The Unthinkable Read Online Free PDF Page B

Fitzwilliam Hastings.”
    Genie finally glanced at the young man at his side; though how she could have missed him, even for a moment, was incomprehensible. Her breath caught. Surely her eyes rounded with shock? He was tall, with dark blond hair and blue eyes, and quite simply the most handsome young man she had ever set eyes on.
    Stunned into a temporary stupor, but eventually rote training took over and Genie curtsied. “A pleasure, my lord.”
    He seemed to be alone, but she took little relief that there were not two handsome duke’s sons to witness her dreadful gaffe.
    Beautifully white teeth gleamed from behind an amused grin. He bowed and an oh-so-tempting lock of dark gold hair fell forward across his cheek.
    A single thought invaded her mind: She wanted to touch it.
    The highly improper response succeeded in jolting her back to reality.
    A reality where she might have just committed a horrible faux pas. Had he heard her compare him to a frog?
    “Miss Prescott,” he said.
    Two little words. But enough to hear the laughter in his voice. Oh, he’d heard her all right.
    She’d certainly have something to tell Lizzie about now, only the single most embarrassing moment of her life.
    Yet, the charming twinkle in his sea-blue eyes disarmed her. Mirth was not what she expected from a gentleman of his distinction and rank.
    “I hope more prince than frog, Miss Prescott?”
    The color slid from her face. Mortified, Genie wanted to crawl beneath the nearest table and hide. “Though you might not agree once you meet my brother Henry.” He laughed. His obvious good humor lifted the blanket of uncomfortable tension that had descended upon the small group. Even her staid brother Charles smiled.
    Genie blushed at his gentle teasing. Lord Fitzwilliam Hastings was certainly not the too-proud man she assumed. Perhaps only a few years older than herself, she decided that he must be the second son. The elder had a title, Viscount Loudoun. Still too embarrassed to meet his gaze, she did manage a small smile in return. “Then I’ll reserve my judgment, my lord, until I have had the pleasure.”
    Surprised by her own playfulness, Genie stole a quick glance.
    From the way his dimples deepened, she could tell that he admired her pert reply. “If I promise not to croak too loudly, will you do me the honor of a dance?”
    Her pulse raced. She hoped her voice sounded less eager than she felt. “Of course.”
    He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Even through the leather of her gloves, she could feel the firm strength of his hand and the hard muscle of his arm as he placed her fingers in its crook. She seemed to be aware of everything about him, from the overwhelming strength of his tall, lean build to the hypnotic clean scent of sandalwood that surrounded him.
    It was strange. She’d never had this reaction with her other dance partners. She glanced at him from under her lashes. Though she supposed none of her other dance partners looked like they stepped straight off the pages of a fairy tale.
    The Country Dance began and the next half hour was interspersed with only the occasional snippets of conversation.
    He was enjoying his time in Gloucestershire thus far. He found the long stretches of farmland near the river Severn crossed by the old stone walls particularly beautiful. Peyton Park seemed a fine country house and was more than sufficient while Donnington Park was undergoing improvement, thank you.
    Conversation might have been limited, but Genie had never enjoyed a dance more. When the divergent movements of the dance prevented speech, he communicated with her in other ways. Just by the way he stared at her, his interest was clear: the intensity of his gaze, the subtle lifting of a brow, the irrepressible charm of his roguish smile.
    Genie couldn’t help but bubble with pleasure. She knew she was probably smiling too broadly, her eyes too bright, her cheeks too flushed, but she bloomed under his appreciative