Free Sleeping Beauty by Judith Ivory Page A

of courting,” she said, then expelled a vocalized huff of dissent. “I’m finished with half-attentions and dark stolen moments, Dr. Stoker. I’m done with being someone’s unadmitted guilt. What I loved about my husband—the reason I married him—was that he loved me in the light of day, in front of everyone. I deserve that.”
    She kept her face turned, her expression hidden, though her voice contained an unhidable malaise. She said, “Do you know, I have been in London three months and only last night did I understand that people here think I’m dreadful.” She paused. “You think I’m vulgar. You think you can walk in here and buy me like a sporty new horse for your carriage.”
    “No, I—”
    “Yes,” she said. But added benevolently, “Though you’re young. You don’t understand. You are too innocent even to know how mean you are to stand here like this. Now good day, Dr. Stoker.”
    “I’m sorry—I just—”
    “It’s all right. You make me feel foolish.” She laughed. “Innocent myself.” She tilted her head sideways, looking up at him—letting him see her moodiness in all its glory for a moment. She laughed again, skeptically. “Which is saying something.” The door opened a crack, her hand resting on the knob. She’d let a thin beam of light into their sheltered conversation.
    “When will I see you again?” Don’t make me leave, James kept thinking. She was so delicate, yetbeautiful; formidable, yet wounded. He was amazed to discover a fragile piece to her. Amazed and fascinated.
    “I have things to do. I won’t be in London again till Michaelmas—”
    “Perfect. There is a university break then. I could come to London—”
    “But I am only here a day before I leave for France again, where I’ll live till June. Then I always spend the summer in Italy.”
    James didn’t know what to say. She was telling him that she wouldn’t alight long enough for him to catch up with her.
    She offered a wide, bright smile—that gregarious display of goodwill she could call up in an instant that could so completely, and dishonestly, mask the distress she’d let him see just moments before. “So,” she said. “If we meet again, we’ll be friends, all right?”
    It was a boundary, not an invitation.
    James felt a jolt of chagrin—even as he knew she behaved somehow from motives of self-interest, self-preservation.
    Her charm and cordiality were more impediments than the niceties they pretended to be, ways to keep others out. Particularly him at the moment. Coming up against them was like trying to find a way through a thicket of politeness, a bramble of good cheer.
    Fine. Since he understood what was happening here so well, there was no reason for a mature man to take offense. Not a mature man with mature attitudes—which was what she adored, after all, and what he was without a doubt. He was absolutely inthe same league as all her rumored lovers—as good as any defunct prince or effete Napoleon. Or fat old Prince Bertie, for that matter, who laughed too hard and ogled actresses. Or the Bishop of Swansbridge, for godssake. Nigel Athers. His Grace the Bishop. Now this astounded James. Nigel. The idea of her and Nigel nose to nose was roughly as appealing as Nigel trying on James’s trousers or taking his new carriage out for a spin.
    And another burr, another thorn: if she had had a full-fledged affair with Athers, why wouldn’t she favor James with more than ten minutes’ of her time and a cup of tea? Why not? What was wrong with him? Why not him ?
    But no was no . And being mature, James would just dust off his pride and leave.
    In a minute.
    He put his hand up, meaning to stop the opening of the door—a man wanting a halt, time out, a moment to think about maturity and wanting a woman just because his rival appeared to have had her. The notion bore consideration. It was something a man should understand.
    From here, the rest just happened. He pushed his hand out