Dancing with the Viscount (Howertys Prequel Novella)

Chapter 6: Rakes, No Thanks

"May I have this dance?"

Amelia pulled up her fan, pretending to be hot so she could hide her grin, as she curtsied before the Marquess of Pensington. It wasn't the first time they had danced, but it had been some time since he had last asked her to stand up with him. Hopefully, it was because she had caught his interest and not simply him being polite and ensuring everyone was dancing. It wasn't as if she lacked willing partners. Had she wanted to, she could have filled her dance card quite quickly. One of the advantages of being a duke's daughter. Also, one of the disadvantages.

While fully aware that she was privileged, she also knew that the level of interest she received was not wholly because people enjoyed her company, but also often because they wished to be seen with a duke's daughter. She struggled to find genuine friends because of it. Few young ladies were at her level, and as such they either feared her censure or simpered when she was near—both equally frustrating. She wasn't a difficult person to please. She really wasn't.

As the handsome marquess led her out onto the dance floor, she smiled up at him. As a marquess, he was one of the most eligible bachelors of the Season, and she could feel the eyes of every other unmarried young lady following them. If anyone was to catch the marquess's attention, surely it ought to be her? Preston liked to remind her the man had no intention of marrying anytime soon, but as a titled lord, he would need a wife eventually, and she was determined to be in the forefront of his mind when that time came. Ideally, not too long from now.

"Are you enjoying the Season?" the marquess asked as they followed the steps of the dance. He watched her with interest, and her cheeks heated. The man really was one of the most handsome bachelors with his nearly black hair and equally dark eyes.

"I am, thank you." She smiled. "How is your sister? I believe this is her first Season?"

"She is well, thank you." He smiled wryly. "Though I suspect she would rather have stayed home at Davenhall reading books. Balls and parties are not exactly her preferred form of entertainment."

"A good book is certainly to be appreciated, but I must confess that personally, I prefer life in London to the countryside most of the time. I enjoy meeting other people outside my family."

"I enjoy London too," the marquess admitted. "Though I am also very fond of my family, and I enjoy my time when I visit my country estate where they live."

"Perhaps my family is simply too boring." Amelia giggled. "If they were not such boring old codgers, I might enjoy time at home more."

The marquess chuckled. "I would never speak ill of your family."

"You may not," she agreed with a grin. "But I am their kin and may say all the wicked things I wish."

The chuckle morphed into a laugh, and she was rather proud of herself for accomplishing it. A quick sweep of the ballroom confirmed others had noticed the marquess's amusement as well. Her eyes briefly met Preston's where he stood by the open terrace doors and he winked and lifted his glass in a mock salute. Something in her stomach lurched. Forcing her gaze back to her dancing partner, she tried to forget the strange feeling.

It proved harder than expected and as the dance ended, the strange impulse to seek Preston out frustrated and annoyed her.

I just want to gloat about my progress. It sounded like a lie, even to her. Grabbing a glass of punch from the refreshment table, she took a large sip. Why was she thinking about Preston? He was her brother's friend. And in a strange sort of way, her friend. He was definitely not someone she would consider an option for marriage. He was a rake, and she had no interest in rakes, reformed or otherwise. She'd had enough of rakes to last her a lifetime.

Her brows drew together as the object of her thoughts came ambling towards her, his drink still in his hand. His stupidly handsome face was relaxed as he smirked at her unhappy countenance.

"What have you glowering so?" he asked as he fell into step next to her when she walked towards the terrace doors.

"Nothing," she muttered, unwilling to disclose her thoughts.

"I thought you would be overjoyed after dancing with Pensington," he mused. "He seemed to enjoy himself."

"It was a good dance." Stepping out on the terrace, she took a deep breath of the cool evening air.

Obviously not finished talking, Preston followed. "That's it? 'It was a good dance'?" He frowned. "What is the matter with you? This isn't the Amelia I know."

Turning to face him, she crossed her arms over her chest. "Nothing is the matter. Has it occurred to you that perhaps I am not always smiling? Not always the pleasant Amelia that has a kind or amusing word for everyone? That sometimes even I get weary?"

"No one can be constantly cheerful. I have never expected you to." He shook his head as he stared down at her. Seemingly without thinking, he reached out and tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. The feel of his warm fingers against her temple almost made her flinch. "I only meant that you seemed happy a moment ago," he continued. "Now you appear to be miserable."

Lifting her hand to rub at her temple where he had just touched her, she closed her eyes for a moment. "I appear to have developed a migraine," she mumbled. "I think I should return home."

"If that is what you wish." He sighed. "I will find your chaperone."

With that, he disappeared inside while she remained on the terrace for a moment longer, staring after his tall form as he disappeared from view. What was this madness? Surely she was not attracted to him? She could not be. This was wrong. All wrong. Preston was all wrong. He was everything she did not want. And everything she did want. He had a title—even if not quite as high as her father probably wished—he was handsome, and he made her smile. He was a good man. But he was also a rake. Everyone knew so. And she could not allow herself to fall for a rake. Not again.

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