Page 13 of The Notorious Dashing Viscount
“You seem remarkably serious, Lady Isolde,” the viscount drawled, taking Isolde in his arms as if he danced the waltz every day of his life.
Well, perhaps he did.
“I’m a little shaken,” she said, more severely than she’d intended.
He grinned, flashing even white teeth with pointed canines. It gave him a wolfish look which suited him, irritatingly enough.
“Shaken to be dancing with me, or because you ran right into my arms?”
“I did not run into your arms,” Isolde corrected sharply. “I stumbled. I must beg your pardon; it was an unfortunate accident.”
“I know, I know.”
He was entirely too close. Isolde made a mental note never to dance the waltz again. She was on eye level with the viscount’s cravat, a blood-red ruby winking out of its depths. It was a nice cravat, impeccably starched and well-tied. She kept smelling wafts of his cologne, and it almost seemed to smell different every time. It was difficult not to keep sniffing the man.
Isolde resolutely kept her eyes trained on that cravat pin. No need to look up at the man’s face, not at such a scandalously close distance.
The viscount’s face was certainly a well-known one. Lots of ladies swooned over him, both debutantes and women who should know better. He had a well-featured face, thick, glossy dark hair, and a pair of remarkable green eyes. The sort of face people enjoyed looking at, which was undoubtedly how he’d come to be known as the greatest rake in London.
Isolde didn’t think that he was the greatest rake in London, but he had to be somewhere on the list.
“You’re still very serious, Lady Isolde. Are you not comfortable with the waltz? I’d suggest we stop, only it might occasion more talk.”
She clenched her jaw at the amusement in his voice. “I’m quite fine, I assure you. I’m a woman who knows her own mind.”
“I’m sure you are. Was it Lord Raisin you were fleeing from, by the way?”
Try as she might, Isolde could not keep a flush from rising to her cheeks.
“Yes,” she admitted, since it seemed silly to lie. “He is set upon marrying me and will not acquiesce to my refusal.”
“How tiresome. I wish you the best of luck as you continue to evade him. You seem entirely capable of such a thing.”
The dance picked up a little speed, and Isolde was relieved to fall silent and concentrate on her steps.
“I’m afraid it is normal to exchange a few pleasantries right about now,” the viscount said after a few moments, managing to sound almost regretful. “We could talk about the dance, if you like, or the ball. Those are fairly comfortable, general subjects. If you’re tired of small talk, might I suggest a little gossip?”
“Gossip? I don’t gossip.”
“Really? How sad for you.”
“What do you mean? Gossip is harmful, everybody knows that.”
Abruptly, the viscount spun her around. The dance called for it, but Isolde found herself a little taken aback anyway.
“Depends what you are gossiping about,” he said drily, grinning.
Isolde had the oddest feeling of being permanently out of breath, even though the dance was not really that taxing. She hoped against hope that it was just the viscount’s cologne, or perhaps an attack of apoplexy. A fever coming on, perhaps.
Either way, she felt uncomfortable. A knot had formed in her gut, something too close to excitement for her liking. More than once, she’d dragged her gaze up from the viscount’s cravat pin to his face, and every time she did so, she found him looking at her. Smiling.
It was an odd, inscrutable smile, as if they were sharing a joke that nobody else knew. He was handsome, and Isolde was tired of pretending that he wasn’t. She’d never seen eyes so green.
And what does he see when he looks at me, I wonder? A silly old spinster, a clumsy one at that, put out of breath by a simple waltz? I daresay he’ll laugh about me to his friends.
This thought made a flare of anger go through her, and she clenched her jaw. She looked him dead in the eyes, determined not to look away this time.
“I prefer books to gossip, Lord Henley,” she said firmly. “Ifthat’s all the same to you.”
