“The inevitable condescension. As predictable as the interval. Tell me, Mr Deverell,” her eyes flicked to his mouth, “do you believe yourself superior in every pursuit merely by virtue of your cock?”
“I believe,” he said, straightening in his seat at the word, “that I possess the advantage of training and experience. I was taught to ride, to fence, to shoot, all before I could properly manage a cravat. I was trained, in short, to kill a man at twenty paces.” He glanced at her sidelong. It was true, of course, though he knew he was provoking her. “You, I imagine, were instructed to pour tea without spilling and waltz without wilting.”
“Oh, indeed. And yet,” she returned, “I seem to recall that the last duel you attended ended with your best friend bleeding in the grass.”
“You shot him, Miss Tolliver.”
“Precisely.”
Their eyes held a moment too long. Miss Tolliver’s lips parted slightly, and Jasper—who had already tasted them twice, and thought of little else since—found his attention straying in a most ungovernable direction.
Behind them, Langley gave a pointed cough.
Jasper blinked and looked away.
Langley rose and tugged on his gloves. “If I am not returned within ten minutes, assume I have flung myself from the balcony.”
“Shall I send for a net?” Miss Tolliver asked sweetly.
Theo gave her a look of reproach. “Your sister is now responsible for your continued existence. Do try not to duel the cast, provoke a diplomat, or abscond with a bottle of claret.”
“I shall endeavour,” Miss Tolliver said demurely, “to behave with uncharacteristic restraint.”
Langley gave a sound halfway between a sigh and a warning, and disappeared behind the curtain.
Jasper let out a breath.
By God, Miss Tolliver was a wild thing.
She wielded charm the way a man might wield a blade. Had she been born a man, Jasper suspected they would have been excellent friends: riding recklessly, gambling irresponsibly, drinking port until dawn. He suspected, too, he would have still desired her, regardless of her sex.
But Miss Tolliver was not a man. She could not ride alone, drink port in public, or fire a pistol without scandal, and yet somehow she gave the impression of having done all these things already—and would again, if only given the chance.
“I do grow rather tired,” Miss Tolliver murmured then, as though following the very shape of his thoughts, “of being told what I cannot do.”
Jasper turned towards her once more, but she was not watching him. Her eyes were distant, fixed somewhere past the edge of the box.
“Particularly,” she continued, softer now, “by gentlemen who have never once thought to ask what Imight.”
Jasper regarded her for a long moment. “You surprise me, Miss Tolliver.”
She glanced at him, arching one brow.
“I had supposed you quite accustomed to bending rules when it suits you.”
“Oh, I am,” she said lightly. “But it is one thing to bend a rule. It is quite another to be told repeatedly, inflexibly, and often condescendingly, that you are not even built for the game.”
“This is about Langley, I assume.”
“It is about every Langley,” she said. “Every man. No—everypersonwho guards the gate and declares who may pass.“ She took a small sip of lemonade and set the glass carefully upon the ledge before her. “You may smile, Mr Deverell, but do you have any notion of how many things I have been cautioned against today alone?”
“I imagine it is a lengthy list.”
“Indeed. I was advised not to raise my voice, lest I appear ungovernable. Not to laugh too heartily, as it is unladylike. Not to speak too plainly. Not to contradict a gentleman, even when he is manifestly wrong. I must not walk unescorted, or eat more than one syllabub, or touch the duke’s dog, or express a preference for one horse over another. And now, of course, I must not duel the cast nor abscond with the wine.”
“The claret, I believe, was named in particular.”
“I am quite partial to claret.”
