She steeled herself against any reaction. “Papa, I needed a breath of fresh air.”
He leaned in carefully, near enough that she could feel his breath, but not so close as to make anyone suspicious. “You do not need a dose of fresh air alone,” he countered.
The company could not hear the acidity of his tone, but he stood next to her, rigid, like the stick he occasionally liked to use to discipline her.
“You are right,” she said. “It was a mistake on my part.”
“My daughter does not make mistakes,” he corrected coldly as the dancers whirled past them.
She cleared her throat. “No, of course not. I—”
“Quiet,” he said, his disdain for even such a small sign of weakness apparent. “I do not wish to hear another excuse. Only know you will not behave thus again.”
She stared ahead, reminding herself to appear distant, unaffected by him or the ball. “Of course, Papa.”
“I am glad to know that you have the good sense to listen still. Did you encounter anyone?”
She kept her eyes on the ever-changing silk gowns that passed her. “No, Papa.”
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Slowly, he reached forward and took her arm in his white-gloved hand.
Easily, most might have considered it a paternal gesture, the way he held her, but she felt his nails digging through the glove of her arm.
No one else would know.
The earl had mastered the appearance of gentleness and the use of force at the same time.
“Are you lying to me?” he asked quietly, his tone unreadable. “You are not some foolish little chit meeting a lover, are you? I will not hear your name in the gossip sheets.”
“No, Papa. I am not,” she stated, her tone modulated.
What he could not know was that she had mastered the art of lying years ago. Such cruelty on his part had made her very good at masking her own intentions, of hiding her own reality. It was the only way to survive in the presence of a man like him.
She was good at feeling something different than what her face suggested that she felt. It was a trait that she had learned over the years and perfected. Oh, yes, she was perfect at many things, and fooling him was one of them.
Of course, she couldn’t fool him all of the time. She wasn’t quite that goodyet, but she knew that if she had to, the day would come.
For now, for survival, she smiled up at him. “Papa,” she said. “You needn’t fear.”
He gave a tight nod. “As long as you are behaving in a way which compliments the Earl of Greystone. I’ve never had to spend so much time on a young lady in my life,” he drawled, irritated. “If I could have, I would’ve shipped you off and allowed my aunt to look after you, to put you through your first season, but I do not trust anyone to make certain that you are given to the right man.”
She said nothing. What was there to say? She was chattels… waiting to make the transference from one hand to the next, with little say. But she had to act. She had to have some choice. Surely, she could maneuver her father into approving of her choice?
The truth was her father hated the banality of debutants, but he delighted in controlling her.
He had made it clear before that he trusted no one but himself with her future… which to him was ultimatelyhisfuture.
Most young ladies were chaperoned by a female relative during their first season, but not with her father. Her father was determined that no one should have control of her but him. Not if she was to achieve the sort of connection he expected.
No, her father would not allow a single misstep, and she had nearly just stepped out of line.
She knew it.
An image of Tom Courtney, concerned, determined, filled her head.
She shoved it away.
No one would dare to anger her father in an attempt to ruin her. She was too great a prize. She was veritably untouchable. Surely, her father had ensured that?