“Not everything, but most things.” Jane laughed softly.
“Perhaps I was simply making a remark on your skill.” Blake kept his voice light.
“Well, thank you.” Jane inclined her head towards him.
“It is my pleasure.” Blake spun her, catching her and then guiding her once more around the room.
“You are not bad yourself,” Jane said, somewhat breathlessly.
“Not bad? Such high praise, I hardly know what to do with myself,” he replied, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Fine, you are a very good dancer,” Jane said begrudgingly, but Blake was certain the corners of her lips quirked up as she said it.
“Thank you.” He had meant it to sound teasing, but the words came out earnest.
“Do not let it go to your head,” Jane teased.
“I shall try not to.” Blake shrugged. “And if it does, I am sure you will be only too happy to put me in my place.”
“Probably. It is good for you.” Jane nodded.
“Do you really think that?”
“I would rather someone be truthful with me than believe I was skilled at something I was not,” Jane explained
“And do you think you are truthful with me?” Blake asked.
As he stared into her brown eyes, he found that he genuinely wanted to know the answer.
Do you tell me the truth, Miss Pembleton? Do you even know what is truthful?
“Yes, I do.” There was no mirth or teasing in her gaze, no hostility, just honesty.
The sight surprised him.
More to recover from the surprise than anything else, Blake said, “But is it not the polite thing to do, to flatter someone’s sensibilities? To protect their feelings?”
“It may be the polite thing to do, but that does not make it the right thing to do. Besides, you are the one who keeps telling me that politeness is overrated,” Jane pointed out.
“I suppose I do, and my, what a monster my idle words seem to have created!” he teased, winking at her.
“You are a bad influence.” Jane rolled her eyes.
“I am an influence, though I would not necessarily say I am a bad one,” Blake replied.
“I am sure you would not, though I imagine my mother and Society would feel differently.” Jane shuddered slightly, and Blake wondered if Society was particularly harsh with her.
To his surprise, he felt an odd surge of protectiveness rise within him. Softly, he asked her, “Does it matter what anyone else feels? It is your life and yours alone.”
“That is easy enough for you to say—you do not care what anyone else thinks of you,” Jane quipped, but Blake heard something brittle in her words.
I care what you think of me.
“No, I do not. But I cannot imagine you willingly living your life for another,” Blake murmured, his eyes finding hers once more.
“Do you imagine me often then?” Jane asked jokingly, oddly breathless.
“Would you like me to?” Blake twirled her once more, catching her and smiling. His heart raced.
