Chapter Two
Although she had spent the evening waiting to be asked to dance, when it finally happened, she found herself at a loss for words.
He was just so handsome. Tall, imposing, with dark eyes that made her feel like she might melt into a puddle before him.
“Yes, Mr. Walsham. Of course,” she managed to say eventually, just catching a look of irritation on her brother’s face that she did not fully understand. Surely he would be pleased that she had been asked to dance? Especially by the son of a viscount—and one he apparently knew, too.
As the musicians prepared for the next dance, the gentleman offered his hand to her and led her onto the dance floor.
He bowed to her, and she curtsied back, and they danced in near silence until he said, “Allow me to say what an enchanting shade of red your hair is, Miss Carrington. Why, under the light of the candles, it almost looks like flames.”
Anastasia couldn’t help but smile. She found her red hair often attracted attention, but more for being unusual—something that marked her as different—rather than something that was generally complimented.
She had always liked its rich shade, especially as it was so similar to their dearly departed mother’s, but she did not think that was the common consensus.
“You are very kind, sir.”
“Not kind,” he said when the dance brought them back together, “Merely honest. I must tell a beautiful woman she is beautiful if I have the chance.”
Anastasia found herself blushing and could not meet his eye. She did not think she had ever been called beautiful before—and certainly not by a man as handsome as Mr. Walsham.
They did not speak again, and when the dance came to a close, he bowed low before her and said, “Your servant,” before leading her back to her brother, who had—rather surprisingly—remained to watch the entire dance.
As she stood and watched the people milling around, her eyes were drawn to Mr. Walsham’s tall figure as he cut through the crowd, perhaps on his way to procure refreshment or to ask another young lady to dance.
She could not tear her eyes from him.
“I have a card game starting soon. Once it is over, we shall leave.”
“Very well, Oliver.” It was not a case of when the card game ended, but when her brother ran out of money.
She knew little of matters of the estate, and yet she knew they had never had to worry about money while Papa had been alive.
At the rate Oliver had been spending since his death…
she hoped there was no need for concern.
She didn’t dare mention the amount of money she knew Oliver was spending on drinking, gambling, and other pursuits.
It wasn’t her place. He owned everything—and she was a burden.
That was the way of the world. She just hoped there would be enough money for her dowry when she did find a man she could imagine marrying.
She had no aspirations to marry a titled gentleman, but it was rather nice to imagine that a man like Mr. Walsham might show interest in her this season. A handsome man, who made her feel fluttery, with eyes she could lose herself in…
Of course, she knew that most matches in this world did not take place because the lady found the gentleman attractive and kind. No, they were usually matters of business, arranged without much input from her at all, if any.
And she did not think she would mind too much if her brother sorted out the details—although she would have much preferred that her father was the one to do so. As long as the man was not unkind, and not so ancient that she would be a widow before she was twenty-five.
*
Laurence was surprised to find that the pretty little redhead remained in his mind for the rest of the evening.
He did not know Carrington well; they’d been introduced at White’s by a mutual acquaintance and had seen each other there on another couple of occasions.
In truth, Laurence had not found the man particularly likable.
But there was no reason to give him the cut direct, and so when he had called his name, he had, of course, been polite.
Had he asked the débutante to dance out of politeness?
Not particularly. He liked to dance, especially with pretty young women—and there was something about her red hair that drew him in.
Also, she had looked so lost, even among the sea of people.
He had found himself wanting to draw her into the crowd instead of leaving her watching on with her brother.
He had definitely felt sorry for the shy redhead at Carrington’s side, but he did not think that was the reason why he had asked her to dance.
Nor was it the reason that she remained on his mind.
He did not normally have any interest in débutantes, especially after he had danced with them once.
He would never want to give a false impression or raise expectations.
That was why his liaisons were limited to widows who understood the way things worked.
He struggled to picture himself married.
He was sure it would happen one day, especially if he was to keep his word to his father, which he fully intended to do.
But the idea of one woman expecting him to come home every night, expecting him to confide in her…
presumably expecting him to be faithful…
He wasn’t sure it was something he could do.
Perhaps he would have to find a wife who understood that those things could not be expected of him. That he was a free spirit, and that he did not wish to be contained. But neither would he wish to return home to a downcast wife who was hurt by his behavior.
As he enjoyed a whiskey in the card room, he hoped very much that the need to marry was many years in the future.
Hopefully, by then, a more settled life would appeal to him.
He watched the table where Oliver Carrington was playing and observed the man putting down more and more money, losing rather spectacularly to Baron Brett. Then he downed his drink and stormed out.
He certainly seemed rather a difficult fellow, and Laurence found himself hoping that his sister did not have to deal with the wrath he was surely feeling after such a loss at the card table.
*
“You shouldn’t dance with Mr. Walsham again,” Oliver said as their coach rattled toward their home two hours later. It had been a long two hours, with Anastasia feeling awkward and alone, and now her brother was in a foul mood, having clearly lost a lot of money.
Anastasia frowned. “Why not? I thought he was a friend of yours and that he was to be a viscount someday.”
“He is a perfectly good friend for me to have, and yes, one day he will be a viscount. But he will not marry the likes of you, and your reputation will be damaged if you spend much time with him.”
She was glad it was dark enough that her brother was unlikely to see her wince at his harsh words. Of course, she didn’t expect a viscount to ask for her, for she was an untitled lady with a modest dowry. But he didn’t have to say it so cruelly.
“I doubt he will ever ask me to dance again, so I’m sure you need not worry. But pray tell, why on earth would my reputation be so damaged by another dance?”
“You must pay more attention to the gossip around you, Anastasia,” Oliver said with a sigh.
“The man is a renowned rake—a different woman every week, or so I’m told.
The things that are said about him at White’s…
” He waved his hand in the air. “Well, they aren’t really appropriate to share.
Suffice it to say, he is not the sort of man you want people thinking you spend time with. ”
Anastasia felt her cheeks redden at even the mention of his rakish ways, without any of the salacious details.
She had been fairly sheltered throughout her life and had no real knowledge of how the world worked; of what went on between men and women when they were not under society’s close scrutiny.
But she could not find herself all that surprised that a man like Mr. Walsham—handsome, charming, with that roguish smile—would be rather popular among the ladies of the ton.
And as her brother noted, she did not listen to gossip.
She never had, and so she had not heard any whisperings about Mr. Walsham’s character.
She supposed her brother was only looking out for her, making sure she did not ruin her prospects so soon after they had re-entered society.
Although she struggled to see what harm another dance could really do under the watchful eye of all those society matrons.
“I do not wish to be rude, especially to a future viscount,” she said, trying to imagine a situation in which Mr. Walsham asked her to dance again and in which she said no. She could not fathom it.
“Well, as you say, it is unlikely to happen again. Perhaps I was foolish to introduce you. His partiality for redheads is well known. If it does happen, though, you will know to try to make some excuse—or else you are taking your reputation into your own hands.”