There was a tiny silence while Vanessa fervently wished she could join poor Hedley in the grave. "Perhaps, Mrs. Dew," the viscount said - his voice was deep and velvet-toned, to add to his other physical perfections, "you would do me the honor?" She was being asked to dance with a /viscount/. With /this /viscount, this most glorious of male creatures. This arrogant… popinjay. But sometimes her sense of the ridiculous came close to being her undoing.
Whatever must the viscount be thinking? She almost laughed aloud and dared not glance Margaret's way. But mortification quickly outpaced any amusement she was feeling. How absolutely /awful /that the assembly should begin this way.
Was it her imagination that the whole room hung upon her response?
Of course it was not.
Oh, goodness gracious. She really ought to have insisted upon remaining at home with a book and her memories. "Thank you." She curtsied again and regarded the hand stretched out for hers with some fascination. It was as fine and as well manicured as any lady's. And yet there was nothing remotely effeminate about it.
Or about him, of course. Close up, he looked even taller and more solid and powerful than he had from across the room. She could smell a subtle masculine cologne. She could feel the heat of his aura.
And there was one other thing about his face, she noticed as she set her hand on his and looked up at him. His eyes were not dark, as his hair and complexion had led her to expect, but were of the deepest, clearest blue. They looked back at her keenly from beneath those still-drooped lids.