Scandal's Reward by Jean R. Ewing Page A

part in the charade as if they were childhood friends. Their hands touched and separated as required by the dance, and at the end he swept her a gallant bow and she sank into her most graceful curtsy. His face was alight with laughter.
    “And the waltz, of course,” he continued, as the music changed and he again swept her into his arms, “scandalously allows the gentleman to hold the lady of his choice in his gloved embrace. She, secure in the view of the whole world, may enjoy the chaste encounter without threat to her virtue, while driving him to distraction with her grace and charm.”
    “Unless, as has often been my unfortunate lot, Mr. de Dagonet, she has no particular liking for the gentleman, in which case his proximity is uncomfortable. Or she may think she likes him, but he treads on her toes and she limps for a week.”
    “Then she should have refused him to start with, instead of thoughtlessly placing herself in such a man’s power.” The waltz ended but he did not release her. “I trust I did not step on your toes, Kate?”
    She looked up at his face. She had never seen him so relaxed, his eyes suffused with wit. He reached up to stroke a wisp of hair from the side of her neck. His smile invited all her trust and confidence. Wildly, she hoped he would kiss her again. But as she gazed up at him, his eyes darkened and the long muscles beside his mouth stiffened as if in pain. He ran his fingertips gently over her lips.
    “Oh, dear!” he said with a wry smile. “I hope we have not just made a dreadful mistake.”
    The door crashed open behind them.
    “Good God, sir! What the deuce is the meaning of this?”
    It was George. Dagonet leapt away from Catherine, thrusting her toward the couch, as he backed past the piano. Sir George Montagu, his face swollen with rage above his intricate cravat, advanced upon his cousin. George wore his best embroidered satin waistcoat and fashionable black-and-white striped coat and breeches. His stout legs, encased for the evening in pink stockings, were embellished at the knee with ribbon rosettes. He was perfectly correctly dressed for a ball, except that in his right hand he carried a naked blade. Devil Dagonet was quite unarmed.
    “You were ever proud to beat me at fencing when we were boys, sir, were you not?” George said.
    “Yes, but then, cousin dear, I also had a weapon. Will you kill me outright or only maim me a little?”
    “Damn you, Dagonet! I would not do you the favor to relieve you of the burden of your worthless life.”
    Dagonet vaulted over the piano. “Too bad. Bonaparte wouldn’t do it either, though I tried to give his men every opportunity for seven long years. You were always too conservative with your occasional generous impulses.”
    The sword slashed, and Dagonet ducked gracefully around the wing chair, where he had once sat and read Walter Scott to Catherine. A deep gash appeared in the upholstery and stuffing flew into the room. Catherine gasped and ran to the piano. She picked up a book which she could throw at George, if the opportunity once presented itself.
    “I only intend, sir,” growled George, clumsily stumbling over the vase, which had so recently represented Mr. Crucible at the country dance, “to insult that insufferable vanity.”
    The sword passed within inches of Dagonet’s cheek.
    “Well done, George! Your care of me is touching. Even my barber is not so solicitous of my looks. Why, he nicked me on the chin just last week.”
    “I’ll do more than a nick, sir. I’ll give you a scar that will make women faint.”
    “They already do, cousin, and willingly, into my arms!” Dagonet laughed. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
    And as the blade whistled harmlessly over his head, he bent to take up the coal tongs, stepped past the firescreen, and cleanly disarmed his assailant. The weapon clattered to the floor and, in an instant, the sword was his.
    Dagonet looked at it in mock surprise. “How generous you are,