Kit Black by Monica Danetiu-Pana Page A

tight ball gown.
    â€œOh, how rude of me. Kit, forgive me,” Jean said with his usual aplomb. “Captain Armand, I have the pleasure of presenting Miss Kaitlin Black.”
    â€œHow do you do,” I managed, giving him a rather graceless curtsy. I raised my eyes to his.
    He gave me a smile that did not reach his eyes, just as forced as mine. “Miss Black,” he murmured, bowing over my gloved hand. He raised my hand to his lips, shocking me.
    I yanked it back far too quickly. It burned from the heat of his lips, even through the cloth.
    Just then, a beautiful, slender woman joined us. “ Mon coeur . Your father and stepmother are looking for you. I think they are afraid that they will turn around and you will have climbed onto one of your horrible boats, never to be seen again.” She raised up on her dainty toes to kiss him.
    She had such a sweet smile, his Sandrine. If I had thought before that I could hate her, I knew then that I was wrong. I did envy her luck. Her smile was agreeable, her laugh engaging, her manner flawless and friendly. She was adorable. Her exotically dark hair was as shiny and smooth as a raven’s wing, her eyes the color of jet. Her features were as fine as those of a classical painting, her skin like honeyed silk. She was a treasure to behold, just as he was. They made a beautiful set.
    I felt like a tall, gawky goose in my quickly made blue satin beside her in pearl encrusted lace. My hand seemed to swallow her tiny hand, and yet it made little difference to her. She was kindness itself.
    I wanted to hate her. I wanted to hate them both. But my heart was moved by her joyousness in just being close to him. She loved him. She couldn’t keep her hands, or her eyes off him. And they shared a child. A son. How I wished that I were her.
    I wished that I could dance, too. Poor Jean. His toes would be black and blue, but he was very nice about it. Roger had tried to show me the day before, but said that I danced like a bull in a china barrel.
    Armand did not ask me to dance. I was afraid he might, and then I was sad that he did not. But I was relieved that he did not, because I would have not been able to think or breathe or speak if he touched me.
    I managed to escape the room after supper, which was served at midnight, a most ungodly hour to be stuffing one’s face with delicacies. No wonder half the ton complains of dyspepsia. I was exhausted and in pain, my ribs pressing into my lungs, my feet hurting in the soft soles shoes. I was starting to sweat under my arms, my face as purple as the backside of a Madagascar baboon.
    On the pretense of powdering my nose, I escaped from Jean, who had joined the other men in the games room for cards and brandy. I made my way out of the ballroom through a pair of French doors that led out to the garden. I was breathing far easier as I walked quickly through the paths looking for a place where I might sit and be alone. I had considered asking Jean to call for the carriage to take me back, but I did not want to spoil his obvious pleasure in being with polite company.
    Why hadn’t I pressed him for details before I came? I had no idea that the Marquis was Armand’s father. It seemed too cruel that fate would throw us together now. I was just considering myself happy. I was forgetting him.
    I found an open stone house surrounded by ornamental yews and statuary in the midst of the gardens. I perceived it to be some sort of gardening ode to the Temple of Aphrodite in perfect miniature. I had seen pictures of the temples of Greece in Roger’s books. Jean had said we could sail there soon. It was pretty, the walls lined with stone benches. I sank down in relief, unlacing my slippers and tugging my bodice into a more comfortable position. I dug my bare toes into the grass floor and sighed.
    My, God, he was wealthy. And all this would be his someday. I wondered if he cared. If he even thought about his good fortune. How