A Debutante's Guide to Rebellion Read Online Free

apologize,” Ezekiel said. “When I get nervous, I tend to use nonstandard—” He paused. “I’m told I sound very strange.”
    â€œYou do,” Lord Welford assured him. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” he added pointedly.
    â€œRelax,” Lady Mildred said. “We were introduced weeks ago.”
    The introduction had been all that had passed between them, however, until the Strawberry Incident.
    â€œExcellent. Mr. Blackwood, my sister has not yet had the opportunity to dance this evening. Perhaps you two would like to . . . ?”
    They both stared at him, then at each other.
    â€œIf you . . .” Lady Mildred began.
    â€œOnly if you . . .” Ezekiel said. He despised the rules which prevented them from simply stating outright whether they were interested or not. He had more than once discovered himself dancing with a very sour young lady after inadvertently leaving her with no polite means of refusal. He had
tried
to explain to Sophie that he would not be hurt if they simply told him they didn’t like him—after all, he was well aware of his difficult personality, and anyway, with the variety of humanity available to the world, what were the odds that any two random people at any one time would prove to enjoy one another’s company?
    Sophie had suggested that he pick his battles.
    â€œExcellent!” Lord Welford declared. “Off you go, then.”
    The decision had been made for him.
    â€œI should warn you,” Lady Mildred said as they joined the throng, “I am terrible at dancing.”
    â€œI’m afraid my skills are merely adequate,” Ezekiel said with regret.
    â€œThen you won’t show me up too badly.” Lady Mildred smiled. She had the most dazzling smile, he thought, and
dazzling
was not a word he could recall using prior to this moment. It was imprecise and metaphorical, both things he normally had little patience for. Light could dazzle. A smile should not. And yet here he was, tripping over his feet as if dazed, putting his claims of adequate skill to a swift and unceremonious death.
    The dance took them apart, and for a moment Ezekiel regained his equilibrium. Then he nearly knocked into Mildred as they reunited. Her curls bounced, and she stumbled back, barely catching herself before she toppled into another couple.
    â€œYou see?” she said. “I am possibly the worst dancer that was ever born.”
    â€œThat would be extremely difficult to prove,” he said, meaning to be reassuring. She laughed. He hadn’t meant to make her laugh. Granted, people frequently laughed at him when he said things, though he could rarely determine the humor in the situation. But her laugh was entirely different. And it had banished the brief look of melancholy that had occupied her features. “In fact,” he continued, wanting her to laugh again, “proving that you were the worst dancer
ever
born would be impossible. Written records hardly encompass the whole of history or span the globe, and do not include a strict ranking of such skills.”
    â€œWhat about the worst dancer living, then?” she asked, and stepped on his foot.
    He managed not to wince. The dance floor was hot and crowded, full of swirling bodies. This level of crowdedness always made him anxious, and tonight was no exception. But the conversation helped. “That would be a simpler proposition,” he acknowledged. “Though still, I think, impossible. One could eliminate great swathes of the population altogether—anyone with a reputation for being a good dancer, or even a fair one, would presumably not be a threat to your title.”
    â€œMy title?”
    â€œOf Worst Dancer Living,” Ezekiel told her. “However, anyone whose prowess was not established would have to be tested. Group demonstrations could be arranged; in a lifetime, one might in fact