If I Fall (12 page)

Sarah connected her eyes with Phillippa, then glanced in the Comte’s direction, hopefully giving her friend insight to what was in her head. But Phillippa—that contrarian!—shook her head imperceptibly, before turning her smile up at Jack.

And Sarah again found herself doing as she was told.

“You were almost too late, the waltz is about to begin.” Then Phillippa turned her focus to the still red-faced (indeed, had he been holding his breath the entire time?) Lord Seton and petted his hand kindly. “I’m afraid you have been misinformed, Lord Seton. You see, it is Lieutenant Fletcher’s turn. Braithwaite never had a dance to give.”

One could not fight Phillippa—she was a force of nature equal to gravity. Therefore, with her unimpeachable pronouncement, Sarah had little choice but to rise and give her hand to Jack Fletcher, and let him lead her to the floor.

They took their places.

And waited.

The music came up.

They were still standing.

Suddenly a very unsettling thought settled over Sarah.

“You do know the waltz, don’t you?” she asked worriedly.

With one easy step, Jack closed the gap between them and placed one hand at her waist. He raised his opposite hand and let her place her smaller one within its grasp.

“Of course I know the waltz, I was roped into being your partner by your dancing master more times than I could count.”

As they began to move with the music and the flow of the other dancers, Sarah rationalized her hesitation. “Yes, well, I did not think that you had much opportunity to practice since then. Being on board a ship and all.”

A small smile lifted the corner of his stern expression. “I do not forget things as readily as you, Miss Sarah.”

Her brows came down, but she forced the expression to clear quickly. Nothing would incite gossip about her and Jack faster than seeing a scowl on her features. “And what is that supposed to mean? Have I forgotten something? Not your birthday, that’s in the fall.”

He shot her a look that made her crow inwardly with triumph. But instead of crowing outwardly, she simply rolled her shoulders and said, “For heaven’s sake, you spent enough birthdays at Primrose. I don’t forget things as easily as you insinuate I do.”

He took her into a turn. She was right, he hadn’t the grace of a well-practiced waltz partner—his moves were too blunt, too powerful. But one could not help but obey, and follow.

“If we both have such excellent memories, why is it that I suspect neither of us recall me asking you to dance?”

“Oh! Is that what you meant?” she asked, blushing with relief. Although why she was relieved she could not say. “You were roped into playing the savior, I fear,” she began, and then recounted to him the story of what passed in the few minutes before he had arrived at their party’s side. She told it in what she hoped was an amusing way, hoping to draw a smile out of him. Men who laughed with her, she knew what to do with. Men who were serious and unsmiling were different beasts all together.

But instead of laughing, his expression remained immobile, only quirking up a brow when she told him the sum that Seton had equated a dance with her to.

“A dance with you is worth fifty pounds?”

“No, a dance with me is priceless,” she countered. And quite suddenly, she was very tired. Really, no matter how much Jackson Fletcher set her back up, and no matter how often she had to marvel at the unyielding changes in the man that danced with her from the boy she knew, the whole thing—her annoyance, his stiffness and looking at her as if she was
somehow terribly wrong all the time—was vaguely tiring and completely ridiculous. “Now, would you please tell me what is it that has you in such a brown study? I am unable to countenance it.”

And amazingly, Jack’s rigid frame relaxed. He must have been as tired as she. And he sighed.

“Forgive me, Miss Sarah.” He hesitated a moment, deciding what to say. “I recently had a rather unsettling conversation with my friend Mr. Whigby. I’m afraid I have let it carry over into my dealings with you. My apologies.”

“Oh,” Sarah replied, her relief genuine. At least his unsmiling countenance was not her doing, for once. “Perhaps it would be better if we simply started again?”

“Happily, Miss Forrester,” he said on a smile. It was small, and reflected the absurdity of their conversation.

“I think that’s the first smile I’ve seen on your face in days,” she said.

“Really?” Jack replied. “I had no idea that you’d spent the last week looking.”

And there it was—the supercilious tone that irked her so! A circumstance he must have become aware of, since his hand was situated so close to her back, and he immediately sighed again.

“I’m sorry. What I meant was that you have been very busy. I feel as if I’ve hardly seen you.”

“I know what you meant,” she said quietly. “The Season is a very busy … season.”

“Especially for you.” Jack resettled his frame, forcing her to move with him, jostling her. “Do you think we can start again. Er, again?”

Her eyebrow went up. “Last chance,” she replied.

“And I’d be a fool not to take it.” He smiled again, this time with his whole mouth, his whole face. And for the briefest of glimpses, Sarah saw the serious young man who first appeared on their doorstep at thirteen, living too much in his own head.

The one she taught to play pirates.

“Very good,” she softened. “Tell me Mr. Fletcher, are you enjoying your time in London?”

“Some aspects of it,” he replied cordially.

“Really? Which ones?”

“I am very happy to see your parents again.”

“And us girls, of course.”

“And you girls of course.”

“Then tell me what on earth it was I did to earn your scowl this past week?”

It was a challenge, and he knew it, because the moment the words popped out of her mouth, his footing stumbled ever so slightly. Not enough that anyone would notice, but enough that she had to catch his hand to steady him.

Would he answer? She wondered as his face slowly went scarlet.

“Your conversation has become very … fearless, I see,” he mumbled, but the pallor of his face took away from any sternness that he might have been attempting.

“I’ve learned there is very little to fear from conversation,” she countered. “At least, not from conversation you control.”

Jack was silent as they moved through a turn, as if he was concentrating more on the movement than on a potential reply. Which was perfectly fine, Sarah thought. If he had nothing to say, then she had no cause to feel shame and pity coming from his long looks from across the room. If he couldn’t answer, he could no longer be irksome to her.

“You flirted with me,” he said finally.

And then, she stumbled.

Not so anyone noticed of course, but she did trip ever so slightly over her own feet. But the strong arm at her waist steadied her before she could fall.

“I beg your pardon?” she replied coolly, when she recovered her footing. At least, she hoped it was coolly.

“You flirted with me,” he said again.

“I did no such thing” she replied, trying to hold in a blush.

But by the look he gave her, he knew she was trying to politely cover the truth.

“I asked if you’d like to be introduced to my friends. How on earth was that flirting?” she asked defiantly, once she’d recovered herself.

He cocked his head to one side, and regarded her quietly. “I know flirting when I see it, Sarah.”

As his eyes met hers, heat began to emanate from the place
where his hand connected to her side, as if the golden silk and embroidered palm trees that rested there had suddenly fallen away, leaving her bare to his touch.

Oh dear. She really had to retake control of this inquiry. Of this dance.

“Maybe I did,” she conceded, putting her chin up, forcibly squelching that spreading feeling of nakedness. After all, if she didn’t give him cause to stop looking at her like that, she would be naked and vulnerable before him in no time at all.

Er, metaphorically naked, that is.

“Maybe?”

“Yes,
maybe
,” she reiterated. “But why on earth a little flirting would earn a week’s worth of scowls is beyond me. I’ve found most men enjoy being flirted with.”

“
Maybe
I did not wish to be lumped in with the masses. Especially when…”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated with his recalcitrance.

“When … ?” she prodded. Really, this entire dance was like talking to a wall. Although, he did move better than your average wall.

“Especially when I have seen you with your skirts over your head.”

Sarah eyes went wide. Her mouth popped open to speak, but only a few nondescript vowel sounds emerged.

“You’re the one that made me lose my balance in that tree,” she said when she finally found her voice.

“I’m not the one who told you to hang upside down by your knees, though,” he countered with a smile.

“But thankfully, you’re the one who caught me when I fell. Besides, all you got was an eyeful of a twelve-year-old’s pantaloons and petticoats,” she admonished, blushing. But Jack was smiling, and all she could do was smile with him. “I’m afraid I’ve changed a bit since then.”

A spark lit his eye. “In certain ways, yes,” he conceded, and Sarah found herself blushing again, when her mind caught up to his meaning. “But you haven’t changed enough so I can comprehend flirting coming from you.”

“Fair enough,” she repeated. “I shall endeavor to not flirt with you.”

“Thank you.” If they hadn’t been in the middle of a waltz,
Sarah felt certain he would have clicked his heels together in a smart bow. “And I will try not to scowl at you.”

“Heavens, we started on the wrong foot, didn’t we?” And she was not referring to the waltz. “Are we friends again then?” she asked pertly, only to watch a cloud pass over his features.

“We’re … getting there.”

Sarah wanted to shake him in frustration. But alas, the hard planes of muscle under her hand, molded by life at sea, would likely react to her shaking as much as a stone would to a breeze. So she contented herself with a sigh and blasé manner. “And to think, I had finally been enjoying myself during this waltz.”

“As was I, Miss Forrester,” Jack replied ruefully. Then, with a quick glance over her shoulder, he added, “Although, best to not enjoy it too much I fear.”

“Why?”

Again he was silent. Again, his face had gone impassive as stone! It was as if all the time they spent together as children had been for naught and he was once again a too proper, too stiff uniformed stick.

“Why?” she prodded.

“Because I wouldn’t want to give the gossip mongers a show,” he replied.

“Is that all?” Sarah said, letting her eyes roam the crowd. People were looking at them, as they danced, but that was something Sarah was, under Phillippa’s tutelage, quickly becoming accustomed to. “I hardly notice them anymore. I’ve become used to it, I suppose,” she shrugged.

“Well, I haven’t, and according to Whigby, I’m as much the cause of stares as you.”

At her raised eyebrow, he continued. “Apparently, my status as an unmarried naval lieutenant without funds, while living with your family, has become the subject of speculation.”

“Oh dear,” Sarah murmured sympathetically.

“Yes,” Jack agreed. “Obviously, my being without funds must mean that I’m chasing after a bride, and my being in your house must mean I am chasing after you.”

“That seems terribly unkind,” Sarah replied.

“Indeed!” he exclaimed hotly.

“Although,” she mused, “not the worst idea ever presented.”

He looked at her so queerly then, Sarah felt certain he was about to have some sort of seizure or spasm. “Not chasing after me, of course,” she added quickly. “But you could consider courting a nice young lady.”

“Have you gone insane?” he ground out.

“Not recently,” she replied sweetly.

“The
Amorata
will be sailing in a month’s time—six weeks at the most. Courting
anyone
is the last thing I should be doing.”

Sarah took a moment and regarded Jack. He was no longer smiling, his face so stern, yet his mood throughout the dance had been changeable enough to allow some of the ice between them to thaw. She would have to tread carefully.

“Yes … but, if it doesn’t, Jack—if repairs take longer than anticipated, or heaven forbid, the
Amorata
no longer sails—”

“That won’t happen.”

“But if it does—” She swallowed. “If it does, you will have to find some means of supporting yourself … at least until your next ship assignment. And why not do so pleasantly?” His face was its unreadable self, but since he was no longer actively negating her, Sarah held hope that he might actually consider what she was saying, and thus took that as sign enough to continue. “Let me think … Juliana Devlin is very sweet—her father is in trade, so it’s not as if she stands much change with a peer. And Cynthia Donovan has a neat little dowry; she might do for you—”

“
No,
” he said firmly.

“Why ever not? Everyone does it.” She waved her hand blithely, dismissively. “I’m not saying you should marry someone you dislike, after all, but if you do happen to find yourself liking someone, and it happens to be a young lady of means…”

“
No
,” he repeated.

It was a misstep on her part, Sarah would reflect later, to start reeling off a list of names of young ladies for him to pursue. Indeed, while his body became stiff and cold, his eyes became so enflamed with anger and hate she thought he would set her alight. But her tactlessness was absolutely no excuse for what Jackson Fletcher did to her next.

He let go of her hand, let go of his hold at her waist.

And he walked away.

In the middle of the dance.

Truth be told, it was not the middle of the dance, they were near enough the end that one could feel the finis coming from the bold, slowing strains of the violins. But he released her with such force—practically shoving her away—that Sarah was left shocked and alone, and the subject of everyone’s stares.

Her eyes, if not her feet, hotly followed Jack’s retreating form, where he met up with another fellow in a lieutenant’s uniform—taller and wider, one supposed this was Whigby—where she (and one supposed others) could hear him say, over the rising murmurs from the stunned crowd, “Let’s go—this place is a viper’s nest.”