Duainfey by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page B

Altimere, Sir Jennet Hale."
    Sir Jennet's face, already alarmingly red, grew redder still.
    "I see, as does the rest of the room, that the two of you are on terms," he said icily. He produced a brief, frigid bow—"Sir"—and again extended his arm meaningfully. "Madam."
    "I did promise that I would sit with him," she told Altimere's questioning gaze.
    He hesitated, then inclined his head. "Of course, Miss Beauvelley," he murmured. He raised her hand from where it rested on his sleeve, bent, and kissed it lingeringly.
    "Good evening, sir!" Jennet snapped.
    Altimere smiled slightly and bowed, a brief and achingly supple imitation of Jennet's angry gesture.
    "Good evening, Sir Jennet Hale," he said gravely, and passed effortlessly through the curious knot of onlookers.
    Becca moved a step forward, meaning to put her hand on Jennet's arm. That she was in for a scold seemed certain—nor would it be undeserved. You are quite as outrageous as Caroline, she told herself—
    Pain knifed up her weak arm, taking her breath. She stared at Jennet. He smiled with a certain grim satisfaction, his fingers tightening around her wrist, until she lost his face in a spangle of tears. Then and only then did he lead her off the floor, pulling her along as if she were grubby five-year-old.
    Becca blinked her sight clear—and it was well that she did so, for Jennet was striding headlong toward the chairs arranged in neat clusters at the edge of the floor, making not the least effort to be certain that she followed easily. Happily, she did not stumble, and managed not to tread on anyone's foot, though she came very near to making an exception for Celia Marks, who smiled sweetly at her as she passed, and whispered, "Bad little broken Becca."
    "Here, madam, is your chair." Jennet pulled her forward with such vigor that she staggered, her arm screaming agony. She did not, however, fall, if that had been his intent, and within the pain, Becca's temper flared.
    "Thank you, sir," she said icily, meeting his eye boldly. She inclined her head and sat, adjusting her skirts with her good hand, and taking her time about it.
    "Now that you are seated," Jennet said in an angry undertone, "I expect you to remain seated, and to refrain from embarrassing me again." He took a hard breath. "Your father assured me that the . . . incident . . . in your past had broken your willful—"
    "Sir Jennet." Becca heard her own voice with an astonishment no greater than his, assuming that his sudden lapse into silence was from shock rather than fury. Still, silence it was, and before he could make a recover, she continued.
    "If your wish is for an end to notice, then perhaps you may wish to hold your scolding until we are private."
    Really, she thought critically, if his face became any ruddier, he would have an apoplexy.
    That fate was averted, however narrowly was not to be known. Jennet bowed, stiffly. "Your servant, madam," he stated.
    With nothing else, he turned and walked away.
    Becca, following him with her eyes, saw him on course for the refreshment alcove. Perhaps he would bring her something cool to drink, she thought, and tried to imagine him regretting his anger.
    Unfortunately, the set of his shoulders as he strode onward discouraged such pleasant imaginings. Becca closed her eyes and tried to compose herself. The pain in her arm had subsided to a dull ache, though she would not be surprised, she thought, should she show bruises on the morrow.
    On reflection, it surprised her to find Sir Jennet quite so high-tempered, but she supposed a second son, only lately come into his elder brother's honor, might have some retroactive pride. And certainly any man, she told herself sternly, might be somewhat . . . annoyed to find that his affianced wife preferred dancing with an exotic stranger than sitting quietly with himself.
    Indeed, she continued, warming to her own scold. It had been very wrong in her to dance with Altimere once, much less the entire set!