Page 14 of The Notorious Dashing Viscount
“Not at all the same, but equally enjoyable,” he conceded. How did the wretched man know just what to say?
Oh, and why was the dance not ending?
She gritted her teeth as they spun around faster and faster, the room blurring around them. Isolde caught glimpses of familiar faces in the crowd – Beatrice, stone-faced, with Lord Raisin nowhere to be seen, Viola’s worried face, blurs of jealous and surprised young women, gentlemen dandies raising quizzing glances to look at her.
Or perhaps they were all looking at the viscount. That would make a deal more sense.
And then the music stopped, and the dancers jerked to a halt. It was an ungraceful ending, and Isolde could have sworn there was a pause while the others came to terms with the fact the dance was over. Then the customary applause and laughter broke out.
She couldn’t breathe.
At least, she could breathe in the sense that air was going in and out of her lungs, but the tightness in her chest only increased.
The viscount gave a deep bow, bending at the waist. He glanced up at her as he straightened, a knowing, thrilling smile on his face. It sent an answering thrill through Isolde’s chest, and she did not like that. Not one bit.
“Thank you for the dance, Lady Isolde,” he said smoothly. “I hope we’ll meet again.”
“I hope not,” Isolde responded, before she could think twice about whether it was a wise thing to say. Not waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and marched across the floor towards the still-open French doors. She half expected the viscount to follow her, but when she glanced over her shoulder, he was gone.
*********
Clayton ignored the curious stares sent his way. It was nobody’s business, for heaven’s sake. It was fairly clear that nobody else was asking the Ice Queen to dance. What man would deliberately court humiliation and inevitable rejection? Only somebody as self-assured and thick-skinned as Lord George Raisin would even try. It was clear that Lady Isolde’s fourth Season would be a difficult one. Nobody would want to be her friend. She would be invited to balls, but only because of her family and her status. No man would court her, the debutantes would be told to avoid her, and she would slowly but surely pass out of Society’s notice.
Perhaps she’d like that, he thought, unbidden. Society’s notice is hardly a good thing.
It was plain she did not want to be followed, so Clayton let her go. A start had been made.
Lucas had been watching from the sidelines during the dance, his expression reproachful and firmly disapproving, but Clayton was trying to ignore that. His friend was now nowhere to be seen. The card room, perhaps?
A hopeful debutante smiled nervously at Clayton, but he ignored her. They hadn’t been introduced, and the rules were always stricter with girls newly come-out. Besides, there’d be a guard dog of a mamma behind the girl somewhere, and it wouldn’t do to be seen to be breaking the hearts of debutantes again. More trouble than it was worth.
Besides, his mind was full of Lady Isolde. She had not liked him, that much was plain. She hadn’t enjoyed the dance and had hurried away as soon as she could.
Ice Queen, indeed, he thought grimly.
And then Simon, the wretch, was beside him again, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Well done, old friend, well done!”
“We are not friends,” Clayton muttered. “Get your hand off me.”
Simon did not move. He was grinning. “That was an excellent start. Waltzing with the Ice Queen indeed! She’s never waltzed before in public, you know.”
An unnamed feeling nipped at Clayton’s stomach. “What, never?”
“Not that I know of,” Simon was already losing interest, scanning the crowd for more interesting people. “But the wager isn’t over yet.”
“Hush, fool! Don’t talk of it here.”
“I’ll talk of it where I like. One dance isn’t enough. You must win her heart, my dear viscount. There must be no doubt.”
Clayton shrugged his hand away. “I’m having second thoughts about this wager.”
“Why? Because she didn’t fall into your arms?”
“Lucas thinks it’s ungentlemanly, and perhaps he’s right.”
Simon grinned. “Well, if you want to call off the wager, you certainly can. I won’t prevent you. It’ll be good to know that the charming, perfect Viscount Henley has a flaw at last. Cowardice is a rather serious flaw, of course, but still. None of us are perfect, eh? Rather ungentlemanly to call off a wager, but if you think you’re going to lose…”
