Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 34

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Narcisse found him by the punch bowl. “The intermission is at ten. The next number’s the reel. Come with me.”

Bowie hung back bashfully, but he was in for it. Judalon was surrounded by young men, and she moved among them, laughing, protesting, exhilarated. The whole group advanced toward Narcisse and Bowie as if by design, but halted as Janos Parisot, portly and commanding, bowed to the girl.

“Oh, Monsieur Parisot!” she cried in mock despair. “What can a poor girl do? Seven of them! And all desiring to dance at once! If there were only seven of me——”

“Sevenfold, mademoiselle, you could not be more charming.” Parisot obviously plumed himself on the compliment.

“Thank you, monsieur.” She dropped her eyes.

He cleared his throat complacently. “Perhaps I can relieve you of your dilemma. May I have the honor of this next dance?”

Judalon seemed startled. The man was old enough to be her grandfather. Her eyes encountered Bowie’s, and she smiled with relief.

“I regret, Monsieur Parisot, but I have promised this number already.”

Bowie felt himself pushed slightly by Narcisse. He bent over the small hand she extended. Then he was walking with her out to the floor.

The Virginia reel was familiar, and for one of his stature Bowie was light and quick of foot. At first he danced by instinct, but within a few moments he was in the spirit of it and enjoying himself. Judalon held out her hands to him and he swung her. Long after he had released her, his fingers retained the memory of her pressure on him. He felt very proud to be dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room, and correspondingly grateful to her for her condescension.

The girl smiled up at him, not displeased. His fine shoulders were set off well by the new coat, and the new pantaloons fit his narrow hips like his skin, revealing the long, powerful muscles of his thighs. His curly hair was newly trimmed, and his sideburns brought out the satisfyingly grim angle of his jaw. Furthermore, his six feet and two inches of height made every other man in the room seem almost insignificant.

Little pots of incense sent tiny wavers of fragrance through the room. About the dance floor, heads leaned together to whisper behind fans. A dream to Bowie: a dream too quickly ended.

The intermission was the time for refreshment, conversation, and flirtation. Ordinarily Judalon would have held court for a dozen men, but tonight she had a different fancy. She tucked her hand into the crook of Bowie’s arm.

“Let’s go out into the patio. I find it close in here,” she said.

Young men bowed as they passed. She flicked one with her fan, nodded gaily to another, spoke a smiling word with one or two, but never halted her progress. Bowie saw disappointment, incredulity, jealousy on their faces. But she appeared to see none of these things. Here and there couples strolled in the courtyard, looking at flowers, conversing in subdued voices.

“Here’s a seat by the fountain,” Judalon said.

Tongue-tied, Bowie took his place beside her on the stone garden bench. The moon cast their shadows before them.