Even the servants were
very nervous around him. However, at one point during the previous
dinner party, a maid had come close to spilling a tureen of soup on
him. He had not yelled at her, or demanded her punishment as many
of the ton would do. Instead, he had saved her and so very
carefully that he had not added to her upset.
He was not infinitely
patient however. She had also seen him send footmen running with a
look and had heard him raise his voice in argument with a local
squire she found particularly set in his outmoded opinions.
Beyond everything else
she had noticed about him was the truth that he was a man of
power...perhaps even enough power to melt the ice that encased
Calantha's own heart. The thought sent chills of fear skating down
her spine. If that were to happen, there would be pain, great
rushing waves of it that would drown her once and for all.
Perhaps the debutante
feared Ravenswood because she too could sense this power, though
Calantha had difficulty crediting the chit with such insight. After
all, her voiced complaints amounted to nothing more than window
dressing. Like so many others, she was bothered by the scar.
Foolish child.
Calantha could have told
her that true evil lurked within and had nothing to do with physical
imperfection. That sort of evil had the power to hurt beyond
bearing. Her dead husband had taught Calantha that lesson very
well.
Ravenswood stopped in
front of Beatrice and put out his hand. "Come."
Beatrice’s companion’s
eyes widened at the peremptory command. Gentlemen of the ton
did not order their partners to the dance floor. They made suitably
bland comments and requests to which a lady could easily respond in
the negative.
Beatrice gasped and
Calantha watched with interest as her face drained of all color. "I
couldn’t possibly, my lord. I’ve… I’ve… I already promised this
dance. My partner is over there." She waved her fan in the
direction of the other side of the room. "He’s waiting for me."
Had Calantha seen hurt
in his gaze before his eyes narrowed? Had the hastily made-up
excuse pricked his pride or damaged his ego? For some reason she
could not fathom, she could not bear the thought. She tried to
ignore the stirrings of compassion she felt. Compassion toward a
man that logic said would not be touched by such a silly girl’s
foolishness.
Calantha had pushed away
such reactions early in her marriage when she realized that allowing
herself to care for others put them at risk. It gave her husband
further opportunities to punish her many imperfections by hurting
others. She tried, but failed, to suppress the memory of her one
dear friend, Mary.
Calantha had befriended
the girl in the first months of her marriage only to discover that
when her husband’s anger burned brightly toward her, he was capable
of all manner of evil toward those she held dear. She still
believed her husband was responsible for Mary’s disappearance the
second year they were married. For she did not believe her friend
would have left without a word otherwise.
She still regretted her
lack of vigilance on Mary’s behalf, just as she bitterly repented so
many of the weaknesses that haunted her.
It was definitely a
weakness of mind that made her feet move forward and caused her to
say, "Excuse me, please," as she stepped around Beatrice to face
Ravenswood directly.
"If you are not
otherwise engaged, my lord, perhaps you would consent to escort me
onto the floor. I am weary of stillness." Liar. Liar. Her
brain screamed at her, but she could not pay it any heed. She
danced rarely and never grew weary of motionlessness. It was a
condition of excellence when one existed on the perimeters of life.
