No Conventional Miss. Eleanor Webster
Читать онлайн книгу.
saw a flicker of apprehension, quickly squashed.
‘So,’ he asked lightly, wanting to relieve the very anxiety he had caused, ‘are you enjoying it?’
‘The dance?’ she said, with uncharacteristic vagueness.
‘That is the event we are currently attending.’
‘Yes.’ She looked about her with genuine admiration and smiled. ‘Yes, it is beautiful, magical almost.’
Paul followed her gaze and watched the expressions flicker across her mobile features. For a moment, he forgot that he had been to hundreds of balls and that their allure had long since tarnished.
Instead, he saw the room as she did, a fairyland of flickering light, mirrors, music and perfumed air.
‘Dance with me,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your card is not full and I fear the current situation is not appropriate.’
‘In what way?’ Her brows drew together.
‘We have not yet danced. May I have the honour, Miss Gibson?’
Her face registered an interesting mix of emotion: surprise, confusion, reluctance. She shifted back towards the rubber plant. Good lord, the chit actually wanted to refuse. No one had turned him down since he was a callow youth. He did not know whether to be angered or amused.
‘I believe that hiding is not acting with the utmost propriety,’ he added.
‘I am not hiding!’
‘And refusing to dance with the stepson of one’s benefactress might not be entirely appropriate.’
‘Then, pray tell, what would you have me do?’
‘Accompany me to the dance floor,’ he said, inclining his head towards the orchestra.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t wish to be improper. Lady Wyburn said you would feel obligated to ask.’
He frowned, perversely irritated. ‘She exaggerates my sense of social obligation, I assure you.’
‘I am certain she meant it as a compliment.’
‘No doubt. But now you are looking much too serious. Smile as though I’ve said something particularly witty.’
‘Is that what all the other women do?’ she asked.
She smelled of soap and lemons, he thought, as he led her to the dance floor. He liked the smell, tangy and fresh, so different from the perfumed scents of other women.
‘My lord?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He jerked his attention back to the conversation.
‘Do other women look spellbound as if you’ve said something witty?’
‘Naturally.’
He took her gloved hand and felt it tremble within his palm. The dance started and they broke apart in time to the music.
‘Even when you haven’t said anything either inspiring or witty?’ she asked as they came together again.
‘Especially then.’
‘How tiresome for you.’
‘Why so?’
‘Well, it must make you feel as though you’re not a real person, but just a viscount.’
He laughed. ‘That’s the first time I’ve been called “just a viscount”.’
‘I meant no offence.’
‘I know.’ And it was true, he thought, surprised by her perception. Few people saw him as a person and women never did. He was a good catch, with a title, estate and ample income.
‘Now you’re much too serious,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to look as though I’ve also said something remarkably entertaining?’ She stepped under his raised arm. ‘Or does it not work both ways?’
‘It does and can be tedious, I assure you.’
‘Indeed, I find discussions about the weather highly overrated.’
‘Try looking fascinated by a spaniel’s earwax,’ he said, remembering a conversation with a certain Miss Twinning.
Miss Gibson laughed, a rich spontaneous sound. No, she was no statue. She was too vibrant—more like a flame caught in human form.
‘I take it you do not discuss earwax?’ he asked.
‘I steer clear of that subject. In fact, I say remarkably little and endeavour to stick to Imogene’s list of suitable topics.’ She spoke with mock solemnity, the amusement in her eyes belying her tone. She had remarkable eyes.
‘Which include?’
‘Fashion and the weather.’
‘Really.’ They were dancing side by side. He caught another whiff of lemon. ‘And what,’ he murmured, bending so close that her hair tickled his cheek, ‘would you discuss if left to your own devices?’
‘My waterwheel and butter churn.’
‘Your what?’ His fashionable ennui deserted him and he almost missed a step, narrowly avoiding the Earl of Pembroke’s solid form.
‘My butter churn,’ she said more slowly.
‘And what makes this churn so worthy of conversation?’
‘Nothing really. I should not have mentioned it.’ She looked regretful, glancing downward so that her lashes cast lacy shadows against her cheeks.
‘Oh, but you should. I’m fascinated.’ This was, surprisingly, true. He wanted to lean into her and catch again that delightful whiff of lemon. He wanted to see the intelligence sparkle in her eyes and feel her hand tremble, belying her external calm.
‘The churn is automated by a waterwheel, you see, and I believe it would save our dairy maid so much hard labour.’ She spoke quickly, her cheeks delightfully flushed with either enthusiasm or embarrassment.
‘And have you had the opportunity to test its efficiency?’
‘Once,’ she said.
‘Successfully, I trust.’
Her lips twitched and she looked up, merriment twinkling. ‘The water succeeded in flooding the dairy. After that my device was banished.’
‘Unfortunate.’
‘However, I have constructed a small model so that I can perfect the design during my baths.’
‘Your baths?’ He choked on the word.
His mind conjured a vision of long, wet hair, full breasts and alabaster limbs. He caught his breath.
Her cheeks reddened. ‘One of those forbidden subjects like undergarments. I mean—I only mentioned baths because my churn is run by a waterwheel. Hence I need a source of water to move the wheel.’
He laughed. He could not help himself. Her conversational style might be unusual, but it was certainly more edifying than the weather.
Or earwax, for that matter.
She was, Paul realised, a good dancer. This surprised him. He’d always thought of her as moving with unladylike speed, charging full tilt into the museum or galloping on Rotten Row.
Now she kept perfect time, her body graceful and her movements fluid and rhythmic.
‘You love music,’ he said.
‘I do. And you?’
For a second he could not recall her question.
‘Like music?’ she prompted. ‘My lord, if I recall, you are supposed to at least