why

about most everything.
Tiana studied Houston for a bit. He was swirling everywhere, passing from one dancing partner to another, and obviously enjoying himself immensely.
"There's no place for me here," she said, even more softly. "I want to go home."
Driscol's mind went back. "Then why did you ask me if I could teach you to dance?"
Her eyes came to him. Still with that same look in them he couldn't quite fathom. "I'm not a white girl, Patrick Driscol. What you call 'romance' is a silly business to me. I fancied Sam Houston for a time, because he's a man to fancy. But if you think for one moment I'm going to pine away"—again, that majestic sniff—"I'd as soon waste my time pining over the moon, when there's a harvest to gather or a deer to be dressed. Not likely, ha!"
Finally, he understood. They were simply calm eyes, accepting. Not liking what they saw, perhaps, but accepting it nonetheless.
"Can you read?" he asked. Not thinking, until he blurted the words, that she might be offended by them.
Fortunately, she wasn't. "Oh, yes. Quite well, the Moravians tell me."
"Ah. But I imagine you prefer prose to poetry?"
The little smile widened. "For a man who insists he's no gentleman, Patrick Driscol, you dance more than any gentleman I can imagine."
Much more Tiana-like, the smile was now. "Why did I ask you if you could teach me to dance? The simplest reason of all. I wanted to hear what your answer would be. Not because I cared, one way or the other, about the dancing."
"Ah." It occurred to Driscol that if he said "ah" one more time, he'd never hear the end of it. Or, still worse, might—because he'd never hear that voice again at all.
Either prospect was suddenly unbearable. His mind cast wildly about, for an instant, until it found a safe and secure refuge in...
Patrick Driscol. Where it damn well properly belonged.
"No," he said gruffly, "I can't teach you to dance. But I do have a social obligation I've been remiss in carrying out. I was wondering, Miss Rogers, if you'd do me the pleasure of accompanying me?"
"I'd be delighted."
He extended his arm. Alas, the wrong one. He still hadn't quite adjusted. Probably because the bloody blasted thing still felt like it was there. It hurt enough, anyway.
She grinned at him. "I'd look like a proper fool, being