Dancing the Maypole by Cari Hislop Page A

you,” he said. “That’s what you wanted.”
    “What I want Mr
Smirke, is to see you disappear…forever!”
    The black eyes
were still determined. “Your father is insisting that I marry
you.”
    “I’m thirty-six
with eighty thousand pounds at my disposal. I obey my father out of
love and respect. I don’t have to oblige him. Marry one of your
laundry maids and treat her like a bag of dirty linen; it means
nothing to me.”
    “It was one of
the worst d-d-days of my life. I was hurting!”
    Isabel grabbed
her silver vinaigrette and pressed the intricate grill to her nose
until the unpleasant odour burned her nostrils. She didn’t want to
know the real Pierre could hurt. “You’re a hateful man, and I never
want to see you…again.” The last word stuck in her throat.
    “I’m sorry.”
The voice was closer; he’d come around to her side of the bed.
    “Sorry for what
Mr Smirke, losing the chance to acquire eighty-thousand
pounds?”
    “I’m sorry I
can’t say I love you.”
    She flinched in
pain, “I’m sorry, Mr Smirke that you didn’t die on your way here. I
don’t need your pity. There’s a vast army of short impoverished men
who’ll do anything to win the favour of an ugly aging maypole with
eighty thousand pounds in her purse.”
    “You’re not
ugly. You’re a very pretty woman…”
    “Every wealthy
spinster has a certain beauty.”
    “I’m not
b-blinded by your money. Do you need my word as a gentleman?”
    Isabel snorted
in contempt. “What is your word worth, a free insult? Your dead
wife was a short blond. Do you expect me to believe you’ve now
taken a fancy to tall brunettes?”
    He squirmed as
if reminded of an embarrassing sin. “It’s true I’ve always
p-p-prefer short blondes, but…”
    “But you’ll
wisely make an exception for the daughter of a pistol-waving
Frenchman? Poor you,” she sneered. “Condemned to forsake your
search for another petite blonde to keep in your pocket. You must
not have had the dishonour of meeting the detestable Miss Helene
Carteret.”
    “Dishonour?
Miss Carteret is a sweet creature!”
    Isabel turned
to look up at him in disbelief. “Sweet? Miss Carteret?” Her bark of
cynical laughter made him scowl in irritation. “And if you dance
around me anticlockwise three times your dearest wish will come
true. She’s as sweet as foxglove dipped in sugar water. Since
you’re too dim to know a good egg from a bad one take my advice and
avoid the slut. If you knew what your sweet creature did to my
little brother…”
    “I don’t wish
to discuss Miss Helene Carteret or anyone else who isn’t present to
defend themselves. It’s morally insup-p-portable!”
    “Oh is it?”
Shaking with rage Isabel jumped up and grabbed his coat collar with
both hands. “Three years ago Louis received an invitation to a
dinner party. Having been told the diminutive Miss Rose would be
attending he went against his better judgement. Miss Carteret’s
brutish brothers knew their sister was too tall to win Louis with
her charms. With her help, they concocted a trap.”
    “I don’t want
to hear another word. I hate gossip!”
    “After dinner
was cleared, her brothers tied Louis by the wrists and ankles to
the table and left Miss Carteret and her harpy friends to find a
private birthmark; anything they could use to frame Louis for
rape.”
    Peter Smirke’s
eyes were wide with outrage. “That is a disgusting accusation.”
    “Accusation?
Your sweet creature cut off my brother’s clothes and abused him in
front of an audience of laughing sluts. Louis returned home wearing
only his shirtsleeves and breeches. When he tried to climb out of
the carriage, he collapsed on the ground. Papa had to carry him
into the house. Mamma sent for the doctor who found visible teeth
marks on Louis’ most tender flesh. Six weeks later the brazen slut
had the nerve to call and accuse Louis of forcing himself on her.
She claimed she was carrying his child and hinted that she’d