Page 2 of Brutal Serpent

Catherine

London balls were often comfortless and grim affairs, and tonight was no different. I felt the beginnings of a headache as I tried to fan myself. It was the middle of June, the dance floor was crowded and hot, the stomp of dancing feet throbbing in my head. I felt uncomfortably sticky and irritable, my thick curls plastered to the back of my neck.

But I tried to hold myself how Mama had taught me: head held high, neck kept long and elegant, hands arranged into a pleasing shape in front of my snow-white gown with the elegant ribbons.

The season was winding down in a few weeks and I still didn’t have an offer of marriage. Oh, I had met a few very pleasant shy gentlemen who made tentative overtures to call, but they had all turned out to be rather unfortunately situated, with no money whatsoever, and Papa told them that any future offers of marriage would be firmly declined.

Ihadto make a good match. But I couldn’t show that on my face.

My face had to look like I loved nothing more than this sweaty, boiling, sticky ball and all the noisy, jostling couples.

The humiliation of possibly having to come back for a second London season scalded at me, and I didn’t even know if we would have enough money for that.

Although Mama and Papa and my brother Millward tried to keep the truth from me, I knew that our financial needs were pressing. Our ancestral home of Wendover House, our shrinking lands, our entangled finances. They were all riding on me to find a good match. Someone who would feel honor-bound to help my father and brother pay their gambling debts and keep Wendover House from the creditors.

But such a paragon of all the virtues had not appeared and I wasn’t sure if he ever would.

Out of the ballroom window I saw the dirty waves of the Thames River in the distance. For one wild moment I wanted to throw off my bonnet and run, run as fast as I could and stow away on a boat, ride down the Thames until we reached the sea. Then I’d emerge and beg to stay on as the ship’s cook and we’d sail the world, far away from the gossip of the Ton and the endless insipid conversation at the balls.

But it was just a foolish dream. I didn’t even know how to boil water, let alone cook for a bunch of sailors.

I was talking to the gentle Mr. Smythe, a lawyer distantly connected with our family. He was of medium height, with sandy brown hair, and he seemed like a nice, boring man. However, I knew a match with him was impossible. Like any of the other shy men who had paid me even the slightest of attentions this season, he didn’t have enough money and he was not comfortably situated enough to pay off my family’s debts.

Mr. Smythe was just informing me of a new type of bookkeeping he was trying when I heard a throat clear behind me.

“Miss Catherine Wendover?” someone asked, and I whirled around, startled.

It was our host, Sir John Buckridge, and he waved a hand beside him, indicating a man standing there.

“Miss Wendover, Viscount St. Erth begs for the honor of being introduced and to have your hand in this next dance.”

I heard stifled gasps beside me.

I felt a heated flush of embarrassment spring to my face.

Was this some kind of a joke?

I’d never seen this man before in mylife, and I looked up at him in confusion.

Viscount St. Erth was very tall, with broad shoulders and powerful thighs. He was dressed in a fashionable superfine coat of soft yellow buttercup. His hair was that rare bright golden blonde shade, thick and lustrous and pulled back with a simple leather tie. His handsome face was tanned, with high cheekbones, sharp lines, and a strong jaw. His eyes were a bright cornflower blue, and there was a small smile on his face, but his eyes were cold. I felt a little uneasy shiver go down my spine.

There was no reason a man who looked likethatshould be paying attention tome.

I didn’t think I was being overly modest, but there were many prettier, cleverer, and more accomplished ladies here tonight. And ones without the baggage of my family.

I dipped a curtsey in acknowledgement and said what was proper, but I felt terribly shy with so many eyes on me. When the Viscount held his hand out for a dance, there was nothing for it but to take his hand and follow him.

His hands were strong, with lean, tanned fingers, and, to avoid looking at his face, I looked at his hands. They weren’t at all the hands of the typical gentleman, crisscrossed and scarred with strange lines.

The Viscount didn’t seem inclined for conversation, though, moving through the dance without speaking to me.

I wondered irritably why he wouldn’t speak, when he should know perfectly well that the gentleman was supposed to engage the lady he had asked for a dance in polite conversation.

He was a good dancer, his tall body moving easily through the complicated steps with a panther’s grace. I, on the other hand, stumbled through the steps, forgetting them, and needed his firm hand to direct me when I forgot what my feet were supposed to be doing.

I felt flustered by the fact that he didn’t speak to me, so I finally said, “Are you—are you staying long in London, sir?”

“Long enough,” he said.

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