Blessed Offense (Sixteen Seasons) by V.R. Christensen Page B

I say. “And no. I won’t dance, not with you or anyone without a title or at least something to offer by way of compensation for the trouble.”
    “You’re very proud, aren’t you?”
    “I must think of my future as well as anyone. And I don’t like to be undressed in public view. I doubt you’ll find many who do.”
    “It isn’t likely to happen twice, you know.”
    “That’s what the tyrant Bonaparte said when he was exiled. The first time.”
    Lynn laughs. Silently, almost companionably, which is a rare feeling these past months, and watches the company mingle and dance, and, like me, not dance.
    “Charles Montegue will inherit a mountain of money when his father dies,” he says, nodding in the young man’s direction.
    “Yes, but he spits when he talks, which is all well and good across a table, but when you’re dancing face to face . . .”
    “What about young Lord Ashcroft?”
    “Have you met his mother?”
    “Good point. There’s Henry Oliphant, of course.”
    I simply look at him. Have you seen the way he dances? I might have asked.
    “Yes, yes, all right. But you shouldn’t be so picky, you know. Not at your age.” This he adds with a wicked grin.
    “Well, I’m not dancing with you, so you can just put that thought out of your mind. Where is Celia?”
    “I cannot find her.”
    “You can’t find her?”
    “No. And that’s the second time you’ve refused me this quarter hour. I never asked you, you know. To dance, that is.”
    This sends the heat into my face.
    “Your pride is going to be your downfall,” he says more seriously. “If you want to end up bitter and alone, that’s your lookout, but I don’t think it’s what you really want.”
    “Neither do you, for that matter. Having to support your wife’s spinster sister would quite be the limit of your patience, I’m sure.”
    “I hope I am not too proud to know when I might be of some use,” he says with a strain of defensiveness, and only after a long and tense silence, “even if that help is not particularly wanted or appreciated. I do hope this trait of yours is not shared by your sister as well.”
    “Oh, Celia’s not proud. She may be vain, but she’s never proud.”
    “Is there a difference?”
    “Of course there is. Pride is a feeling of one’s superiority. Vanity is the desire that others should see you so.”
    He looks at me very pointedly.
    “I do not mean to be proud, Mr. Townsend. My feelings are easily hurt, by some more than others, and I do not like to be humiliated or shown my weaknesses. No one does.”
    “But you are mighty slow to forgive, Caro. Dash it if you’re not.” He appears to truly regret it, but I will not be swayed by his speeches. They are no longer mine to hear.
    I fan myself. It is hot in here, but more than that I need something to do while he stares at me so intently. It is as much as to say he means, somehow, to earn my forgiveness. But it’s too late for that. At least he should not want it. He should not!
    “Well,” I say, at last finding it necessary to break the silence, “if you won’t find Celia, then I will.” And I leave him standing there. I would very much like to know he is watching me walk away, but I think he is not. I look. No, he is not. I cannot help it; I am disappointed.
     
    WHEN I WAS nineteen, Lynford Townsend kissed me. It was my birthday. It was his gift, he had said. It was the only one he had to give. I have never forgiven him. I certainly have never forgotten it.
    How a young woman of eighteen can disappear from her own coming out party, I do not know, but Celia is in none of the receiving rooms, and I’ve just made up my mind to go upstairs and check her own room when I see her coming out of the curtained off cloakroom that has been set up in the back stairwell. She is looking curiously flushed and dishevelled.
    Celia!” I say. “What is the matter with you?”
    She looks at me, apparently ashamed, but for what I cannot quite imagine. Her