Page 9 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
Miss Peacock approached them, and the young woman stiffened, fear clouding her expression. Miss Peacock issued a simpering smile to the duke and duchess, who smiled in return, then she exchanged a few words with Miss Martingale before gliding away. Miss Martingale pulled a face at Miss Peacock’s retreating back. Then she stiffened, as if she knew she were being watched, and glanced at Murdo. He winked, and her mouth twitched into a smile.
The dance drew to a close and a ripple of gloved applause filled the ballroom, then footmen circulated with trays, replenishing glasses. At the far end of the room, Murdo’s cousin was deep in conversation with Miss Goodchild. Murdo moved toward them until he caught sight of Miss Peacock, then he veered away and found himself standing before Miss Martingale, who now sat alone once more.
She stiffened, then lifted her gaze to his, apprehension in her chocolate-brown eyes.
Would it be forward to introduce himself? Might her English sensibilities be offended by a stranger approaching her while she sat alone, unchaperoned?
Why do I care about a woman’s sensibilities?
Her expression hardened.
“Like what you see?” she sneered.
Murdo recognized her tone for what it was—a layer of armor protecting her unease.
“I-I wondered if ye cared to dance, Miss…?”
She reached for her glass, which had been refilled.
“No.”
A refusal he might have expected, but not delivered with such bluntness. Generally, a young lady followed an insult with a social nicety.
“Is that all ye have to say?” he asked.
She sipped her drink, then mischief flickered in her eyes. “I could always ask why you bothered to ask me to dance.”
“There’s only one reason a man asks a lass to dance.”
“Don’t take me for a fool.”
“I don’t understand.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do you think I didn’t see you prancing about withher?”
“Whom?”
“Spare me!” she said. “No. I don’t want to dance. Not with anyone—least of all withyou. Why can’t you and your kind leave me alone?”
She swallowed another mouthful of punch.
Hiskind? So that was it—yet another Sassenach who drowned herself in liquor and thought his countrymen beneath her.
“Are ye a poor dancer?” he said. “Or perhaps ye’re only here for the liquor.” He gestured to her skirts. “Ye’ve put it to good use—it’s all that stuff’s good for, given it tastes like rat’s piss.”
He regretted the words almost before he’d finished, and his conscience battered him at the flicker of pain in her eyes.
She blinked, slowly, and her mouth hardened into a thin line. Like all prey, her hostility was a shield to conceal her vulnerability. And, utter bastard that he was, he’d just ripped it from her.
“Miss Martingale, forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean—”
“How do you know my name?” she said. Then she glanced toward Miss Peacock and let out a mirthless laugh. “Of course—you heard it from Little Miss Fancy-Tits.”
Devil’s ballocks, she had a mouth on her.
“Perhaps, Miss Martingale, ye’ve had too much—” he began, but she jerked her arm forward and a splash of cold liquid exploded in his face.
He staggered back, tasting punch on his lips as the sticky liquid trickled down his cheeks. Then he lifted his hand and plucked something from his upper lip—a slice of peach.
