Page 19 of A Wallflower to Win the Viscount

‘I see,’ she said, unable to keep the uncertainty out of her voice.

‘And as I said, my cousin’s wife, Lady Beatrice, will be accompanying us, so you will have a chaperone.’

While she was trying to digest this strange change in behaviour, Clawdia crossed the room, sat at his feet and stared up at him, in a manner that could almost be described as adoration.

It appeared the cat, at least, saw nothing odd in what was happening. Perhaps Clawdia was right. Maybe, just maybe, this was a genuine attempt at reconciliation, a neighbourly gesture of friendship, and should be accepted with the same generosity of spirit.

‘Hmm’ she said, drawing out the sound. ‘I suppose that might be fun.’

He bowed. ‘Good. Then I shall call for you at one o’clock tomorrow.’ With that he departed, leaving Primrose more than a little flummoxed.

‘Well, what do you think of that?’ she asked Clawdia, who merely curled up and went back to sleeping, losing interest now the viscount had left.

‘More importantly, what am I going to wear?’ she asked the uncommunicative cat.

All night Primrose contemplated that vital question, and by the next day she had made her decision. Her mauve-and-white striped day dress seemed eminently suitable. The dressmaker had told her it flattered her complexion and brought out the violet hues in her blue eyes, which apparently was a good thing.

It was last year’s fashion, having been purchased by the countess for Primrose’s one and only Season, but that hardly mattered. The countess had expected Primrose to spend her days strolling in Hyde Park on the arm of various prospective husbands, and a suitable wardrobe had been made for such occasions. She had in fact strolled in Hyde Park wearing this very dress, but it had been in the company of Margaret and Alice. Those walks had always been such fun, which she doubted would have been the case if she’d been accompanied by one of those frightful bird-shooting men who attended the Season, men with whom the only thing she had in common was a mutual disregard.

The countess would no doubt also reprimand Primrose and remind her that a young lady should never be seen wearing the same dress twice, as it could ruin her chances of gaining a suitable husband. She’d thought such rules silly at the time, and even more silly now. It was a perfectly nice day dress, and even if the viscount had seen it before, which he wouldn’t have, having been in America until recently, she was certain he did not concern himself with such superficial matters.

Not that she cared what the viscount thought. Not in the slightest.

She performed a twirl in front of the mirror to examine her appearance from every angle. It seemed the dressmaker was right. The dress did flatter her figure. Not that she cared either whether the viscount noticed how the dress made her waist appear smaller than usual or how the skirt swirled as she walked, drawing attention to the curve of her hips.

She was certainly not dressing to impress him, such endeavours being a decided waste of time. It was all so she could make a good impression in front of an esteemed group like the Ornithological Society.

To that end, she also thought it prudent to ask her maid to style her hair a bit more ornately, in a manner more flattering than her usual simple bun at the back of her head.

Martha embraced this task with such excitement anyone would think she was the one looking forward to this afternoon’s outing.

At one o’clock, the viscount arrived, along with his cousins, whom he introduced.

‘You look lovely, my dear,’ Lady Beatrice said, admiring her dress. ‘That colour suits you admirably.’

Primrose smiled at the compliment and flicked a quick look at the viscount, who appeared to be taking no interest in the exchange. Not that she would expect him to, of course.

‘As you’re Lucian’s neighbour, I’m sure we can dispense with the formalities,’ Lady Beatrice continued. ‘Please, call me Beatrice, my husband is Reginald, and I’m sure the viscount would much prefer to be called Lucian than Viscount Westhaven,’ she said, smiling at the viscount, who gave a quick nod. ‘And would you mind if we called you Primrose?’

‘Of course not.’ Primrose was already warming to Beatrice. It was hard to believe someone so pleasant and friendly could be related to the stern viscount, even if only by marriage.

‘We don’t want to be late,’ Beatrice said. ‘Lucian, you can escort Primrose out to the carriage.’

The viscount, or Lucian as she should now try to think of him, offered her his arm. She took it tentatively. It was not the first time she had been this close to him, but last time he’d had her upper arm firmly in his grip and was leading her at a rapid pace down the back path to his house. This time it was merely a polite gesture, but her reaction was far more extreme than it had been when he had been all but dragging her into his garden.

Her heart, which was already racing, increased its tempo, as if trying to escape her chest. She was acutely aware of his cream linen jacket brushing against her arm, of his chest that was tantalisingly close, and the way the warmth of his body was seemingly flowing into hers.

She admonished herself. Stop it. He’s just being polite. There’s no need to get all giddy, just because a man smells of sandalwood cologne and something else, something underlying the fragrant notes of his cologne, something so wonderfully, so deliciously masculine.

He led her out of the house, down the short path and to the open door of the waiting carriage. All the while she attempted to breathe slowly and calmly. A task which became more difficult when he took her hand and helped her up the steps. She held her breath, determined to not inhale his maddeningly heady scent, not wishing to become completely disarmed.

Did his hand linger on hers for a moment longer than necessary? Was he standing rather too close? Or was that her unreliable mind misinterpreting a perfectly innocent gesture?

That was probably it. After all, she had little experience with men, other than what she had read in novels.

But didn’t Mr Rochester’s hand linger when he helped Jane Eyre after she stumbled? Didn’t Mr Darcy stand unnecessarily close to Lizzy Bennet during the ball, causing her to catch her breath?

No, she was being foolish. She was neither Jane Eyre nor Lizzy Bennet. She was Little Miss Fairburning Cheeks and she’d already completely misinterpreted a look from Lucian that meant nothing. She’d turned it into the beginning of something special, and a mere day later he had behaved just like every other man she had ever met and told her she was not normal.