Page 4 of A Viscount’s Reluctant Passion

At her mother’s words, Bea realised that the orchestra had just begun playing for the first dance set. Was her mother hinting that Lord Challoner should dance with her? She flushed a little at the thought, which was not at all unpleasant. Not at all. But what was she thinking? Did she hope that he might be interested in her? He was a Viscount – he could have his choice of young ladies – why would he even consider her? She knew that, whilst she was quite pretty, she was not truly beautiful, and her dowry was not all that large.

Her father was only a Baronet, and then there was the gossip… – so the idea that the man before her might even consider her for more than a polite conversation was silly. Still, a tiny hope curled within her. He was far nicer than any other man she had met since coming to London.

~~~~~

Nash had happily retreated to the quiet nook that Lady Wormsley had found, content to sit in peaceful silence with the older woman. How Chase managed to enjoy the swirling chaos of pointlessness which happened when you filled a large room with half of the ton, he really did not know. He would rather be in the library, reading, or back in the country, planning next year’s crops.

They sat for a while, and he watched the people around them, fascinated, despite himself, by the shallowness, the gossiping behind fans, the flirting, and the artificiality of it all. After some time, he allowed his eyes to close for a moment, almost drifting towards sleep, for the last few days had been hectic. A sigh brought him back to himself.

He opened his eyes, to find himself gazing into eyes which were a mix of green and blue. It was the bride’s sister, who had somehow magically appeared on the chair before him. For a moment, he simply stared, captivated. Her dark pink lips parted, and her tongue ran over them as if she was nervous. The warm light of the midday sun filtered through the leaves of the potted palms, and drew glints of gold from her dark blonde hair.

He had the inexplicable urge to reach out and tangle his fingers in it.

The magic of the moment was broken when Lady Wormsley performed the introductions, and he managed, somehow, to converse with her intelligently – at least he thought that it was intelligent. But the words that came out rather shocked him – he was, for some reason, admitting the truth of his feelings about society to her. He waited for the rather sneering reaction that might be expected from a young woman of the ton. It did not come.

She was, somehow, different. It was as if she actually understood how he felt. He was mad to think it, for surely, a young woman as beautiful, vivacious, and cheerful as she would think the desire to hide in the country the choice of a man who could be nothing but dull. But she did not express that opinion – in words or in expression. That she did not perhaps meant only that she was being polite. It was foolish of him to hope that it meant anything more – yet he did.

They reached a point in the conversation where neither of them seemed to know how to continue, and silence fell – it was not uncomfortable, but he felt as if he should be better able to speak with a woman. He was, he supposed, not very practiced in the matter. Lady Wormsley saved him from the silence, but her words presented him another conundrum. For he was sure that she had just implied that he should ask Miss Wormsley to dance.

He swallowed. Her blue-green eyes followed the movement of his throat and she flushed. It made her cheeks a soft pink which he found rather attractive. If he asked, would she allow it? Did he want to ask? To his surprise, he found that he did.

Years ago, he had sworn not to allow passion to lead him astray, as it did his brother, yet…

“Miss Wormsley, would you grant me the honour of a dance? I believe that I hear the orchestra beginning.”

What had he done? He waited, hope fighting with an odd kind of fear. Then she smiled.

“Of course, Lord Challoner. I would be delighted.”

Her voice sounded just a little shaky, and he wondered why. He rose, and offered her his arm. She stood, and placed her hand upon it, and that simple contact sent heat throughout his body. He led her to the floor, and they took their places in the line forming up.

The dance passed in an almost dreamlike state, where Nash ignored the people around them, and focussed only on Miss Wormsley. The more he looked at her, the more apparent her beauty became – a natural beauty which did not require artifice, and of which she seemed quite unaware. Each time they touched, heat ran through him, in a way that no woman had ever caused before. They barely spoke, yet she did not seem uncomfortable with that. More often than not, their eyes met, and what was communicated that way felt far more profound than words. At the end of the dance, he discovered that he had, truly, enjoyed himself, and that he regretted it ending. That thought was shocking – for he had never enjoyed dancing – not since he had been sneered at for clumsiness by the local girls, when he was barely seventeen.

He escorted her back to her mother, mind full of confusion.

~~~~~

Bea’s head was positively spinning. Every time he had touched her, as the dance required it, she had felt a little surge of warmth, and a fluttering in her stomach. It was disorienting, and delicious. She did not want the dance to end – but of course, it did. He was kind, and polite, and treated her as a person – not as a body to be ogled, or a potential dowry to be gained. She wondered if he had heard the gossip – perhaps, if he had not, that would explain how well he treated her?

It was a lowering thought, but she had to be practical, and admit that it was a possibility. Regardless, she hoped to see him again, hoped against all logic that he might call on her, or that they might dance again. It was foolish – for what did she know of him? His brother was a rake and a gambler, and reputed to have run through much of his fortune – so what might this man be like, truly? He might be almost pockets to let, if he depended on his brother for funds, and his apparently steady manner might simply be camouflage for a nature like his brother’s.

Yet she could not believe it of him.

They reached her mother, and he released her, bowing.

“Thank you for a wonderful dance, Miss Wormsley.”

“And thank you, Lord Challoner. Will you be staying in London long? Will we see you again? Or will you retreat to the country immediately?”

It was forward of her to ask, but the words simply came tumbling out. He smiled, and considered a moment, his blue grey eyes holding hers, then he gave the tiniest nod.

“I believe that I will be in London for at least a few weeks more. I look forward to seeing you again.”