Page 12 of The Notorious Dashing Viscount
He staggered backward, a pair of arms coming up to grab her reflexively, and for one awful second she thought they were both going down.
The only thing more humiliating than falling over at the first ball of the Season, Isolde decided, was dragging somebody else with her.
But he steadied himself, and therefore steadied her. There was a faint slop as champagne began to run down the aforementioned fine silk waistcoat.
The whole interaction could only have lasted a second, perhaps at the most, but it felt more like an entire lifetime.
Staggering backwards, Isolde blinked up at her unwitting saviour.
None other than the infamous Viscount Henley looked down.
“Oh,” he said. “Hello, my Lady. Are you quite well?”
“I’m fine,” Isolde said, more snappishly than she should have. She took in the growing dark stain on the man’s waistcoat. “Oh lord, I made you spill your drink on yourself. I am so sorry.”
The viscount blinked down at his sodden waistcoat. “I shouldn’t worry about that. My valet has gotten worse things than champagne out of my clothes.”
Isolde opened her mouth to ask what those worse things were, but decided against it, closing her mouth with a snap.
She glanced around, wishing people would stop staring. A little circle of gawkers had formed around them, whispering loudly to each other. In the background, Lord Raisin stood beside Beatrice, both of them staring in stony disapproval.
Naturally, Beatrice did not approve of Viscount Henley. No sensible mamma would.
She’s not my mamma, though.
“Since my champagne is now gone,” Viscount Henley drawled, setting aside the empty glass, “perhaps you’d favour me with a dance instead?”
She blinked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I think you heard me clearly. Why, is this dance already taken?”
Isolde thought of Lord Raisin, waiting for her. “No.”
“Well, then.”
The viscount abruptly leaned forward, coming far too close, and Isolde got a good whiff of his cologne. It was sharp and sweet, coming off him in gusts like breaths. She tried not to breathe in.
“People will stare less if we go and dance,” he murmured. “Best take their minds off it.”
Isolde swallowed hard. She could hear the strains of music starting up already for the next set. It was, to her horror, a waltz.
What choice do I have?
“Very well,” she said stiffly, taking his outstretched hand.“Very well, let us take to the dance floor.”
Chapter Four
It was, Isolde decided fairly quickly, a huge mistake.
The Viscount Henley was well-known. He was a charmer, a gambler, a drinker, and a notorious rake. He consorted with the most unsuitable people, and just retained enough respectability to be admitted to the finest places in the land.
Here, for instance.
Everybody knew that the viscount was a terrible flirt and had led on far too many young ladies (and their mammas, by extension), and ultimately slipped away. There was to be no Viscountess Henley anytime soon, it seemed.
Isolde was not often invited to the sorts of parties where the viscount might make an appearance. She wasn’t interesting enough, apparently, and that suited her just fine.
Naturally, a man could not achieve the sort of reputation that the viscount had without being reasonably good-looking. And he was certainly handsome. If one liked that sort of thing.
