Passe d'armes
A gift fic for spacey-adventures
"Why could I not think of an excuse?" Jane stomped her foot like a child, satin slippers tapping prettily against the polished parquet of the drawing room. "Hateful man," she shook her head at his proud, retreating back. How he must be congratulating himself on flustering her into forgetting her vow! "I promised myself I would never dance with him."
"He pays you a great compliment by singling you out," was Darcy's mild response. Her dark eyes regarded the younger Mr. Odinson's fine, upright figure with a far more charitable expression than Jane would allow herself, be his figure ever so well-made.
"Think what you're doing. Though he has not the fortune of his brother, he is a distinguished barrister who moves in the first circles. You would be a simpleton indeed if you allowed your prejudice to slight a man of such great consequence."
"But his pride, his abominable pride," Jane would not do her friend the courtesy of admitting truth in her words, however much her good sense made Darcy's reasoning absolutely sound. "Did you not hear his comments after my astronomical lecture? A man who cannot admit the legitimacy of female intelligence is hardly a man I would wish to partner!"
"It is only a dance," Darcy's amused voice lowered; the break-up of the current company on the floor heralded the next dance's arrival. "Be civil, if only for a half-hour."
Her friend made no reply. As Mr. Loki approached to claim her hand, she raised her head and set her shoulders like a queen, hardly deigning to acknowledge the man who led her to the floor.
They went down the dance in silence, on each side—Jane fancied—a mutual dislike placing an embargo on every possible topic. It was with great surprise therefore that as they began their journey back up the set, her partner remarked:
"I believe I owe you an apology, Miss Foster."
"I cannot imagine what you mean. Surely you do not think that your remarks at my salon were such as to offend or discomfit me?"
Damn those piercing eyes of his! Under his noble brow, they regarded her with the intensity of a hawk before the strike. He was no more fooled by her than she was by herself.
"I was unforgivably rude, to make such remarks within your hearing."
"Such remarks then would have been acceptable had I not heard them?"
Schooled in mastering her expressions, Jane was calm without while raging within at this man's faulty notion of an apology. Did she not know that half London society thought her odd? Did she not know that the rest only tolerated her for the respect owed to her father, a distinguished professor of sciences at Cambridge?
"You might have spared this imagined concession to my wounded feelings," it was a struggle to take his hand even in the brief passes they made in the dance. "In a way, I respect your candor in ridiculing me to my face. I hardly need more false friends. For my father's sake I have far too many as it is."
He had the grace to look properly abashed. Still he did not recoil or relent.
"What I regret is the weakness that prompted my speaking at all. You know—" he paused, a sudden blush of embarrassment tinting his marble features with a living flush, "This is no simple thing to say. I would much rather have written."
"Careful, sir," she spoke coldly, "We are neither friends nor relations."
"Of course," his color deepened. "Very well."
They were closest to the musicians now; the cheerful violins and clapping of the assembly made it easy to speak without being overheard.
"I am sure the news of my father's will has been spread abroad by now. You know my elder brother is to inherit everything. As a younger son—moreover, as a man who must make his fortune through the goodwill and respect of others—I too often find myself flattering those I do not respect."
Jane made no reply. However, a powerful curiosity possessed her, moved her to nod and encourage his recital. What overwhelming force of regret must be motivating such a haughty man to humble himself so before her?
It was most gratifying.
"Such was the case on the day of your lecture," the next figure brought him close, too close. Jane distanced herself appropriately; she had never been blind to Mr. Loki's charms, and his new-found humility birthed an odd, powerful attraction for him in her breast.
The room suddenly felt far too warm.
"Lord Fandral and his buffoon of a friend, Mr. Volstagg," his lips drew back in a sneer as he named the two gentlemen. "They began the insults you heard me perpetuate. I ask no pardon for my offense; however others were speaking, I should have defended your work and talents."
"If you did so, you would have had to defend my honor before the whole city," her icy tone was softened greatly by this confession. Well she knew the likely truth of his tale; both men he mentioned had made sport of her before. "I can hardly blame you for avoiding such a challenge."
He shook his head, narrow lips twisting. "They are fools," he spat, startling the lady with whom he next joined hands in the line. "Even I, ignorant of the science of astronomy as I am, have the wit to see your research is expanding our understanding of the solar system boundlessly."
Now in place of anger, Jane had to struggle to keep approval from her face. As a cat preens when stroked, she too preened luxuriously at his praise.
What a clever man he was! How silly she had been not to see it before!
"Though you ask for no pardon, know that it is freely given," she pressed his hand when next they touched. "Next time I lecture, I promise to leave the two gentlemen in question off my list. Then you will be free from censure."
He smiled and Jane was taken aback by how the open expression of pleasure transformed his face.
"My thanks, Miss Foster."