Lady Pamela by Amy Lake

saw that he spoke but heard nothing more.
    Why are you behaving like this? Her social poise, honed by years among the haut ton , disciplined by the thousand minor vexations inherent in knowing a single other human being, had never failed her. And yet now, after only minutes in the company of the Duke of Grentham, her heart raced and her breath came as ragged as if she was participating in a...a boxing match.
    This is ridiculous, Lady Pamela told herself. He is an acquaintance, only, like a hundred other of London’s gentlemen. We are not brawling. We are dancing .
    “Pamela,” the duke whispered.
    Silence, for a long moment.
    “Pamela. I never meant to hurt you.”
    She would not answer him.
    “Talk to me.” He was still whispering, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin. Pam trembled against him; he felt it, and his hands tightened against her back, gripped her hand.
    “Please.”
    I never meant to hurt you. But you did, you did. And such an injury, as deep as it is, does not heal, your grace. If you had come to London earlier, I could have told you so. I would have told you so. And now–
    Pamela remembered words, suddenly, that the Earl of Ketrick had spoken, years past.
    There are some pains, you know, that forgiveness cannot touch. That time worsens and does not cure. Only anger.
    True. True. The anger came, and ’twas a relief, such a relief that Lady Pamela felt her thoughts clear, saw everything as it was and as it must be. She lifted her head and spoke calmly, pleasantly, as if they were continuing the previous discussion of his move to town.
    “Now that you are in town, your grace, perhaps I can be of some service.”
    “Service...?”
    “A duke is expected to provide for an heir as soon as can be. I suppose that you will be in search of a wife.”
    “Pam, for pity’s sake, don’t–”
    “I understand your requirements, you see,” said Pamela. Her nonchalance was forced, brittle. “The standards that a woman is held to by a man of your fine... scruples.”
    If it was possible for a gentleman to go utterly still, and yet dance, the duke did so now.
    His eyes fastened on hers, and she held their stare. Lord Torrance and Lady Pamela continued waltzing, neither aware of the steps.
    “You speak nonsense.” The duke spoke quietly, without emotion. Perhaps he attempted to calm her, but Lady Pamela remembered their last waltz, that last conversation, and the anger combined with fierce humiliation. She could not stop the words.
    “There are any number of ladies of the ton whom you would not find acceptable,” she continued. “Besides myself, of course.”
    “Pamela.” The tone now held clear warning. She ignored it.
    “Think of the time you might waste on unsuitable females. But I can guide you to the select few.”
    “That is unjust,” he said, so softly that she barely heard.
    “To the ladies, perhaps,” retorted Lady Pamela.
    The duke was silent, but his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes burned into hers with...with accusation. Righteous accusation–Pam felt it so.
    What has come over me? she thought, miserably. I sound like a fishwife.
    “I have no unreasonable expectations of any person,” he said. “I do not consider myself above anyone. And I asked you to marry me, did I not?”
    Perhaps, at the last moment, as he uttered these words, the duke realized their infelicity. He must have felt the shudder which traveled through her body, and seen her eyes cloud over with renewed pain.
    “Pamela, I didn’t mean–”
    Now that battle was truly engaged, Lady Pam felt serene, almost happy. It hardly matters, she thought. What he thinks of me hardly matters anymore.      
    “What I meant to say–” the duke began.
    “ ’Tis not necessary to explain,” replied Pamela. “You’ve said enough.”
    “You deliberately misunderstand me.”
    Her eyes flashed. “I understand you perfectly, I’m quite sure.”
    “No–”
    “I find myself tired of the waltz,”