How to Train Your Viscount

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Caro regarded him in the candlelight. Truly, there was no justice in this world, because the vilest man on the face of the earth remained appallingly handsome. He was wearing his golden-brown hair short these days, cut à la Brutus, which should have looked ridiculous, as his hair was stick-straight, and that style called for windswept waves. Yet somehow it suited him marvelously. (Did anything not suit this man?) His wide-set brown eyes were just as she remembered, which was perhaps unsurprising. Once upon a time, she had spent an alarming number of hours daydreaming about gazing into those eyes. And he was every bit as broad of shoulder and trim of waist as he’d been four years ago, athletically lithe, muscular without being bulky. She would wager that underneath his impeccable black evening kit, he was even more perfectly sculpted than the n***d man two rooms over.

Good God… this was not the line of thought she needed to pursue right now.

He was crossing the room toward her. She felt her throat constrict. Suddenly she was fifteen years old all over again, standing on that balcony and wondering if it was possible to die of humiliation as she watched the subject of her schoolgirl infatuation mock her to a pack of his friends. She was terrified to even open her mouth, because she had absolutely no idea what she was going to do—rage and scream? Be cold and dismissive? Burst into tears?

She had the most terrible feeling the answer was burst into tears.

She lifted her chin. She was not going to let Henry Greville see her cry. “What I am doing is leaving.” She seized her candelabra. “If you will excuse me—”

He stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “Wait—please wait.”

“Although you have shown yourself to be unacquainted with the finer points of decent behavior, even you must appreciate that I cannot remain. If we are discovered here together, I will be ruined.” She laughed blackly. “And as you made inescapably clear four years ago, it is not as if you are going to marry me.”

“No, I mean, yes, I mean… I understand. But I need to speak with you—”

“How unfortunate for you, because I never want to speak to you ever again.” She gathered her skirts and made to step around him.

He grabbed her by the forearm. “I only need one minute.”

It was the first time he had ever touched her. During his visit all those years ago, there had never been an occasion when he had offered her his arm or handed her down from a carriage. The one time she had poured him his tea, his fingers had not brushed hers as he accepted his cup.

And, needless to say, he had never asked her for a dance.

She hated that she knew this, but not as much as she hated the tremor that ran through her in the instant his hand touched her arm.

She took a steadying breath, then drew herself up to her full height, which was a half a head shorter than he was, but never mind that. She reminded herself that she was every inch the earl’s daughter and that she had inherited her mother’s condescending glower. She now employed it in all of its fury. “I will thank you not to manhandle me.” He had the grace to look shamefaced as he slid his hand down her wrist to press her hand.

“Please, Caro.”

His voice was soft, and the raw emotion in his eyes, the sincerity, the longing… It was precisely the way she used to dream Henry Greville would look at her.

But that was back when she had been a naive little fool. She was not so stupid anymore.

That was not love in his eyes. Only pity.

Lady Caroline Astley did not require any man’s pity.

She jerked her hand from his. “I did not give you leave to call me that,” she said, proud that her voice quavered only the tiniest bit. She strode through the door with her chin up, not looking back.