nerves.
But no, if she were to be honest with herself, it wasn’t the ballroom that had her nerves on edge tonight. It was the devilishly masculine, dark-eyed Lord Carew making the back of her neck prickle and her cheeks feel flushed.
He was watching her. She could feel his heated gaze even now.
His intense interest frightened her.
Yes, frightened , she firmly told herself as she and Lord Duncan edged their way through the crowd toward the far end of the room. She’d been frightened, not intrigued, by Lord Carew. Definitely not fascinated by his wickedly dark eyes or brooding looks that made him perfectly suited to play the tragic hero in some horrid gothic novel. She didn’t even like gothic novels.
She’d waltzed with him. Though his gloved hands had never strayed from their proper places, and he never stepped closer than what society deemed acceptable, that singular set had set Lia’s heart to pounding. His intoxicating scent, a delicious aroma that conjured images of fresh dewy mornings in the woods and vast open spaces, had left her uncharacteristically giddy. And though the waltz had ended several hours ago, she could feel his warm touch on her body as if he possessed her still.
Even more unsettling than her uncharacteristic reaction to him had been the knowing look she’d read in his dark, sensual gaze. It had flickered there for just a moment and then was gone. It had made her feel as if he knew her smiles and flirts were as fake as the jewels in Aunt Lettie’s necklace.
But she was being ridiculous, wasn’t she? How could he know anything beyond what she’d showed him? After all, she knew so very little about him .
His emergence on the London scene about a year ago had caused quite a stir. The Town tabbies were still all atwitter about it. The eleventh Viscount Carew had died without an heir. His widow, the Viscountess, had led a lengthy and extensive search to locate a relative who could save the Carew line. And yet, she’d failed. All of the Carew property and assets were in the process of reverting back to the king when this mysterious stranger appeared on the widow’s stoop clutching a family Bible and various other bundles of paperwork that proved he was the one and only heir to the Carew title. Apparently, he was a distant cousin to the former bushy-haired, hawk-nosed Carew. A very distant cousin.
Unlike his predecessor, this newest viscount was as handsome as sin.
Well, certainly he wasn’t that handsome. No man was that handsome. Or worth the bother.
Lia searched where she’d last seen him lounging like a careless roué against a pillar. Sure, he had a certain indefinable luster. He was dressed much like every other gentleman present that night, with a high-collared black dress coat and tails that fell to the backs of his knees, snowy white waistcoat, gleaming ankle boots, and matching breeches. His shirt wasn’t as frilled as many of the gentlemen’s. But the frills, Lia decided, wouldn’t have suited the hard angles of his jaw. His neckcloth, the purest of whites, was folded in a quite pleasing and elaborate horizontal Ballroom Tie knot that, like his clothes, were the height of style. There was nothing overtly special about his outfit. He simply filled out his clothes with superior grace, especially his breeches.
It was wrong for a lady to notice a man’s muscular thighs. But how could she not? His exquisite legs made her yearn to write sonnets, which was very, very unlike her.
She frowned.
His hair, as black as the midnight sky, was longer than fashionable. It made him look as if he’d fallen out of the pages of a maudlin Minerva Press novel. That dratted gothic hero image again. A troubled, romantic lord, hiding some deep and convoluted secret. What a ridiculous thought.
The blasted man was turning her into a fluff brain.
He’d attracted quite a crowd since the end of that last set. Some of the loveliest and most eligible ladies on the marriage mart now surrounded him,
But no, if she were to be honest with herself, it wasn’t the ballroom that had her nerves on edge tonight. It was the devilishly masculine, dark-eyed Lord Carew making the back of her neck prickle and her cheeks feel flushed.
He was watching her. She could feel his heated gaze even now.
His intense interest frightened her.
Yes, frightened , she firmly told herself as she and Lord Duncan edged their way through the crowd toward the far end of the room. She’d been frightened, not intrigued, by Lord Carew. Definitely not fascinated by his wickedly dark eyes or brooding looks that made him perfectly suited to play the tragic hero in some horrid gothic novel. She didn’t even like gothic novels.
She’d waltzed with him. Though his gloved hands had never strayed from their proper places, and he never stepped closer than what society deemed acceptable, that singular set had set Lia’s heart to pounding. His intoxicating scent, a delicious aroma that conjured images of fresh dewy mornings in the woods and vast open spaces, had left her uncharacteristically giddy. And though the waltz had ended several hours ago, she could feel his warm touch on her body as if he possessed her still.
Even more unsettling than her uncharacteristic reaction to him had been the knowing look she’d read in his dark, sensual gaze. It had flickered there for just a moment and then was gone. It had made her feel as if he knew her smiles and flirts were as fake as the jewels in Aunt Lettie’s necklace.
But she was being ridiculous, wasn’t she? How could he know anything beyond what she’d showed him? After all, she knew so very little about him .
His emergence on the London scene about a year ago had caused quite a stir. The Town tabbies were still all atwitter about it. The eleventh Viscount Carew had died without an heir. His widow, the Viscountess, had led a lengthy and extensive search to locate a relative who could save the Carew line. And yet, she’d failed. All of the Carew property and assets were in the process of reverting back to the king when this mysterious stranger appeared on the widow’s stoop clutching a family Bible and various other bundles of paperwork that proved he was the one and only heir to the Carew title. Apparently, he was a distant cousin to the former bushy-haired, hawk-nosed Carew. A very distant cousin.
Unlike his predecessor, this newest viscount was as handsome as sin.
Well, certainly he wasn’t that handsome. No man was that handsome. Or worth the bother.
Lia searched where she’d last seen him lounging like a careless roué against a pillar. Sure, he had a certain indefinable luster. He was dressed much like every other gentleman present that night, with a high-collared black dress coat and tails that fell to the backs of his knees, snowy white waistcoat, gleaming ankle boots, and matching breeches. His shirt wasn’t as frilled as many of the gentlemen’s. But the frills, Lia decided, wouldn’t have suited the hard angles of his jaw. His neckcloth, the purest of whites, was folded in a quite pleasing and elaborate horizontal Ballroom Tie knot that, like his clothes, were the height of style. There was nothing overtly special about his outfit. He simply filled out his clothes with superior grace, especially his breeches.
It was wrong for a lady to notice a man’s muscular thighs. But how could she not? His exquisite legs made her yearn to write sonnets, which was very, very unlike her.
She frowned.
His hair, as black as the midnight sky, was longer than fashionable. It made him look as if he’d fallen out of the pages of a maudlin Minerva Press novel. That dratted gothic hero image again. A troubled, romantic lord, hiding some deep and convoluted secret. What a ridiculous thought.
The blasted man was turning her into a fluff brain.
He’d attracted quite a crowd since the end of that last set. Some of the loveliest and most eligible ladies on the marriage mart now surrounded him,
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