The Sum Of All Kisses Part 14

"She said she needed some," Hugh said.

Sarah looked at him as if he'd sprouted tentacles.

"I remember things," he said simply.

"I'll get you cake," Frances decided, and walked off.

Hugh entertained himself by counting to see how long it would take for Lady Sarah to cut through the silence and speak to him after her sister departed. When he reached forty-three seconds (give or take a few; he didn't have a timepiece for a truly accurate measure) he realized that he was going to have to be the adult of the duo, and he said, "You like to dance."

She started, and when she turned to him, he realized instantly from her expression that while he had been measuring an awkward pause in the conversation, she had merely been sitting in companionable silence.

He found this strange. And perhaps even unsettling.

"I do," she said abruptly, still blinking with surprise. "The music is delightful. It really does make one stand up and- I beg your pardon." She flushed, the way everyone did when they said something that might possibly refer to his injured leg.

"I used to like to dance," he said, mostly to be contrary.

"I- ah-" She cleared her throat. "Ehrm."

"It's difficult now, of course."

Her eyes took on a vague expression of alarm, so he smiled placidly and took a sip of his wine.

"I thought you did not drink in the presence of the Smythe-Smiths," she said.

He took another sip-the wine was quite good, just as she'd promised the night before-and turned to her with every intention of responding with a dry jest, but when he saw her sitting there, her skin still pink and dewy from her recent exertions, something turned within him, and the little knot of anger he worked so hard to keep buried burst forth and began to bleed.

He was never going to dance again.

He was never going to ride a horse or climb a tree or stride purposefully across a room and sweep a lady off her feet. There were a thousand things he'd never do, and you'd think it would have been a man who'd reminded him of this-an able-bodied man who could hunt and box and do all those b.l.o.o.d.y things a man was meant to do, but no, it was her, Lady Sarah Pleinsworth, with her fine eyes and nimble feet, and every b.l.o.o.d.y smile she'd bestowed upon her dance partners that morning.

He didn't like her. He really didn't, but by G.o.d, he'd have sold a piece of his soul right then to dance with her.

"Lord Hugh?" Her voice was quiet, but it held a tiny trace of impatience, just enough to alert him that he'd been silent for too long.

He took another sip of his wine-more of a swig this time, really-and said, "My leg hurts." It didn't. Not much, anyway, but it might as well have done. His leg seemed to be the reason for everything in his life; surely a gla.s.s of wine was no exception.

"Oh." She s.h.i.+fted in her seat. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said, perhaps more brusquely than he'd intended. "It isn't your fault."

"I know that. But I can still be sorry that it pains you."

He must have given her a dubious look, because she drew back defensively and said, "I'm not inhuman."

He looked at her closely, and somehow his eyes dipped down the line of her neck to the delicate planes of her collarbone. He could see every breath, every tiny motion along her skin. He cleared his throat. She was most definitely human.

"Forgive me," he said stiffly. "I was of the opinion that you thought my suffering was no more than I deserve."

Her lips parted, and he could practically see his statement running through her mind. Her discomfort was palpable, until finally she said, "I may have felt that way, and I cannot imagine I will ever bring myself to think charitably of you, but I am trying to be a less . . ." She stopped, and her head moved awkwardly as she sought words. "I am trying to be a better person," she finally said. "I do not wish you pain."

His brows rose. This was not the Sarah Pleinsworth with whom he was familiar.

"But I don't like you," she suddenly blurted.

Ah. There she was. Hugh actually took some comfort in her rudeness. He was feeling unaccountably weary, and he did not have the energy to figure out this deeper, more nuanced Sarah Pleinsworth.

He might not like the overly dramatic young miss who made grand and loud p.r.o.nouncements, but right then . . . he preferred her.

Chapter Eight.

She really could see over the entire room from up here at the head table, Sarah thought. It gave one the opportunity to stare quite shamelessly (as one did at events such as these) at the bride. The happy bride, dressed in pale lavender silk and a radiant smile. One could, perhaps, shoot dagger eyes at that happy bride (with no intention, of course, that the happy bride actually see those dagger eyes). But it was, after all, Honoria's fault that Sarah was stuck up here, sitting next to Lord Hugh Prentice, who, after apparently having a lovely conversation with her younger sister, had turned unpleasant and surly.

"I do bring out the best in you, don't I?" Sarah muttered without looking at him.

"Did you say something?" he asked. He didn't look at her, either.

"No," she lied.

He s.h.i.+fted in his seat, and Sarah glanced down long enough to realize that he was adjusting the position of his leg. He seemed to be most comfortable with it stretched out before him; she'd noticed that the previous night at supper. But whereas that table had been laden with guests, this one was quite empty save for the two of them, and there was plenty of room to- "It doesn't hurt," he said, not turning even an inch in her direction.

"I beg your pardon?" she said, since she had not been looking at his leg. In fact, after she had noticed that he was holding it quite straight, she had been quite purposefully looking at at least six other things.

"The leg," Hugh said. "It doesn't hurt right now."

"Oh." It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that she had not inquired about his leg, but even she knew when good manners called for restraint. "The wine, I imagine," she finally said. He hadn't had much, but if he said that it helped with the pain, who was she to doubt him?

"It is difficult to bend," he said. And then he did look at her, full straight and green. "In case you were wondering."

"Of course not," she said quickly.

"Liar," he said softly.

Sarah gasped. Of course she had been lying, but it had been a polite lie. Whereas his calling her out on it had been most a.s.suredly not polite.

"If you want to know about it," Hugh said, cutting off a small bite of cake with the side of his fork, "just ask."

"Very well," Sarah said sharply, "are you missing any great big chunks of flesh?"

He choked on his cake. This gave her great satisfaction.

"Yes," he said.

"Of what size?"

He looked like he might smile again, which had not been her intention. He glanced down at his leg. "I'd say about two cubic inches."

She gritted her teeth. What sort of person answered in cubic inches?

"About the size of a very small orange," he added. Condescendingly. "Or a somewhat ma.s.sive strawberry."

"I know what a cubic inch is."

"Of course you do."

And the bizarre thing was, he didn't sound the least bit condescending when he said that.

"Did you injure your knee?" she asked, because drat it all, now she was curious. "Is that why you cannot bend it?"

"I can bend it," he replied, "just not very well. And no, there was no injury to the knee."

Sarah waited several seconds, then said, primarily between her teeth, "Why, then, can't you bend it?"

"The muscle," he said, letting one of his shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "I suspect it doesn't stretch the way it ought, given that it's missing two cubic inches of, what did you call it?" His voice grew unpleasantly droll. "Ah yes, a chunk of flesh."

"You told me to ask," she ground out.

"So I did."

Sarah felt her mouth tighten. Was he trying to make her feel like a heel? If there were any official society rules for how a gentlewoman was meant to behave with a partially crippled man, they had not been taught to her. She was fairly certain, however, that she was supposed to pretend that she did not notice his infirmity.

Unless he required a.s.sistance. In which case she was supposed to notice his limp, because it would be unforgivably insensitive to stand aside and watch him flounder. But either way, she probably wasn't supposed to ask questions.

Such as why he couldn't bend his leg.

But still. Wasn't it his duty as a gentleman not to make her feel awful about it when she flubbed?

Honoria owed her one for this. Honoria probably owed her three.

Three of what, she wasn't sure, but something large. Something very large.

They sat there for another minute or so, then Hugh said, "I don't think your sister is coming back with cake." He motioned very slightly with his head. Frances was waltzing with Daniel. The expression on her face was one of utter delight.

"He has always been her favorite cousin," Sarah remarked. She still wasn't really looking at Hugh, but she sort of felt him nod in agreement.

"He has an easy way with people," Hugh said.

"It is a talent."

"Indeed." He took a sip of his wine. "One that you possess as well, I understand."

"Not with everyone."

He smiled mockingly. "You refer to me, I presume."

It was on the tip of her tongue to say, Of course not, but he was too intelligent for that. Instead she sat in stony silence, feeling very much like a fool. A rude fool.

He chuckled. "You should not chastise yourself for your failure. I am a challenge for even the most affable of people."

She turned, staring at his face with utter confusion. And disbelief. What sort of man said such a thing? "You seem to get on well with Daniel," she finally replied.

One of his brows rose, almost like a dare. "And yet," he said, leaning slightly toward her, "I shot him."

"To be fair, you were dueling."

He almost smiled. "Are you defending me?"

"No." Was she? No, she was simply making conversation. Which, according to him, she was supposed to be good at. "Tell me," she said, "did you mean to hit him?"

He froze, and for a moment Sarah thought she'd gone too far. When he spoke, it was with quiet amazement. "You are the first person ever to ask me that."

"That can't be possible." Because really, didn't everything hinge on that one detail?

"I don't believe I realized it until this moment, but no, no one has ever thought to ask if I meant to shoot him."

Sarah held her tongue for a few seconds. But only just. "Well, did you?"

"Mean to shoot him? No. Of course not."

"You should tell him that."

"He knows."

"But-"

"I said that no one had asked me," he cut in. "I did not say that I had never offered the information myself."

"I expect his shot was accidental as well."

"We were neither of us in our right minds that morning," he said, his tone utterly devoid of inflection.

She nodded. She didn't know why; she wasn't really agreeing to anything. But it felt as if she should respond. It felt as if he deserved a response.

"Nevertheless," Lord Hugh said, staring straight ahead, "I was the one to call for the duel, and I was the one who shot first."

She looked down at the table. She did not know what to say.

He spoke again, quietly, but with unmistakable conviction. "I have never blamed your cousin for my injury."

And then, before she could even think about how to respond, Lord Hugh stood so abruptly that his injured leg b.u.mped into the table, splas.h.i.+ng a bit of wine out of someone's forgotten gla.s.s. When Sarah looked up, she saw him wince.

"Are you all right?" she asked carefully.