“You’ve never complimented me before,” she managed to say.
“What?” He sounded indignant. Acting. Playing. Teasing her again. “Surely I’ve blathered some nonsense about your hair or your gown or your eyes.”
She half-turned, calmer now they stood on familiar ground. “You probably don’t even know what color my eyes are.”
“Of course I don’t,” he admitted cheerfully.
Yes, back on familiar ground, and no reason to be disappointed. Such a silly thing to care about. As if her eye color mattered at all!
“Your eyes are impossible,” he explained. “They can be greenish, or brownish, or greenish-brown, or brownish-green. In the sunlight, they even seem golden. When you weep, they turn green. When you are lustful, they turn brown. When you laugh, they get lighter. When you are angry, they get darker. So how in blazes am I supposed to know what color your eyes are when they keep changing all the time?”
Oh. Oh. The familiar ground disappeared again and there was nothing under her feet, and all she could think to say was, “You noticed.”
In the silence, his own eyes were heavy and shadowed. She could not guess what he was thinking and lacked the courage to ask.
“You needn’t spout such nonsense,” she said briskly, turning her fan in her hands. “I am satisfied with my looks and always have been. I simply get silly when I compare myself to my sisters.”
“Here’s the comparison: Lucy is beautiful like a diamond. You are beautiful like a rose.” He glanced at her fancy headdress. “A rose that has pink feathers sticking out of its head, that is.”
Finally, she laughed, for he was being absurd and she was being a fool. It was she who loved roses; he thought them a frivolous waste of time. Had he said she was beautiful like iron ore or a factory or a pile of work, well, then she could be pleased. Instead, she felt lonelier than she ever had before.
A cool breeze caressed them: A footman had opened the door. Cassandra met Joshua’s eyes and reminded herself that she had achieved what she came for, and everything was exactly as it ought to be. He had made her no promises and told her no lies.
If her heart was breaking, it was nobody’s fault but her own.
“Excuse me, love birds,” Lucy called from the doorway. “Is this ball tonight? Or shall we ask them to move it to tomorrow so you can finish canoodling?”
The first dance was underway by the time they arrived. Cassandra deposited Lucy with the duke and duchess and went her own way. Of course she did, Joshua thought, watching her pink feathers bob through the crush. That was what they did now, and a few clumsy, belated compliments would do nothing to change that. Joshua felt at odds with his own body. He wanted to blame the cravat, the coat, the ridiculous breeches, but he knew it was not that. He seemed to have developed a talent for doing everything wrong.
He wandered around the ballroom aimlessly, sending people scattering with his scowl. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of her. Saw Dammerton approach her; saw her smile. Someone blocked Joshua’s view and when it cleared, the duke was writing on her dance card.
Bloody Dammerton, flirting with his wife, asking her to dance. She liked dancing, Joshua knew, and she was good at it too. Dancing had always seemed such a waste of time, but now he wished he had learned. She would like that. Or not. Dancing did not make babies either.
What an idiot he was, staying away from her. They only had a few more days until Sir Gordon got Bolderwood’s case quashed: Was he going to waste the time sulking? He remembered her philosophy about cut flowers: They did not last but one could enjoy them while they bloomed.
The dance ended and the guests milled about in the echoing chatter of a room suddenly bereft of music.
“What the hell are you doing here?” came a familiar snarl by his shoulder.
Joshua almost groaned at the tedium of another fight with his father.
“Good evening, Father.”
“You promised to stay away from us,” Treyford said.
“This ball is hosted by my wife’s grandmother, and my wife’s sister is making her debut. You knew I would be here, so you ought to have stayed away.”
“You ought not be in London at all.”
Isaac had been right: Treyford hated him because he was a reminder of his shame. Which meant that, under his bluster, the