Texas Viscount by Shirl Henke Page B

that one. Hope her daddy's rich.”
           Sabrina stiffened her back and turned to look up into the grinning face of “Viscount Wesley.” She struggled to keep her tone civil. The bounder looked resplendent in black evening attire, the cutaway coat and perfectly creased trousers emphasizing his superb physique. His darkly tanned face contrasted dramatically with the pristine whiteness of his shirt. “I see the earl has set his tailor to work on your wardrobe. A formidable task for the poor fellow.”
           Josh looked down at his evening clothes and asked, “You don't think I could've picked these duds out for myself?”
           She resisted a snort of derision. “Only if they were made of denim and trimmed with beads and bear claws.”
           He grinned. “I am right partial to Levi's and a little more trimming on my jackets,” he said as he shot his cuffs and inspected the small ruby studs, matching those on his shirt front. “But if I had the right teacher, I expect I could learn better taste. You should feel it's your professional duty to help out a poor ignorant fellow like me.”
           “I see your uncle has explained the nature of the assignment he had for me. Has he also informed you that I turned it down?”
           Josh shrugged, studying her simple blue gown. Plainly cut with a straight skirt and primly high neckline, it was unadorned except for a bit of white lace at the cuffs and collar. Her only jewelry was a cameo suspended on a thin silk ribbon at her throat. He wanted to pick it up and feel the warmth of her skin emanating from it.
           “You consider me that hopeless? Or aren't you up to a real challenge? I'd be a lot more interesting than those pouty young girls.” There was a dare in his eyes.
           “I work only with young ladies—and they are not ‘pouty.’ ”
           “You didn't answer my questions. Guess I'll just have to show you how much help I really need,” he said as one long arm swept around her waist and he whirled her from the concealment of the greenery and onto the crowded dance floor where a schottische was now playing.
           “Let me go at once,” she hissed beneath her breath. “I'm not dressed appropriately to dance at a function such as this, and I was not invited in any case. I'm an employee of Mrs. Forsythe.”
           She tried to wriggle away, but he held on to her as he made big clumsy steps around the floor, narrowly avoiding bumping into people. He held her right hand in his left, pointing their hands straight out like the prow of a ship plowing through a stormy sea, dipping low, then high again with each giant step he took. She was dragged along with him, and unless she wanted to create an even more hideous scene, she could do nothing but pray for the music to end.
           And stamp on his feet with her heels at every opportunity. But he was surprisingly clever at avoiding her ploy after the first tromp. “Why is it, Lord Wesley, that I suspect you of being less clumsy than you're attempting to appear?” she whispered furiously. “Please release me at once. I shall lose my position with the Forsythes.”
           “Then you'll have to come work for my uncle,” he replied with a grin.
           “I'll kick your bruised shin,” she threatened.
           “It's healed up, just like my eyes. You threatening to blacken them again, too?”
           “How can I do anything with you holding me so tightly?” she muttered.
           “A Texan learns to defend himself when he's no bigger'n a pup, Miss Edgewater. I underestimated you once and I don't figure on doing it again.”
           “You manhandled me,” she snapped.
           “Funny, but when the whole thing started, it didn't seem to me you disliked kissing me all that much.” Lordy, she smelled like wildflowers—or was it roses? Her scent could go right to a fellow's