Infatuation

Author: Firebird9

Rating: T

First of all, a HUGE thank you to Foxfireside, who read the first chapter and pronounced it good, and insisted I turn it into a proper fic. And then allowed me to bug her with each successive chapter even though she has a life and was busy living it. You're awesome babe!

Prudence Stanley smiled in welcome as her guest of honour swept through the door in her finery. Her smile froze, however, as she took in the sight of the man on whose arm her niece walked. The problem was not that she disliked the Detective Inspector, she reminded herself. The man was polite, suitably deferential, upright and hardworking and, she had to admit, easy on the eye. Nor was the fact that he was clearly infatuated with Phryne an issue. The problem wasn't even the way the man positively abetted her niece in her obsession with crime and detective work, a thoroughly inappropriate interest for a young woman and one which, but for Jack Robinson's influence, she would probably have grown bored with long ago. No, the problem was that her niece was clearly every bit as infatuated with the doggedly loyal policeman as he was with her.

"Phryne, my dear, how good to see you." She took hold of her niece's hands and kissed her cheek.

"And you, Aunt Prudence."

"And I see you brought the Inspector with you." She offered her hand, but did not address him directly.

"Yes. I hope you don't mind; I thought it might be nice to attend with a guest for a change."

"Of course. Inspector, always a pleasure."

"Likewise, Mrs. Stanley." His manners were, as always, impeccable, his expression polite, but she could imagine that she saw wheels turning behind those brown eyes, and wondered just how much Phryne had told him about her purpose in arranging these parties, and, given his own feelings, just what he might make of it.

Her aunt turned away to welcome more guests, and Phryne took the opportunity to lead Jack into the ballroom. As she had feared, the guests were disproportionately male, well-bred, and unwed. A disconcerting number of them turned towards her as she descended the stairs leading onto the main floor, and she had a sudden sense of how a shipwrecked sailor must feel when he realises the sharks have begun to circle. This was the third such party her aunt had invited her to, and were it not for the reassuring pressure of Jack's arm in hers she might very well have muttered an excuse and fled.

"Is everything alright, Miss Fisher?" Clearly, he had sensed her hesitation and was concerned. She plastered on a bright smile before turning to him.

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

His narrowed eyes and the slight tilt of his head indicated that he didn't entirely believe her, and she reminded herself to be careful. Jack had a tendency to worry, and to overreact to situations involving her. Her aunt's machinations might be embarrassing, intrusive and demeaning – all of which was beginning to upset her more than she was willing to admit – but they weren't dangerous, and she needed to make sure that Jack didn't decide otherwise.

"Phryne Fisher," St. John Windstanleigh positively oozed charm as he greeted her at the bottom of the stairs. He was rich, handsome, charming, and a thoroughly vicious bastard. Unfortunately, her aunt either wasn't aware of that last point or else didn't care, because he had been an honoured guest at all three of her parties.

"St. John," she extended her hand and let him kiss it, his eyes flicking up to hers suggestively.

"Perhaps you'd grant me the pleasure of a dance?" he asked as he straightened.

"Maybe later. I was hoping to have a drink first."

His expression darkened at her refusal, his anger no doubt intensified by the knowledge that, as she had done the last time, she would ensure that they didn't dance together at all. She had danced with him the first night, and had been disgusted by his open leers, suggestive remarks and roving hands. It probably wouldn't have troubled her, once.

"Later, then." He turned on his heel and stalked off, and she turned to meet Jack's enquiring gaze.

"St. John Windstanleigh," she informed him. "Prone to temper tantrums when he doesn't get his own way."

"I see," Jack nodded slowly.

"So," she said brightly, hoping to distract him, "how about a drink?" Without waiting for an answer she homed in on the nearest waiter and retrieved two glasses of champagne, offering one to him. "Cheers."

Ashley Parkes was the next to ask her for a dance, followed by Harry Grey and Maxwell Smythe. All three were refused with varying degrees of politeness and professed regret.

"I hope you're not refusing dances on my account?" Jack asked softly, as Smythe made his way back to his friends.

"Whatever makes you say that?" she responded, hoping to hide her confusion at the realisation that he was the only man in the room she wanted to dance with tonight by touching on the implicitly off-limits subject of their personal feelings for one another.

"Because you enjoy dancing, and I've never known you to refuse something you enjoy," he replied frankly.

"Then why don't you dance with me?" she asked, placing her empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. He hesitated. "Well?"

"I'm not much of a dancer."

She wasn't sure whether he was telling the truth or trying to avoid accepting her invitation, but suddenly she wanted to be in his arms more than anything. Jack had a way of steadying her, of putting her back on-balance, and she was feeling distinctly off-kilter tonight. "Please?" she tried, and after a moment's consideration he shrugged.

"Very well. But don't complain if I tread on your toes." The smile that crossed her lips at that was the first genuine one of the evening.

The dance was, perhaps appropriately, a waltz, and Phryne quickly realised that, while Jack was indeed out of practise, he clearly remembered the steps and led with enough confidence that she could lean into his touch and let some of the tension drain out of her.

She was shaken from her brief reverie by his voice. "Suppose you tell me what's really going on?"

"Why, Jack," she prevaricated once again, "what on earth makes you think there's anything going on?" The waltz chose that moment to end, and he moved back slightly and bowed to her before offering her his arm.

"Because you are, quite clearly, miserable," he stated in a matter-of-fact tone as he led her out onto the terrace.

She sighed and stepped away from him, going to lean against the wall overlooking the lawns. "Is it that obvious?" she asked as he came to lean beside her, his upper arm just barely touching hers.

He shrugged. "Maybe not to anyone else. You smile, and you laugh – when people are watching you. But when you think no-one's looking... please, Phryne, tell me what's wrong."

His use of her given name was an indication of just how worried he was, and she sighed and gave in. "You know that I'll be thirty soon," she asked, and he nodded. Her date of birth wasn't exactly a secret. "I don't know what my mother and my aunt have been saying in their letters recently, but a couple of months ago my aunt invited me to a party very much like this one."

"Go on."

"A large number of eligible young men, a suspicious dearth of females and married men... and a pointed interrogation afterwards as to what I thought of the guests and whether any of them had particularly appealed to me. Needless to say, any that I didn't confess to absolutely loathing turned up at another party last month, along with a handful of new candidates." She glanced up at him to see whether he was following.

"They're trying to marry you off."

"Exactly." She tilted her head back with a sigh that was almost a sob. "I feel like a brood mare up for auction, with all of them placing their bids. That's why I wanted you here tonight, Jack. I just couldn't face another night of this without an ally. Without at least one person in the room who sees me for myself. Without..." she trailed off, and after a moment he prompted gently

"Without...?"

"Without someone who cares," she whispered, unable to meet his eye.

"Oh, Phryne." Whatever else he might have been about to say was cut off by the sudden arrival on the terrace of several rowdy and already half-cut men. Phryne tensed and felt herself move closer to Jack, wanting nothing to do with any of her aunt's candidates under such circumstances. To her surprise he responded by wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders.

"Let's go back inside," he suggested, leading the way.

They returned to find dinner being announced, and followed the flow of guests through to an elegantly-set dining hall. Phryne was, of course, seated at the table of honour and, because even Jack knew it would have been a shocking breach of etiquette for it to be otherwise, he was seated at her side. He couldn't help but wonder just who had been moved in order to make way for him. One person who clearly hadn't been moved, however, and was seated on Phryne's other side, was St. John Windstanleigh.

"Miss Fisher! We appear to be dinner partners," he smiled at her as he made to pull her chair out, and she felt her stomach clench. There was something about this man that she really couldn't stand.

"Actually," Jack's was a policeman's smile as he placed his own hand on the back of her chair – pleasant but with a distinct undertone of potential unpleasantness if he didn't get his own way – "I believe Miss Fisher is my dinner partner." And he calmly stared Windstanleigh down until the other man removed his hand and let him pull the chair out. Jack's smile softened and became genuine as he turned to Phryne. "Miss Fisher?"

"Thank you, Inspector." She took her seat and allowed him to push her chair back in before he took his place beside her. From the way Windstanleigh slammed his own chair back and raked it in to the table, he was seething.

The first course was served in a silence which might have been awkward, or even menacing, were it not for the way Jack kept catching her eye. Much of their communication, particularly on his side, had always been non-verbal, and now his eyes let her know that he was amused by, and somewhat disdainful of, Windstanleigh's behaviour and happy to be her ally in the face of it.

The second course was shellfish, and Jack cocked his head at her, appeared to examine them carefully and then, as though imparting some great secret, leaned closer to her and murmured "no snails?"

She had to use her serviette to cover the sudden laugh that evoked, and their eyes met in fond recollection. Yes, they had gone to the Cafe Replique to apprehend her murderous ex-lover, but the events of that day – including the desperate kiss Jack had pressed to her lips in his efforts to shield her from Rene Dubois' gaze – had become one of the many occasions that had served to deepen the bond between them.

"Is something amusing, Miss Fisher?" Windstanleigh asked from her other side, and perhaps it was Jack's deliberate calling to mind of that day at the Cafe, but suddenly she realised exactly why she disliked St. John so much: he reminded her far too acutely of Rene.

"Merely a private joke," she replied airily, but her stomach flipped at the further darkening in Windstanleigh's gaze, and she felt a sudden irrational stab of fear.

Something must have shown on her face, because Jack froze with his fork half-way to his mouth, and placed it carefully back on his plate before slipping his hand under the table to touch her knee. "Phryne?"

She shook her head slightly, trying to tell him not to worry. After all, what could Windstanleigh do to her here, in a room full of people, with Jack Robinson sitting by her side? She tried not to remember the feeling of Rene's gun against her face, or the look of helpless anger on Jack's as he discarded his own weapon in order to prevent Rene from shooting her.

To her surprise, he did not immediately withdraw his hand but instead rubbed her knee gently with his fingers whilst holding her gaze with his own. Gradually, she felt her attention shift. Jack rarely engaged in casual physical contact, and even more rarely maintained it for any length of time. How worried must he be to do so tonight? And what did it say about her feelings for him that, for her part, he could go on touching her knee more or less indefinitely, particularly if he also kept looking at her with those gentle, concerned eyes?

He must have felt her relax, because after a moment he smiled and gave her leg one last reassuring pat before returning his hand to the table-top.

By the time dessert was served her nerves were frayed to breaking point, and the only reason she hadn't already bolted from the room was Jack's continued eye contact, his quiet jokes, and the occasional steadying touch under the table. Indeed, around the time the main course was being brought in he had shifted slightly in his seat so that the length of his leg was resting against hers, a line of comforting warmth which nudged her in gentle encouragement whenever Windstanleigh made another sally. For his own part, Jack seemed unconcerned by the barbed and condescending comments which Windstanleigh periodically launched in his direction. To the richer man's increasing frustration, Jack dealt with him in much the same way he would have done were his insults being delivered during the course of a police interview or enquiries. Jack was courteous, non-committal, and maintained an air of polite detachment, or even amusement, regardless of Windstanleigh's attempts to provoke him, and the sardonic look in his eyes when they met Phryne's was another blissful piece of sanity.

Postprandial drinks were a mixed affair back in the ballroom, to which Jack escorted her on his arm before Windstanleigh had so much as a chance to offer.

"Would you excuse me?" she asked at the foot of the stairs. And, in explanation, "powder room."

He nodded and moved to the side, watching her leave.