Page 3 of Dearest Beast
“Not even one of our rich or scholarly.” She couldn’t help but needle. “Someone who, however, has several qualities that you could not dream of possessing.”
“Like what?” he asked, his arms notably tighter across his chest.
“Like modesty, humility, caring, kindness,” she recounted ashis glare hardened. “What?” she asked, when the smirk was gone, though it’d not been replaced by any sign of defeat.
There was a pause.
“You’re right.” He nodded.
“You’ll admit it?” She narrowed her eyes at him, energy flowing through her veins as her mind focused on anticipating his next verbal strike.
“I’m not so insecure in my own intelligence that I cannot see it in another.” The man inhaled, straightening his spine completely, before turning to face her fully.
Suddenly, nothing about his features seemed bland or dull. Handsome, yes, but there was now an almost predatory canniness about him.
“However even if Ellenberg were from my side of the community, I’d find him a self-righteous bore.” He strode toward her like an advancing army. “As for Isabelle—”
“She’s too young for you?” Rebecca cut in. Not the cleverest jab, but the man needed to be stopped.
Halting, he stared at her. “I’m five and thirty.” He gave her another lingering appraisal. “How old are you?”
“You first met me when Isabelle was born,” she reminded him, unnecessary irritation creeping into her voice. “Is your memory leaving you, or has counting to numbers greater than your fingers always been a challenge?”
He eyed her again. “That’s not a response to my question.”
“I’m nine and twenty,” she declared. She was not ashamed of her age. It signaled her experience. “However, I thought you were supposed to be all proper and skilled with polite conversation.”
“I reserve polite conversation for those who deserve it.” He straightened his dark, silk cravat, which, for the first time since he entered, she noticed as being touch disheveled. Along with hisusually perfectly pressed coat, which now hung slightly unbuttoned. Odd. She narrowed her eyes.
“What are you doing up here?” she asked, curiosity overtaking her need to verbally spar.
“I could ask you the same question,” he said, his voice now smooth. “Aren’t you afraid the revelers downstairs will be lost without you to guide them infun?” A soft menace emboldened the verb, one that had been absent before, signaling that perhaps she’d found a real vulnerability in the man who seemed to have none.
A shadow fell over his face. The room seemed to vibrate with energy. A thrill spread through her limbs at the realization that if she pushed just right, she could land a real blow.
“And distract them from their chances to lick your boots?” she retorted, realizing her mistake—the out she’d given him—almost immediately after the insult left her lips.
“That is a privilege.” He gave her another self-satisfied smirk, his tall, lanky form relaxing once more as his mask fell back into place. “Though, yes, I’m sure the party is poorer without the option.” He gave a victorious grin. Rebecca’s blood boiled—figuratively, as such was impossible.
At least without combusting spontaneously.
Oy, she hated losing. More than anything. Especially to someone like him.
“I was here first, if you recall,” she pointed out, as she’d had enough.
He raised a single, honey-gold brow. “And?”
“Leave,” she commanded, pointing a finger in the direction of the door. “Please.”
“Look at you, demonstrating a modicum of manners. How progressive.” He prowled toward her once more, halting mere inches away. Close enough that those boots nearly touched the edge of herpetticoats. He smiled down at her from his rather substantial height. “And no,” he whispered.
She blinked at him. “Beg pardon?”
“You can leave if you’d like to be alone, but I shall not.” He rolled his shoulders back, extending his already impressive form. As if that could intimidate her.
Well, he was sorely mistaken.
“Yes. You. Will,” she said, emphasizing each syllable, refusing to release his gaze.
