Yet as the viscount led the way down the path, she found herself short on conversation. Just perfect. Most of the time, she couldn't keep her tongue still. Being a chatterbox was practically a family trait; unfortunately, most of that chattering involved bickering or debating inappropriate topics, neither of which was fit for present company. She concentrated on the tips of her half-boots, noticing the layer of fine dirt coating the teal leather.
Think of something clever to say, else he'll think you a graceless Cit …
"I do so like your hat," she blurted. "It is very fine."
"Thank you," he said. "I should say the same of your ensemble. Madame Rousseau, I believe?"
She looked at him in surprise. "How did you know?"
"I make it a point to know quality." Stopping, he made an elegant leg. "And that you possess in spades, Miss Fines."
His compliment boosted her self-confidence. She was glad she'd taken great pains with her toilette today, choosing a white sprigged muslin trimmed in sky blue satin. Beneath the high waist, the front of the walking dress parted to reveal a lovely tiered underskirt. A fitted spencer and a fashionable leghorn hat completed the outfit.
"Thank you, sir." She dimpled up at him. "I'm afraid I spent quite some time in front of the looking glass. I didn't wish to be put in the shade by my companion, you see."
He rewarded her with a smile. "Your candor is most refreshing, Miss Fines. If I may return the compliment, I quite enjoyed our waltz last week. You follow beautifully."
With relief, she surmised that he had not noticed her restrained and rather wooden movements during the set. She'd exerted laborious effort to refrain from an unfortunate tendency to lead. As her beleaguered dancing master had put it,You must accompany your partner like a butterfly, signorina, and flutter softly behind… flutter... flutter... Perl'amor di dio, I said flutter, not charge ahead like a Pamplonian bull!
Luckily, she had pulled it off.Take that, Signor Dancing Master.
"And I must return the returned compliment," she said impishly. "You dance divinely, my lord. And I've heard that is only one of your many accomplishments."
"I do try. Being a gentleman, one has so much time on one's hands. I've always said that leisure is wasted, if it is not spent in the pursuit of beauty."
"How romantic, my lord," she said. "You write poetry, do you not?"
"I have tried my hand at verse. In point of fact, a publisher is considering my work," he said. "He likens it to the style of the poet Shelley."
"Oh, I adore Mr. Shelley's poems," she breathed.
Before she could say more, they had to stop for him to greet a giggling lady and her mama. Percy took the moment to discreetly gaze upon Lord Charles. He was perfection. He possessed a noble forehead and nose, the refined lips of an artist... Out of nowhere, the memory of another mouth assailed her. Hard, sensual lips made not for poetry, but for sin. Heat flooded her insides, her nipples prickling beneath her bodice as awareness throbbed in her blood...
"Miss Fines, are you ready to go on?"
"Yes, of course." Her breath not quite steady, she took his arm, still trying to shake the memory of Hunt's kiss.Peeking over at the viscount's flawless, placid visage, she felt the tiniest niggle of uncertainty.Surely I'd enjoy kissing Lord Charles far more, wouldn't I? Why, ifhewere to kiss me, surely I'd forget Hunt altogether...
"Now where were we?" the viscount asked.
She flushed at the direction of her thoughts. "Um, discussing poetry," she said. "Mr. Shelley's, in particular."
"Ah, yes," he replied, his walking stick making an elegant arc. "Which one of his poems do you most admire?"
She slid a look at Lord Portland's fine figure. A man couldn't betooperfect… could he? A puckish notion caused her to blurt, "Love's Philosophy."
The viscount's brows jumped at the mention of the racy verse. "Indeed."
Knowing she was being an awful flirt and yet unable to help herself, she said, "I find the poem's sentiment affecting. Do you, my lord?"
Though she knew it was not fashionable, she'd always dreamt of a passionate, loving marriage. The kind Papa and Mama had shared and that Nicholas had found with Helena. She'd assumed that beneath Lord Charles' polite breeding lay an ardent soul. Nicholas, after all, could appear quite stoic on the outside, and yet she had caught him stealing kisses from his marchioness when he thought no one was looking.
Percy's breath held. Surely Lord Charles understood passion. He was a poet—hehadto.
A tinge of color touched his high cheekbones. "In theory, certainly."
In theory? What on earth does that mean?
Clearing his throat, the viscount consulted his watch fob. "My, it's grown late. It seems we shall have to postpone our conversation to a later time. Shall we return to the carriage?"
