Page 7 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
And then, at the top of the stairs, she saw him.
He was difficult to miss, towering as he did over every other person in the room. His black hair had the windswept look that was so popular, a wave falling artfully across his forehead. She could see little of his face, as he wore one of the plain black masks their hosts had been handing out to those who needed one. But she felt a strange certainty that underneath that mask, he would be handsome; surely only an exceptionally handsome man could carry himself with such confidence. She knew that if her sister Caro had seen him, she would have huffed, because he was wearing boots and buckskin trousers, which were fine for riding, but completely inappropriate at a ball. And just as horrifying, even Anne could tell that his coat was several years out of fashion. But gad! That coat looked marvelous on him.
Goodness, Anne never had such thoughts about men. She valued character over appearances. The most important qualities she required in her future husband were that he be kind, meticulously respectable, and supportive of her charity work.
But it was just so hard not to notice a man’s appearance when he had shoulders that were so broad and so... firm. His stomach had none of the paunch most gentlemen had, it was as flat as a board. And those trousers...
Those trousers fit him to perfection.
Oh, gracious, he was headed right this way! Had he noticed her gaping at him? At his trousers? Oh, how mortifying, whatever was she going to do?
Anne had been so distracted by the handsome stranger, she had scarcely been paying attention to her more immediate surroundings, and she saw that the struggle for her dance card raged on. Lord Gladstone jerked his arm suddenly to the right, and Mr. Davison lost his grip. He gave a yelp of surprise and began to topple backwards.
Unfortunately, Anne was standing in exactly the wrong place; Mr. Davison was going to crash into her. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the impact...
... only to feel herself swept off her feet, high into the air.
There was a firm arm behind her shoulders and another under her knees, and she felt her right side pressing against a rock-hard chest. She was suddenly enveloped in the scents of smoky cedarwood and leather, and… something strangely familiar she couldn’t quite place. Just as quickly as he had picked her up, her rescuer swung her around and set her down. Off-balance, she grabbed his arms. They felt like a pair of tree trunks, they were so thick and firm. She jerked her hands away as if she’d been burned, and promptly swayed backwards. He grabbed her around her ribcage, steadying her, and not only were his hands deliciously warm, they were so big they almost encircled her waist.
Anne squeezed her eyes open and found herself staring directly into a cravat.
There was only one gentleman in attendance who was tall enough that Anne would be at eye level with his cravat. She glanced down, and the buckskin trousers confirmed it. Oh, God. It had to be the beautiful, dark-haired man she had been gaping at moments ago.
Heat rose to her cheeks. His hands were still wrapped around her waist. Up close, she saw that he was even more ridiculously gorgeous than she had imagined from across the ballroom. At least, from the neck down he was—she wasn’t at an angle to make out much of his face, to say nothing of the fact that he was wearing a mask. But if a better-proportioned man existed in all of Christendom, she had yet to see him. She suddenly thought of a sketch she had seen of a statue of Hercules. It was really just a headless torso reclining on a pedestal, a barrel chest and rippling stomach covered with ridge upon ridge of thick, bulging muscles, with the barest scrap of linen draped across his hips.
Hercules, that would be the perfect costume for this man.
Anne would quite like to see him in that loincloth.
Oh, gracious heavens—where had that thought come from?
A rich baritone rumbled above her head. “Have a care, Davison. You almost injured her.”
To his credit, Mr. Davison did look horrified. “My deepest apologies, Lady Wynters. I hope you won’t hold it against me, as I was dearly hoping to lead you out—”
“She’s not dancing with you,” the deep voice snarled.
“But I—”
Her mystery man didn’t say a word, but turned to glare at Mr. Davison, who recoiled under the man’s ire as if it were a physical blow.
“I… I… of course not. Please accept my most abject apologies, Lady Wynters.”
“Of course,” she whispered.
The orchestra was starting to tune up. Tristan Bassingthwaighte, dressed as Shakespeare, stepped forward, a smug smile upon his face. “I believe the first dance is mine.”
“You’re mistaken, Bassingthwaighte,” her rescuer growled. “She’s dancing with me.”
“Now see here,” Mr. Bassingthwaighte protested, snatching her crumpled dance card from Lord Gladstone and holding it aloft. “Lady Wynters promised this dance to me. It is my dance, and if you take it, then I will—”
“Then you’ll what?” Her rescuer leaned in, towering over Mr. Bassingthwaighte by almost a full foot. “Are you challenging me? Because if you are, I accept.”
Mr. Bassingthwaighte had turned a peculiar shade of green. He glanced mournfully at Anne, then back toward the tall man. “My apologies, sir. Enjoy your dance.”
“Believe me, I will. Come, Anne.”
Anne? Had he just called her Anne? There wasn’t a single man in London, save her own brothers, whom she had given leave to address her by her first name. She had never been more confused in her whole entire life!
