Page 10 of The Notorious Dashing Viscount
Oh, do be quiet.
Beatrice was chatting to a selection of friends, and Isolde stood by her side and tried not to look bored. The dancing had started, and her dance card was empty so far. Plenty of ladies and gentlemen eyed her as they went by, but nobody made a move to speak to her.
Infamy was not enjoyable, so far.
Isolde was stifling a yawn when somebody tapped her elbow, making her jump.
“I do apologise for the informality, Lady Isolde, but I simply had to speak to you,” drawled an unfamiliar male voice.
Isolde blinked up at the man who’d spoken. “Oh. I… I’m not sure that’s proper.”
The man grinned. “Come now, Lady Isolde. We know eachother well enough to have moved past proper and improper, have we not?”
She clenched her jaw. “Lord Raisin, I really must…”
“Oh, George!” trilled Beatrice, having disentangled herself from her conversation and leaping headfirst into the situation. “How lovely to see you here. I heard that you were in Spain?”
“Indeed I was, but it’s fine to be home.”
Lord George Raisin was about forty, and the years had not been particularly kind to him. His hair was not grey, but it was resolutely thinning, and his jowls seemed to hang lower each year. He had been married twice and subsequently left a widower both times and had a collection of children up at some country estate. He was wealthy, he was titled, and he was respectable.
He was also looking for a third bride.
Despite not being the most handsome man in town by any stretch of the imagination, there were plenty of ladies present that would be happy to catch a man such as Lord George Raisin as a husband.
Unfortunately, he had his mind set on Isolde. He had petitioned Richard and Beatrice several times for their permission. They’d reluctantly given it but pointed out that he had to secure Isolde’s agreement too.
She was not going to give it. He’d proposed twice, not taking no for an answer, and she had been obliged to spend most of her previous Season determinedly cutting him, which caused quite the scandal.
It did not help the Ice Queen comments.
And here the man was again, beaming, freshly tanned from the Spanish sun, with a look of determination in his eyes. Isolde’s heart sank.
“I have come to inquire if you would care to engage in a dance,” Lord Raisin said, with the placid confidence of a man notaccustomed to hearing the word no.
And, of course, Isolde couldn’t say no. To refuse a gentleman’s offer to dance for any reason would mean that she wouldn’t be permitted to dance at all that evening. It was also rather frowned upon.
Besides, Beatrice was watching closely.
Biting the inside of her cheek, Isolde made herself smile. “Well, if you insist, Lord Raisin.”
He beamed, her sharp tone entirely lost of him. “Excellent! Shall we?”
I’m going to have to try extra hard to lose him this Season, she thought unhappily, reluctantly allowing the man to lead her onto the dance floor.
The current dance was a brisk cotillion, to Isolde’s relief. The waltz would be danced here – and no doubt in all but the strictest households this Season – but she did not want to spend the next set in Lord Raisin’s arms. Dancing was dancing, in Isolde’s opinion, and people were gradually coming round to the idea that the waltz wasn’t really that shocking. Still, Isolde felt that there was something intimate about the dance. So far, she’d avoided waltzing altogether. Gentlemen saved the waltz dances for ladies they were extremely fond of, or ones they had hope of marrying. Needless to say, nobody had asked her.
But Lord Raisin might, she thought, with a frisson of worry. I really shall have to say no, then. I’ll say I’ve twisted my ankle. I’ll have to sit down for the rest of the ball, which will be disappointing, but better than the alternative. There will be other dances.
And Lord Raisin will be at those dances, too.
Her heart sank into her dancing slippers.
The dance slowed enough for the two of them to speak, and Lord Raisin seized his opportunity.
“I am surprised to find a lady as beautiful and well-bred as you still single, Lady Isolde,” he commented, with what he doubtless thought was a rakish smile. “What luck for me.”
Isolde coloured. He’d never have dared speak so openly to her if Beatrice was around, but the middle of a dance gave people the opportunity to speak freely. One could always claim to have been misheard, what with all the noise and chaos of the dance floor.
