would know it was a dead thing, resting on my arm.’ Susannah had shuddered. ‘Eeugh!’
As the orchestra began to play, Captain Fawley came back to himself. Turning to Deborah, he inclined his head and held out his arm. His right arm. She had noticed on previous occasions that if he offered a lady his arm, it was never what remained of the left one.
‘Shall we take a turn about the room?’
Deborah smiled, and laid her hand upon his sleeve. As she glanced up, it occurred to her that placing her on his right side also had the effect of presenting the unblemished side of his face to her scrutiny. A pang of sympathy smote her. He was sensitive enough to his appearance, without girls like Susannah rubbing his nose in it. He had even grown his hair longer than was fashionable, sweeping part of his fringe over the left side of his forehead, in an effort to conceal the worst of the scarring.
They set out along the edge of the room, in the area behind the pillars that marked the boundaries of the dance floor. Captain Fawley’s gait was a little uneven, she had to admit in fairness to Susannah. But by no means did he hobble! And though she had never danced with him, she was certain he would look no worse than many of the men here tonight, lumbering about with straining waistcoats and florid faces.
‘I can see you would much rather be on the dance floor,’ said Captain Fawley, noticing the direction of her gaze, ‘than bearing me company. I shall escort you to your mother, and—’
‘Oh, please do not!’
He eyed her curiously.
‘I would m…much rather be promenading, than left to wilt on the sidelines.’
Her dance card, unlike that of her friend, bore very few names. If Captain Fawley abandoned her, it would be humiliatingly obvious that she had no partner.
She felt as though the only time she ever got to dance lately was when one of Susannah’s admirers took pity on her, as Captain Fawley was doing now.
And unlike some of those gentlemen, Captain Fawley was invariably attentive and polite, almost managing to make her believe he was enjoying talking to her.
And what was more, she was sure he would never take part in the kind of conversation she had overheard not half an hour since. Not that she could blame Baron Dunning for comparing her unfavourably with Susannah. Although both of them had dark hair, Deborah’s curls would have gone limp by the end of the evening. Her eyes, though as brown, were more often lowered bashfully than sparkling with wit. Her complexion, thanks to an inflammation of the lungs she had suffered over the winter months, might, she accepted, by candle-light look somewhat sallow. And when she stood next to the shorter, shapelier Susannah, she supposed she could see why Mr Jay had scathingly likened her to a beanpole.
Not that knowing they had said nothing untrue made their comments any less hurtful, which was why she felt so grateful that Captain Fawley was deigning to spend these few moments with her.
When she thought of the adventures he must have had, in his soldiering days, she was amazed he could talk to her so kindly about the trivial concerns of a plain, provincial miss like her.
He gave her his wry, lopsided smile, which somehow always managed to make her own lips want to rise in imitation.
‘Then let us go and sample the refreshments,’ he suggested, turning her towards a door at the far side of the room from where the orchestra was playing.
‘Thank you, I should like that.’
She hoped very much that he would linger while she drank a glass of lemonade. Conversation would be limited, for after her initial burst of pleasure in securing his attention, she would doubtlessly become tongue-tied. He had experienced so much, when she had scarcely set foot outside her father’s parish before this trip to London. Not that he had personally related how he had fought his way across the Peninsula before suffering the horrific injuries at Salamanca that had left him hovering between life and death for months. No, that information had been gleaned from her mother’s friends, who made it their business to know everything about everyone.
They had shaken their heads, expressing pity as they related what they knew of his history, but she could only admire the determination with which he had clawed his way back to his present state. He did everything an able-bodied man did, though it must take him twice the effort. Why, he had even learned to ride a horse. She had glimpsed him on a couple of occasions, cantering through the park in the early morning, before many other people were about. He seemed to her to be so much more manly than the fashionable fops who lounged their languid way through London’s drawing rooms. He had overcome whatever life had thrown at him, which you could see, just by looking at him, had been a great deal.
She felt that first betraying blush sweep up her cheeks, which always assailed her at about this point in their meetings. For what could she say that might be of interest to a man like him, a man who had really lived? Though she knew that, whatever she said, he would never give her one of those condescending looks, which so many eligible bachelors seemed to have got down to a fine art. He was so kind, so magnanimous, so…
‘Tell me,’ he said, as they sauntered towards the table on which a large punch bowl sat, ‘just what a man has to do to secure a dance with your friend?’
Deborah’s flight of fancy exploded in mid-air, plummeting to earth like a spent rocket. He had not sought out her company because he wished for it. She was only a means by which he might be able to approach Susannah. Of course a man like him would not willingly spend time with a drab, nondescript, foolish, ignorant, penniless, plain…and let us not forget shy, awkward, dull…
She pulled herself together with effort, and pasted a polite social smile upon her face, as Captain Fawley continued, ‘I purposely arrived early tonight, and still her dance card seems to be full.’
‘It was full before ever we arrived,’ Deborah temporised. It was not her place to tell him that, no matter what he did, Susannah would rebuff him. Not only did she find him physically repulsive, but she had her sights set on a title. Forming an attachment with an impecunious commoner was not part of Susannah’s plan at all.
‘Before you arrived?’ Captain Fawley signalled a waiter to pour Deborah a glass of lemonade.
‘Yes,’ she confirmed, her heart plummeting as the waiter handed her a drink in a tall glass. It would take for ever to drink it down, and, for some reason, she no longer wanted to spend a moment longer with Captain Fawley than she had to. There was an acid heaviness in her stomach, her throat ached, and, to her annoyance, her eyes had begun to prickle with what she was afraid were burgeoning tears. She did not want him to see her cry. Lord, she did not want anyone to see her cry! What kind of ninny burst into tears at a ball because every man there wanted to dance with her friend and not her!
She took a gulp of the drink, appalled when the glass rattled against her teeth. Her hands were shaking.
‘Are you quite well, Miss Gillies?’ Captain Fawley looked concerned.
Her heart performed a peculiar lurch as she thought how like him it was to be so observant. ‘I…’ Lying was a sin. She would not do it. And yet, she desperately wanted to escape. If she was to twist the truth, just a little…there could be no harm in that, could there? ‘I think I would like to return to my mother, and sit beside her after all, if you do not mind?’
‘Of course.’ Captain Fawley took her glass and placed it on a convenient window ledge. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm,
