Prada and Prejudice

Chapter 17

I chew on my lips as I scan the crowd. There's quite a mix of people here: men and women, boys and girls (though none of them appear to be younger than fourteen). Judging by their clothing alone, some are quite wealthy, and others... not so much. And yet none of them seem to care, because they're laughing and dancing and smiling, and I want so badly to be a part of that.

Why can't I? Why do I always do this? My skin tingles with the desire to step outside myself, to walk onto the floor and push away old Callie.

But I don't know how. I'll just do something classic like trip on my dress or bump into everyone else. I'm too freaked about the prospect to force myself onto the floor.

There's a crowd of people near the edge of the dance floor, and I squint to see what they're all looking at. And then someone pushes through the group, and to my utter shock I realize it's Alex they all want. They stare longingly after him as he tries to extract himself from the mix.

And they're all girls. Is he supposed to be considered a major catch or something?

They must not know what a jerk he really is. They must have no idea the kinds of secrets he keeps locked away. If they knew the things I know, they'd stay far, far away from him.

One of them tugs at his sleeve and says something, and he glances out toward the floor. Did she just ask him to dance?

They keep talking for a minute, and I have a perfect view of his profile. Of his dark hair and bright brooding eyes, of his full lips and strong jaw, of his broad shoulders and that ridiculous neckcloth he has tied in a thousand knots around his throat. He walks away from the girl, but he looks more like he's strutting.

I snicker to myself. He looks like a cat on the prowl, or maybe a peacock. Actually, a peacock isn't a bad analogy, considering how conceited and proud he is.

And that's when the song transitions and the crowd dissipates as new dancers swarm the floor. Before I can say a word, Emily hands me her glass and dashes off to find her... boyfriend? I guess he's just her crush. They probably don't even have boyfriends in this century.

I stand on the edge of the floor, suddenly filled with deja vu. Why is this like every dance I've ever been to? Not that I have a long history or anything. I went to the 8th grade graduation dance though. And I did try to go to homecoming stag with Katie, but we only stayed twenty minutes. It turned out she was wrong about a lot of people going without dates, and we stood out like a couple of losers. We'd gone home and rented movies and pretended we hadn't wanted to be there anyway.

I glance around, hyperaware of every movement, knowing I look like a total dork. There are some chairs near the edge of the room, practically disappearing into some velvet curtains, so I scurry to them. Once sitting, I lean back. I'm not quite covered but I feel a little less obtrusive, like maybe no one will even notice I'm here.

I play with the fingers on my gloves and try to pretend I'm not being a complete wallflower.

I take a deep, calming breath. This is 1815. I am Rebecca. And everyone loves Rebecca,with her fun piano duets and her tales of America.

From my vantage point I've got a pretty good view of the scene. I can figure out a strategy for the next dance if I watch carefully. A woman seems to be in charge and is deciding exactly how the dance will work. Then the next person imitates her steps. Maybe she is Mrs. Pommeroy. Or Lady Pommeroy. Whatever. I study the dance for ten full minutes, trying to memorize what they're doing. It's actually pretty repetitive. A twirl here, a patty-cake there, and then down the line they go. I can probably pull it off. If someone asks me to dance, that is.

It just goes on and on and on. Fifteen minutes and they're still going. I find Emily in the sea of faces, and she's beaming from ear-to-ear. Trent is staring back at her as if she's the only girl in the room.

Yes, they are in love, even if they don't know it yet. I watch them for the next five minutes. Now and then wax drips from the chandeliers above, but they never take their eyes off of each other. They just laugh and dance and stare, and I bet the house could catch fire and they wouldn't even notice.

Emily is my friend, but watching her with that happy glow, I feel a familiar twinge. I've never had that. Not in the twenty-first century, not ever. Even Katie got a boyfriend a month after she moved away. But here I am, fifteen, never been kissed. Why? What's wrong with me? Am I that unworthy?

I stand up again, awkwardly because of the stiff corset, and nearly run into a girl maybe two years older than me. She has golden hair the color of straw, but it's twisted up in several plaits, so it makes her look over-Botoxed and angry.

"Oh, I'm, uh, I'm sorry. Excuse me."

But when I turn around, Alex is standing in front of me, an older guy trailing behind him. I've landed myself in the midst of two strangers and a guy I wish was a stranger. I so should have stayed hidden in the curtains.

"I see you've met Lady Everson," Alex says, gesturing to the blonde I'd crashed into. "Lady Everson, this is Miss Rebecca Vaughn, a guest at Harksbury."

I furrow my brow. "Why is she a lady and I'm a miss?"

His lips part. I've caught him totally off-guard. "Excuse me?"

"Why didn't you call me a lady?"

The girl stifles a giggle and steps closer, like she's about to watch a verbal smackdown and needs a better view. The stranger behind Alex also crowds closer. We have an audience, it seems.

"Because you are not a lady."

My jaw drops. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He quirks a brow and looks at me like I'm asking a stupid question. "A lady is a member of the peerage. Through marriage or lineage. You are neither."

Oh, this is rich, coming from a guy with an illegitimate kid.

"Where I come from, you're a lady because you act like one. Because you carry yourself with dignity and respect. You're not handed the title because of some fancy pedigree."

He arches a brow but says nothing.

Harrumph! The nerve! To say I'm not a lady! To introduce me to this girl as if she's better than me! When will he get over his elitist attitude and realize I'm just as good as everyone else even if I am a commoner?

The stranger clears his throat. "Excuse me, Your Grace," he says, bowing.

Alex bows back, though not as deeply. I wonder if that means the guy is of a lower rank. The idea is amusing, as Alex looks a great deal younger than him.

"Evening, Lord Brimmon," Alex says. His voice is cool and detached, just like last night at the dinner table.

"A nice evening for a dance, yes?" The guy is at least in his twenties, with a reddish tint to his brown hair. It's shorter than Alex's and a little bit unruly, but he has sparkling hazel eyes and a lean build, so he's still fairly cute. For, you know, an older guy.

"I suppose," Alex replies. His eyes flicker over to me and the girl. Does he think I'm going to start a cat fight when he's not looking? Please. He's the one I can't stand. I have nothing against this girl.

"Might you introduce me to these two lovely ladies?"

I smirk. The guy just called me a lady. I guess he was giving me the benefit of the doubt.

"Certainly. Might I introduce you to Lady Everson and Miss Rebecca Vaughn."

It's hard not to scowl at his continued snub.

"So lovely to meet you, Lady Everson, Miss Vaughn. Do you suppose you might like to dance?"

When I come up from my curtsy, I realize he's looking at me. I think I stop breathing for a second, because every muscle in my body freezes. I don't even blink. This guy wants to dance with me instead of this "lady." It's exactly what I wanted, and yet I'm paralyzed with terror. I don't know how. I've never even been asked to dance. Ever. Equal parts of anxiety and elation race through me.

"Wouldn't you prefer to dance with Lady Everson?" Alex says. And then before I know what he's doing, he's gently pushing Lady Everson forward and stepping in front of me, blocking my view of Brimmon. "She is a peer, after all."

I'm so stunned; the two disappear before I can even move.

When Alex turns to me, I come unleashed. "You are the rudest, most ridiculously arrogant person I have ever met in my life!" I say, and then spin on my heel and stomp away.

I've gone less than two yards before he stops me, a hand on my shoulder. "Miss Vaughn. As you are my guest, it is expected that the two of us shall dance."

I snort. "Oh, no, that's not necessary. I won't he your charity case. Wouldn't you rather—"

But he grabs my hand, places it on his elbow, and starts pulling me toward the floor just as the music transitions. Half the guests are looking at us. I can hardly rip my arm away and stomp on his foot without looking like a total freak. Not if I want a nice guy to ask me to dance later.

Besides, if Emily's right, I can't decline the first guy to ask me, or it will signal that I don't want to dance all night.

I hadn't imagined the first guy would be Alex.

Argh.

We take our places in the middle of the line up. He bows, and so I curtsy, and then follow his lead as we walk forward and back a few times, standing on our toes when we're close, and bowing down a bit as we step away. Everything I do is a half step behind him, but we're managing.

My anger still simmers below the surface. This is preposterous. He'll dance with me because he has to, but he thinks I'm not actually good enough for him — or for anyone with a title. I knew my first impression of him would prove correct. I knew he wasn't worth the ground I spit on! Talk about insulting!

He holds his hand up, palms facing me, so I push my hand against his and we sort of walk in a circle, our gloved hands palm to palm. Thank God we're wearing gloves; I don't want to touch this jerk.

We swap and circle the opposite way, our right hands touching this time.

The dance seems to be only a slight variation of the one I'd watched Emily do for the last half hour, and I manage to catch on by the third repetition. I actually feel kind of ridiculous because once we bow and spin and do-si-do, there's this part where we clap our hands together. And I haven't patty-caked for, like, ten years at least. But you know what they say — when in Rome. And I guess I am wearing a corset and all that, so I might as well go all the way. I'm just lucky I haven't tripped on my dress. It brushes the floor all around me, it's so long.

Does he seriously think I'm not good enough for Lord Brimmon? I might not be titled like half these people, but jeez, the guy's not asking me to marry him, he just wants to dance. I can't taint his reputation that quickly.

After about ten minutes I actually forget where I am — and who I'm dancing with — and start having fun. Alex and I manage to make our way to the end of the row of people, which is our cue to do this silly parade back to the end, where his arm is linked in mine and we kind of skip along. I'm actually smiling. I think it might be the first time since I arrived in this crazy world that I'm not worried about getting home or focused on the ridiculous, unbelievable nature of my predicament. I'm actually relaxed and having fun without stressing about what other people think of me. Truthfully, it's hard to remember feeling this unselfconscious in my own, real, twenty-first-century world. It feels nice. And free. I want it to last forever.

The dance is set up to impede conversation, so it's actually pretty easy to forget I'm dancing with Alex.

I'm breathing a little hard. My barely existent boobs are pushed up practically to my chin and my ribcage isn't exactly expanding, thanks to the corset, so it's a little hard to catch my breath.

When he breaks our silence, he's hesitant. "I did not mean to... insult you... earlier."

"Right," I say, in a way that makes it obvious I'm not buying it.

"Truly. I hadn't meant—"

"To treat me like I'm second class?" I don't want to have this conversation. I don't want to have any conversation.

We spin around and then part, and he has no chance to reply. I loop around another couple and then return to him. "Never mind. I don't need an answer. It's, you know, okay. Really. I'm, uh, it's fine." I'm rambling again and I sound bitter. Or offended. Which is the last thing I want because then he'll know his words actually bothered me, when I so don't care what he thinks of me.

"You think me pretentious," he says, when we come together again. It's spoken as a statement, not a question.

I look up at him, trying to see if he's angry. But no, he's just staring back, waiting for an answer. His face is neutral, but his brows are knotted slightly in concern, which makes it even harder to figure out what I'm supposed to say. Should I be honest?

"Of course. I have no idea why you'd want to dance with me. You could hardly dance with a woman of my standing," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. Too late, I realize I've said too much. I might hate him, but I can't be all-out rude to the guy I have to ride home with. The guy whose house I'm living in. "You know what? Never mind. Let's just dance. In silence," I say.

A moment later, the song is over, and I drop his hand.

He bows to me, and I curtsy, but I'm not looking at him.

He might be hot, but he's an even bigger jerk than I'd imagined.