Page 36 of When the Viscount Seduces
She sat on the forward-facing seat and noted that the viscount was across from her. Did he not want to sit next to her? His coach was large enough for them to do so quite comfortably.
“Good evening, Miss Price. That is an excellent choice of gown, though it still doesn’t quite say ‘reclusive Great-Aunt Beatrice.’” He smirked at her.
“It was the best I could do. At least it’s dark blue. And I wore sturdy boots.” She lifted her hem and held out one foot, wiggling it for his perusal.
“Very clever. You didn’t forget your veil, did you?”
“No. It was just too large to fit into a reticule.” She lifted her skirt higher. “You may want to turn your head.”
His eyes widened before he snapped his head to the side and closed them. “What are you doing?”
“I had to tuck the veil up my skirt.” She pulled it from where it was tucked into her petticoat and settled her gown back down over her legs. “You can look now.”
It took him a moment to return his gaze to hers, and when he did so, Gwen was intensely aware of a smoldering heat. What had happened?
She recalled what he’d said that afternoon about being a rogue and how if she’d been anyone else, he would have stolen a half dozen kisses or more from her by now. Indeed, she’d thought of that revelation many times in the intervening hours. She was torn between wishing she’d never known that and hoping he might yet kiss her.
Though, she shouldn’t want that. Not from a rogue. Except it was precisely for that reason that she did. To be kissed by the Viscount Somerton had to be a transcendent experience. It was too bad she would never know for certain.
“Are you just going to drape that over your head?” he asked.
“Yes, why?”
“I thought you might have a hat or something. How will you keep it in place?”
“I have pins.” She smiled at him. “Those fit in my pocket.”
Placing the veil over her head, she adjusted it so the ends hit her shoulders. Then she pulled the pins from her pocket and set them in her lap.
“You look as though you’re going to a nunnery,” he said.
Gwen laughed. “Do I? How would you know how someone would dress before visiting a nunnery?”
“Not to visit,” he clarified. “To become a novice or whatever one does to learn to be a nun.”
“I am definitely not doing that.” She put one pin through the veil on top of her head and stuck it into her hair. “You are going to have to aid me this evening. I’m afraid I can’t see well. When I tested it earlier, I walked into a chair in my bedchamber.”
“I will be at your side all evening.”
“Perchance asking someone who is already ungainly to wear a veil was not the best plan.” She inserted another pin. “But I will persevere.”
“Did you practice your speaking voice?” he asked.
“I did,” she responded in a high, measured tone. “I tested several, and this seemed the easiest and most believable. Does it sound all right?”
“You sound like a bird who’s drunk a flagon of wine.”
Gwen snorted a laugh, which reminded her of her friends Persephone and Minerva. Both were great snorters. She applied the last pin and shook her head to ensure the veil was secure. “How do I look?”
“Not like a nun in training, but a fortune-teller speaking to the dead.”
Sniggering, Gwen smoothed the veil down against her head. “Perhaps I’ll try conversing with Shakespeare or Milton.”
“You will be the toast of the salon.” He leaned toward the window. “We are nearly there. Are you ready to become Miss Beatrice Villiers?”
Gwen nodded. “This is the most exciting night of my life. Everything about it exceeds my imagination. I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m so glad.”
