drew them apart, and she was not required to listen to whatever else he had thought to say. Allowing her face a moment to lose its forced smile, Catherine glanced around to see where her family was. She spotted Mary further down the line, dancing with some unknown gentleman. He seemed timid and unassuming, and Mary was clearly doing her best to set him at ease. Georgiana was dancing as well, though this time she was dancing with a younger son to Pemberley's largest neighboring estate. Elizabeth and Darcy were sitting out the dance, stealing glances at each other while speaking to a dowager in a feathered turban.

When the dance moved her back in to Lord Deerhurst's sphere, she forced her bland smile firmly back in place. Catherine knew that it was crucial to avoid displaying authentic emotions to maintain a refined image. Heaven forfend if the debutantes present showed their actual feelings while in public view.

“I heard the most interesting story this morning…”

Catherine had heard the tale that afternoon at the round of calls she made with Lizzie. Finding that a mere nod of her head encouraged him to continue without expressing her distaste for the tale, she allowed him to ramble while her mind wandered. A group of lads visiting London on break from Cambridge had raced down a well-used road in town to see who was the best curricle driver. The part of the story that caught his attention was when the poorest of the boys won the race. Apparently, the lad should have allowed one of his betters to win. Deerhurst omitted the fact that the race had resulted in numerous injuries and extensive damage. So much so that the aftermath of the destruction left several vendors in tears and many people shaken.

She thought she was free from his grasp as the dance ended, but he quickly grabbed her by the arm. His smile growing wide, he leaned down to speak to her. She knew he was presenting the image of a romantic couple, but nothing was farther from the truth.

“My dear, you appear rather flushed. Let us head to the balcony so that you may cool off.” His smile was just a facade—his eyes revealed his true feelings.

Catherine's fingers itched for her bow. He would not endeavor to bother her after she had aimed a few warning shots at his person. She had become so skilled that she was certain she could target any part of his body. Surely he could get by with a limp. As she thought of her bow, she could almost feel the familiar weight in her hand and the confidence it gave her. “No sir, I am fine. I would be obliged if you would take me to my family now.”

“Do not be so silly. I can tell you would do well to have some crisp, cool air. We will enjoy it together.” Pulling her away from the crowd and towards the doors that went to the balcony, he began to lose his smile. Cursing the smooth-soled shoes that allowed him to pull her along without any trouble at all, she wished for a means to stop his forward progress. For a moment, Catherine flashed back to the look in her father’s eye as he sneered at her mother. Was this how all men of society treated women? She had not come this far just to find herself in a situation akin to her mother's, where she would be diminished and under the thumb of a ruthless man. Her quest for love would not come at the expense of her independence.

Her anger flared like a flame, melting away the timidity that had gripped her like ice. Dropping all pretense of a smile, her nostrils flared, and she allowed her steely determination to show through the clenching of her jaw and the tilt of her chin. “No, you are mistaken. I will take myself back to my family now.” Catherine attempted to wrench her arm from his grasp without causing a scene, but felt his fingers tighten into talons.

“Come now, do not be missish. It is a lovely night. You will enjoy it.” His brows furrowed, and he tilted his head, puzzled by her resistance. Why would she not want to accompany him on to the balcony?

“It is a foggy London night, cold and damp. It is not my definition of a lovely night. If you want to go out into the fetid fog, be my guest, but I will not be accompanying you.” Catherine watched his eyes widen as she spoke. His lips tightened, and she could see the fury building inside him. Casting her gaze around, she spotted what might be of use to her. In a quick motion, she grabbed a glass of punch that was on a nearby table.

Before the lord had time to react as he she knew he might, she splashed him with the bright liquid. He was known for his style, which was the perfect balance of elegance and grandeur, with no expense spared in creating a look of luxury. His cravat was tied with such intricacy that it looked like a work of art, and his bottle green jacket was impeccably tailored to his form, but it was all ruined when the red liquid soaked into the fabric. His reaction was exactly as she wished it to be.

“You… You! My cravat! Do you know how many hours it took to dress for this evening?” Letting her arm go, he furiously wiped at the punch on his face.

Immediately, she took two steps back to get out of his reach. “Oh, you poor dear. I tripped when you so ungentlemanly pulled on my arm. You really should do something about that. I think it might very well stain if you are not careful.”

“You will regret—”

“Lord Deerhurst, you were always so clumsy at school, but I did not expect you to spill your drink in such a fashion. You really should leave so that you may take care of that.” Colonel Fitzwilliam's droll comment had a sharp edge that belied the simple words. Despite not being on active duty, he possessed the same unwavering drive and determination that characterized a soldier.

Deerhurst opened his mouth, only to snap it shut when he saw the dangerous glare that was coming from the colonel. He stormed off with such determination that he almost knocked over a nearby matron. More than one person turned to stare when they heard his disgruntled mutterings. His behavior today had the potential to reveal his true nature to society. Then again, society forgave much when it came to gentlemen, and they excused many unfortunate behaviors as youthful indiscretions.

“At least I found a good use for that punch. I was not really a fan of the taste. Too sweet.” A nervous laugh left Catherine as she tried to tell her legs that it was not the time to turn to jelly.

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