“And this is my good friend, Walter St Clair,” said the red-haired man.
Lavinia nodded stiffly, not knowing what to do. It was all so unexpected. And the red-haired man had broken every protocol in the book by introducing himself and his friend to her outright, instead of waiting for an acquaintance to do it.
They were both gazing at her expectantly. Lavinia jumped a little. They were waiting for her to introduce herself to them!
“Miss Lavinia Beaumont,” she stuttered. “Pleased to meet you both.”
The red-haired handsome man’s smile widened.
“Lavinia,” he said slowly, his green eyes shining. “She is Lavinia, therefore must be loved …”
Her heart started beating wildly. Was he mad? What was he saying to her?
“Shakespeare,” he said, seeing her stupefied expression. “From Titus Andronicus. Lavinia was the protagonist’s daughter.” He paused, colouring a little. “I do not know why that suddenly popped into my head …”
“Do not mind him,” intercepted the other man, glaring at his friend. “Samuel is a bit of a Shakespeare buff. He’s always quoting some obscure line from some old play or other.”
“I like Shakespeare,” she said, suddenly finding her voice. “A Midsummer’s Dream is my favourite play of all! It used to be performed every July, in our local village, down on the green …” Her voice trailed away. What on earth was she babbling on about?
But Samuel Hunter’s smile widened, gazing at her with open admiration.
“Literary, as well as beautiful,” he said slowly. “I like a lady who knows her Shakespeare.”
Walter St Clair coughed into his hand, looking mortified. Quickly, the red-haired man stepped back a little, as if suddenly realising that his speech was rather intimate, considering they had literally just met. Lavinia could feel herself blushing to the roots of her hair.
He is lovely, she thought, her eyes flickering over him with wonder. She had never met such an open, unaffected man in her life, utterly willing to speak his mind, without all the boring constraints of society. He also seemed to pulse with life as if pure energy, rather than blood, was running through his veins.
He called me beautiful, she thought, in wonder.
Suddenly, she came back to earth with a thud. She was standing here, in the middle of this crowd, speaking to two men that she had not been formally introduced to. Two men she knew nothing about. It was slightly shocking, and she really should try to get away from them, as quickly as possible.
She turned around slightly, searching for Bea or Freddie, near the food table. She couldn’t see either of them, but she suddenly saw her other cousin, India, sipping champagne as she laughed flirtatiously with a gentleman.
Lavinia sighed wearily. India would not be pleased at being interrupted, but there was nothing else for it.
She turned back to the two men. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly, her colour deepening again. “It was nice to meet you both. But I must go to my cousin …”
The red-haired man’s face changed, just a little. He didn’t look pleased by her words.
“Must you?” he entreated, his green eyes darkening. “Why do you not come and dance with me instead, beautiful Lavinia?”
Her heart started beating again wildly. He was so unconventional, she hardly knew how to respond to him. The fact that he was addressing her by her given name, rather than the usual Miss Beaumont, made her head spin. Usually only people of a close acquaintance were allowed such a liberty. How was he unaware of the convention?
She should stand up tall and scold him for being overly familiar. And then she should turn around and march away, without a backward glance, as punishment for his effrontery.
But strangely, she felt rooted to the spot. She couldn’t do either. She was shocked, but she wasn’t offended. And she wanted to keep talking to this strange, handsome man. She wanted to stay close to him.
She took a deep breath. Should she accept? Should she dance with him, even though they had not been properly introduced?
He was watching her closely, waiting for a reply. But he didn’t ask again. Instead, he waited patiently, as if he had all the time in the world.
She took another deep breath. Her head felt suddenly giddy. Why not? Why on earth couldn’t she dance with him if that was what she wanted to do?
“Very well,” she said, her heart hammering hard. “I will dance with you … Samuel Hunter.”
His face broke out into a big smile. He looked delighted. Quickly, he glanced at his companion.
“You alright by yourself, old chap?” he said, his face almost splitting in two with his smile.
Walter St Clair nodded, smiling indulgently. “Never fear, I will amuse myself,” he said drily.
Samuel Hunter proffered an arm, and she took it. He led her through the crowd until they were on the edge of the dance floor. Suddenly, he stopped, gazing down at her.
“I hope that I haven’t shocked you too much,” he whispered. “Introducing myself like that. I just couldn’t let you melt away into that crowd, that was all.”
Lavinia blinked rapidly. At least he was acknowledging that he was aware that convention had been broken. And really, what did she care about it, anyway?
Her eyes drifted over the dancers. Sophie was twirling on the arm of Lord Fortescue, her face rosy from the dancing. She was so absorbed that she didn’t even notice that her little sister was there.
Sophie would say that it mattered, thought Lavinia. Sophie would say that it proved he was a man of little breeding; that he had betrayed how common he was. She would say that it proved her belief that they should only allow themselves to be courted by gentlemen of the nobility.
Was she right? Was the man standing beside her so common that he couldn’t even be bothered with the proper ways of doing things? But then, she suddenly remembered the stiff, bored manner of Sophie’s upper-class friends.
She knew which she preferred.
The music slowly faded, and the dancers stopped, clapping politely.
“Ready?” he said, raising his arm again.
She hesitated for a moment, then took it. The orchestra started up again, and they drifted onto the dance floor, facing each other.
Chapter 5
Samuel gazed down at the petite, slender woman he was leading onto the dance floor. He simply could not believe his luck, that he had met her.
He had known that she was staring at him, through the crowd. He had felt eyes on him and been amazed to find that they belonged to a beautiful young lady. She had coloured abruptly and turned away, but he had felt that spark of connection with her instantly.
And then, he had seen her in the crowd. She had seemed to be struggling to make her way through it. He had quickened his step, pushing past people, until he was directly behind her. He had no idea why he was doing it. At that point, he had no intention of recklessly introducing himself to her.
But then, she had stepped back, colliding with him. The opportunity had presented itself, and he simply couldn’t ignore it. There was little chance he could be formally introduced to her, considering he was not even at this ball under his own name.
He had shocked her, that was obvious, with his boldness. She hadn’t known how to respond. But it had been worth it, just to be so close to her. To gaze at her lovely face.
She is beautiful, he thought now, as they faced each other on the dance floor. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a woman so beautiful. Her complexion was pure peaches and cream; completely fresh and unblemished. She had a round face, with high cheekbones, and large cat-like eyes the colour of a bluebell, surrounded by long, dark lashes.
She had dark hair, as well, falling in tendrils down the side of her face. It took all his willpower not to reach across and pick one lock up, stroking it gently in his hand.
He grinned to himself. He didn’t think that he could push it that far, yet. He had shocked her, by introducing himself, and calling her by her given name, b
ut he knew that he intrigued her. That was the reason she had accepted his invitation to dance. He didn’t want to blow it entirely.
The dance began, and they moved towards each other in the same timeless steps that were always used. He had danced this particular dance a hundred times before; he could probably do it in his sleep. But at the same time, it was as if he had never danced it before.
And he knew that Miss Lavinia Beaumont was the reason.
All around them, the dancers moved. No one even glanced in his direction. It really seemed that it was working; that his reckless decision to come to London for the season as Mr. Samuel Hunter, middle-class landowner, instead of the Viscount Pemberton, was succeeding.
He and Walter had scoured the ready to wear clothing shops, carefully selecting his clothes. He knew that the quality alone would stand out, marking him as a commoner. And then he had altered his hair and sideburns into a style that he had never had before. Usually he wore his hair back, in a short ponytail, eager to get it off his face. The barber had instead cut it into a style called the Cherubin, where the curls amassed, falling haphazardly over his eyes. It was a little too fashionable for his tastes; usually the London dandies wore it. But it was different. He was becoming Samuel Hunter, after all.
It helped, of course, that he had been absent from the London seasons for years. The ton changed constantly, coming and going from London like a flowing river. He hadn’t seen one single person at this assembly that he recognised. The relief was palpable, and so incredibly freeing that it was all he could do not to break away and do a handstand in the middle of the dance floor.
He was having the time of his life.
He could walk through the crowd completely unmolested. No one was treating him with any special reverence; in fact, they were utterly ignoring him. He was free to dance with any young lady if he could convince her to do it. No one was judging or watching him.
And meeting Miss Lavinia Beaumont was just the icing on the cake.
He gazed at her now, feeling his heart start to hammer in his chest. She had agreed to dance with him because he intrigued her; she had no ulterior motive whatsoever. In fact, she had defied convention to dance with him. It was so utterly incredible that he just couldn’t stop smiling.
He walked close to her, taking her hand, as the dance dictated. At the touch of her skin, he felt a strange prickling in his hand. His heart started to beat faster still.
“So,” he said, circling her. “You are a Shakespeare lover?”
She looked startled as if she hadn’t expected that he would talk to her at all. But then, she smiled. He noticed that when she did, her cheeks dimpled, in a charming way.
“I like him,” she declared, her blue eyes shining. “But I have not read enough of his work to say that I am a lover, I am afraid.” She paused. “I have read Macbeth, and Twelfth Night, as well as being familiar with his sonnets …”
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he breathed, gazing down at her. “Thou art more lovely, and more temperate …”
She blushed furiously. “I am familiar with that one,” she said eventually. “Sonnet 18?”
Samuel nodded. “It is one of the most famous love sonnets of all time,” he said slowly, as he crossed her path, still dancing. “I must say, I am impressed. Most young ladies know only a scattering of poems or pulp fiction, but you seem to be an actual reader, and of quality literature.”
Lavinia smiled. “I am a reader, and I love poetry! My mother is always scolding me for having my nose buried in a book.”
“No Gothic romance, like most of the young ladies devour, if they read at all?”
She laughed, wrinkling her nose slightly. “I must admit I have tried them, but they are not to my taste.” She gazed at him curiously. “What is your occupation, Mr Hunter, if I may be so bold to ask?”
Samuel baulked a little. He had prepared a back story for the character of Samuel Hunter, but he hadn’t really thought it through too much. He had thought that he would try to deflect any enquiries, as much as possible. Only say as much as he needed to. If he gave too much detail, then he might trip himself up.
“I am a landowner,” he said slowly. “I own five acres near Glastonbury.” Choosing Walter’s home county seemed easiest. “And you are in London for the season with your parents? May I enquire who they are?”
“My father is Lord Beaumont,” she replied. “We own a townhouse on Grosvenor Square. But we usually reside at our country estate, in the Cotswolds.”
Samuel nodded. So, Miss Lavinia Beaumont was part of the nobility. He had guessed as much. There was just something in her bearing and manner, and she was richly attired.
His eyes travelled over her, carefully assessing. The gold and green gown that was so bewitching on her had obviously cost her parents a pretty penny, and the jewellery that she wore was subtle, but of the highest quality.
How would she react if he suddenly told her he was a viscount? Would her frank manner change? Would he see her eyes light up, furiously assessing the possibility of snaring such a prize, as most young ladies did when they discovered who he was?
He kept gazing at her steadily, as they danced, weaving around each other. He hoped that she was different. She seemed different, but how was he to know? He had only just met her. And besides, he was Mr Samuel Hunter, landowner, to her now. And that was the way that it had to stay … at least for the moment.
The dance was finishing; the orchestra played the last notes. They faced each other again, clapping politely.
It was at that moment, when the dance ended, that he noticed another young lady, on the edge of the dancers, watching them intently.
***
He was just about to ask her if she required some refreshment, after the dance, when the young lady who had been watching them so keenly approached.
Lavinia’s face lit up. “Sophie! There you are!”
“Here I am,” said the lady quietly, staring pointedly at him. There was an awkward silence for a moment.
Lavinia grabbed the lady’s arm, turning her to face him. “Sophie, may I introduce you to Mr Samuel Hunter.” She paused. “Mr Hunter, this is my dear sister, Miss Sophia Beaumont.”
He bowed slightly, and the lady curtseyed. Her brown eyes were flickering over him, carefully assessing. He could see by her face that she wasn’t overly impressed.
“Mr Hunter,” she said slowly. “You are enjoying the ball?”
“Very much,” he replied, smiling. “It has become even better since I met your lovely sister.”
He gazed at Lavinia warmly. She blushed slightly, and he could see that her eagle-eyed sister noted the fact. Her lips pursed in disapproval.
So, Lavinia’s sister was a social climber, he thought. The older Miss Beaumont didn’t approve of her sister cavorting with a supposed commoner.
He stared at her. She was beautiful, just like Lavinia, and it was apparent they were sisters. They had the same bone structure, and similar colouring. But Sophia Beaumont seemed far more wary and reserved. Would her manner change towards him if she knew he was the Viscount Pemberton? He had a feeling that it would, far more than with her lovely, open sister.
But then, she suddenly gave him a dazzling smile, surprising him completely.
“And you are in London just for the season, Mr Hunter?” Her voice was warm.
Falling for the Mysterious Viscount: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 4