Free Dancing the Maypole by Cari Hislop

Monsieur
de Bourbon pursed his lips in irritation as he ogled Peter and
silently urged the rejected suitor by nodding his head in the
direction of Isabel.
    “Mademoiselle,
I’d b-b-be honoured if you’d marry me.”
    “Would you?”
Isabel’s lips quivered as her eyes shimmered with tears. “You’ve
made your feelings for me quite clear Mr Smirke allow me the same
courtesy.” Peter choked on his breath as he was slapped with force.
“That is for looking at me like a besotted lover when you had a
wife.” He’d opened his mouth to beg her forgiveness when he was
struck him again making him bite his tongue. He winced as he tasted
blood. “That was for treating my person with contempt.” Mesmerised
by angry brown eyes, he was wishing he could remember seeing them
smile when a third slap brought his tangled emotions to the
surface. Shame for not loving his boring wife. Horror that he’d
insulted a woman, a guest in his home. Frustration that he’d ruined
the chance to marry the woman of his dreams; a woman with kisses so
sweet they made his teeth ache. Impotent rage that his throbbing
tongue refused to form the words that might convince the woman he
wasn’t a monster; he was a fool with a broken heart. “That was for
your dead wife. I’ve never met you. I’ve never kissed you. This
conversation never happened. I shall treat you with the polite
respect due a stranger. Court your little blonde syllabub; make her
your wife and eat your poisonous just deserts. You deserve each
other.”
    “Mademoiselle…”
    “I hate you!”
Sobbing, she ran past her father calling for her mother.
    Monsieur pursed
his lips and sighed in exasperation. “Amour…c’est un sport cruel!
Who iz thiz syllabub?”
    Peter’s aim was
to escape somewhere private to nurse his wounds. “There is no
sylla-b-bub! Excuse me, I wish to retire to my room.”
    The older man
scowled in disbelief, “Where is your blood Français? Run after her!
Tell to her that without her you will die. Weep on her. Tell her
she haunts your dreams…Ah; you have the face rouge. Tell ma petite
fille you make love to her in your sleep. She will melt; non?”
    “A man does not
discuss his d-d-dreams with a woman who is not his wife.”
    “Pah! You do
not know how to make love to a femme Français. You are too polite,
too Anglais. Ma petite fille, she wants a big man pas le coq
timide. Being the big chicken will not win her heart.”
    “I wish to
retire to my room.”
    “Little-man
says you are fou, that you talk to people invisible. Talk to the
ghosts of the mind when you are old. Maintenant talk, talk, talk to
Isabel! Acte comme un homme Français! Stretch like a dog at the
feet of ma petite fille and uncover your soul.”
    “I’m an
Englishman. We leave our souls c-covered.”
    “Oui. That is
why ma petite fille iz crying for her Maman when vraiment, she
wants to be in your arms. Aller! Talk to her!”
    Peter filled
his lungs with air and shouted back, “I c-c-can’t t-t-talk!”
    The Frenchman
shook his head in disgust. “Ma petite fille, she will not marry
you. You are too big, trop stupide to love une femme Français. Quel
dommage!”

Chapter 8
    It took Lord
Adderbury three eternal days to reach Bath. With every passing
mile, his mind whirled with images of the most painful dinner he’d
ever forced himself to swallow. Seated across from Isabel, her eyes
puffy and red from tears, the hand mark on his left cheek had
throbbed as she’d politely addressed him as a stranger. Her
affected disinterest had hurt more than his cheek or his blistered
hand. Every time he stopped at an inn he’d hide in a corner with
his drink and take the rescued fan from his coat pocket. Staring at
the singed painted chicken skin he willed it to unlock the memory
of that forgotten dance, but his mind tortured him with the
sweetness of her kisses. Remembering her hands in his hair made him
throb in agony; he was a big stupid cow and he’d spend the rest of
his life in a