Do you mind?"
Oh, God. His voice was a lovely thing, refined, low and confiding. A London voice.
And it was the voice that had mused into the nape of her neck yesterday.
Aunt Frances's mouth dropped open; for a moment it hung that way, as if the hinges had snapped.
Shock iced Susannah's hands. Up close the man was imposingly tall. Imposingly… male . The ice gave way to heat, which begin at Susannah's collar and slowly spread upward. Two competing desires began a violent tussle inside her.
Spinning on her heel and fleeing was one of them.
"We thank you for the offer, but Miss Makepeace is in mourning, Lord Grantham." Aunt Frances had gotten her mouth closed, and this was very elegantly, and not impolitely, said.
The viscount's eyes—blue eyes, unreasonably blue eyes—glinted down at Susannah with an unholy and decidedly ungentlemanly amusement. "But you'd very much like to dance, wouldn't you, Miss Makepeace?"
And God help her: that was the other desire.
Later, much later, she would admit to herself that there really had been no contest.
"Please forgive me, Aunt Frances. I'm sorry, so sorry, truly sorry…"
The grinning viscount quickly proffered his arm, and he led Susannah, still trailing abject apologies, out to the floor.
* * *
She lifted her hand to fit into his, the most familiar gesture she'd made in days, comforting somehow even as she reeled in shock at what she'd just done. As she did, the sleeve of his coat slid back, and Susannah saw it. Between the start of his glove and the cuff of his shirt: a birthmark in the shape of a gull.
She promptly stumbled.
The viscount placed his other hand on her waist just in time, effortlessly steadying her, and eased her into the dance. "Yes, 'tis I, Miss Makepeace. The last time we met, I believe you said… what was it… what was it… oh yes: ' You were bloody quiet .' And then you went bounding off like a deer through the underbrush. Do I look different in my evening clothes? I imagine I do." His eyes glinted an almost intolerable amusement down at her.
Speechless. Then the words staggered out of her mouth. "You—how dare —you are—"
"Your sketches of me are quite good, by the way," he added. "Unflatteringly accurate , in some respects, but quite good. And I've always been a strong proponent of accuracy."
"I—" she choked. Her face, from the feel of things, was the color of Mrs. Talbot's turban.
"The way I see it is this, Miss Makepeace: you can either pretend to be horrified and make a scene—but I do know you'd be pretending—or you can laugh, which is what you'd prefer to do. Either way you'll still be the talk of the assembly, and the good people of Barnstable won't like you any more than they do now."
"How dare —" she began again, her tone indignant, because of course she knew she ought to feel indignant.
His eyes widened in mock fear.
Dash it, anyway . "No, I suppose they don't like me," she admitted, genuinely puzzled. "And people usually do, you know."
He laughed then, surprised, a rich sound that unfortunately made heads all over the room swivel toward them. And there they remained, riveted by the sight of Susannah Makepeace in her mourning gown waltzing with the scandalous viscount. "Do they, now? I suppose you make certain of it."
"It's easy, you see," she confessed. "Or, it usually is." This conversation was rapidly running away with her, and it was both terrifying and exhilarating.
"For you, I suppose it is. But perhaps you needn't try so hard."
"I wasn't ' trying,'" she objected.
"No?" He sounded as though he didn't believe her at all. "Well, perhaps they don't like you because you're more handsome than the lot of them."
Finally the viscount seemed to be doing the sort of flirting she recognized. She dimpled a little.
"Comparatively, anyway," he added, sweeping the room with a dispassionate gaze, as if to ascertain the truth of that statement.
Her dimples vanished.
"And you've a certain amount of sophistication," he
Oh, God. His voice was a lovely thing, refined, low and confiding. A London voice.
And it was the voice that had mused into the nape of her neck yesterday.
Aunt Frances's mouth dropped open; for a moment it hung that way, as if the hinges had snapped.
Shock iced Susannah's hands. Up close the man was imposingly tall. Imposingly… male . The ice gave way to heat, which begin at Susannah's collar and slowly spread upward. Two competing desires began a violent tussle inside her.
Spinning on her heel and fleeing was one of them.
"We thank you for the offer, but Miss Makepeace is in mourning, Lord Grantham." Aunt Frances had gotten her mouth closed, and this was very elegantly, and not impolitely, said.
The viscount's eyes—blue eyes, unreasonably blue eyes—glinted down at Susannah with an unholy and decidedly ungentlemanly amusement. "But you'd very much like to dance, wouldn't you, Miss Makepeace?"
And God help her: that was the other desire.
Later, much later, she would admit to herself that there really had been no contest.
"Please forgive me, Aunt Frances. I'm sorry, so sorry, truly sorry…"
The grinning viscount quickly proffered his arm, and he led Susannah, still trailing abject apologies, out to the floor.
* * *
She lifted her hand to fit into his, the most familiar gesture she'd made in days, comforting somehow even as she reeled in shock at what she'd just done. As she did, the sleeve of his coat slid back, and Susannah saw it. Between the start of his glove and the cuff of his shirt: a birthmark in the shape of a gull.
She promptly stumbled.
The viscount placed his other hand on her waist just in time, effortlessly steadying her, and eased her into the dance. "Yes, 'tis I, Miss Makepeace. The last time we met, I believe you said… what was it… what was it… oh yes: ' You were bloody quiet .' And then you went bounding off like a deer through the underbrush. Do I look different in my evening clothes? I imagine I do." His eyes glinted an almost intolerable amusement down at her.
Speechless. Then the words staggered out of her mouth. "You—how dare —you are—"
"Your sketches of me are quite good, by the way," he added. "Unflatteringly accurate , in some respects, but quite good. And I've always been a strong proponent of accuracy."
"I—" she choked. Her face, from the feel of things, was the color of Mrs. Talbot's turban.
"The way I see it is this, Miss Makepeace: you can either pretend to be horrified and make a scene—but I do know you'd be pretending—or you can laugh, which is what you'd prefer to do. Either way you'll still be the talk of the assembly, and the good people of Barnstable won't like you any more than they do now."
"How dare —" she began again, her tone indignant, because of course she knew she ought to feel indignant.
His eyes widened in mock fear.
Dash it, anyway . "No, I suppose they don't like me," she admitted, genuinely puzzled. "And people usually do, you know."
He laughed then, surprised, a rich sound that unfortunately made heads all over the room swivel toward them. And there they remained, riveted by the sight of Susannah Makepeace in her mourning gown waltzing with the scandalous viscount. "Do they, now? I suppose you make certain of it."
"It's easy, you see," she confessed. "Or, it usually is." This conversation was rapidly running away with her, and it was both terrifying and exhilarating.
"For you, I suppose it is. But perhaps you needn't try so hard."
"I wasn't ' trying,'" she objected.
"No?" He sounded as though he didn't believe her at all. "Well, perhaps they don't like you because you're more handsome than the lot of them."
Finally the viscount seemed to be doing the sort of flirting she recognized. She dimpled a little.
"Comparatively, anyway," he added, sweeping the room with a dispassionate gaze, as if to ascertain the truth of that statement.
Her dimples vanished.
"And you've a certain amount of sophistication," he
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