“W-well,” said Horatia seriously, “it was not very polite in you not to ask her to d-dance this time.”
“But I never dance,” said Lethbridge, leading her into the set.
“S-silly! you are dancing,” Horatia pointed out.
“Ah, with you,” he replied. “That is different.”
They became separated by the movement of the dance, but not before Lethbridge had marked with satisfaction the blush that mounted to Horatia’s cheeks.
She was certainly not displeased. It was quite true that Lethbridge hardly ever danced, and she knew it. She had seen one or two envious glances follow her progress on to the floor and she was far too young not to feel conscious of triumph. Rule might prefer the riper attractions of Caroline Massey, but my Lady Rule would show him and the rest of the Polite World that she could capture a very rare prize on her own account. Quite apart from mere liking, which she undoubtedly felt towards Lethbridge, he was the very man for her present purpose. Such easy conquests as Mr Dashwood, or young Pommeroy, would not answer at all. Lethbridge, with his singed reputation, his faint air of haughtiness, and his supposed heart of marble, was a captive well worth displaying. And if Rule disliked it—why, so much the better!
Lethbridge, perfectly aware of these dark schemes, was playing his cards very skilfully. Far too clever to show an ardency which he guessed would frighten Horatia, he treated her with admiration savoured with the mockery he knew she found tantalizing. His manner was always that of a man many years her senior; he teased her, as in his continued refusal to play cards with her; he would pique her by being unaware of her presence for half an evening, and devoting himself to some other gratified lady.
As they came together again, he said with his bewildering abruptness: “My lady, that patch!”
Her finger stole to the tiny square of black silk at the corner of her eye. “W-why, what, sir?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not the Murderous, I beg of you! It won’t do.”