Nicola and the Viscount (13 page)

And yet somehow Nicola thought kissing Nathaniel Sheridan would be a very different thing from kissing the God. Because while gods were all very well and good, there was something to be said for mere mortals. Especially mere mortals who happened to have very nice, highly kissable-looking lips, such as Nathaniel Sheridan's…

“I say.” Sir Hugh was looking around at all the roses in the room. “This place has taken on a bit of a funereal tone, don't you think?”

Eleanor, appalled at her fiancé's bringing up something so morbid in front of her still-mourning friend, gave him a kick on the ankle. Sir Hugh, however, did not take the hint.

“What are you kicking me for, Eleanor? All I was saying is that if I were Miss Sparks, hanging about in this mausoleum of a room would not be at all appealing. What say you to a ride in my curricle, Miss Sparks? You haven't been out-of-doors in days, I know, and I think it would be just the thing, a little wind in your hair, and sun on your cheeks.”

Nicola looked down at the rose in her lap. A few hours before, she'd have rejected Sir Hugh's invitation out of hand, as she'd have been too frightened of running into Lord Sebastian even to consider a run through the park.

Now, however, she had the strangest feeling that Lord Sebastian—the idea of Lord Sebastian, anyway, which had always been more daunting to her than the real Lord Sebastian, in any case—had lost the last of his power over her.

“Why, thank you, Sir Hugh,” Nicola said, looking up with a smile. “I should like that very much.”

Then, with a glance at Nathaniel, she added, “That is, if the Sheridans would join us.”

Eleanor said, “Of course.”

But it was Nathaniel's answer for which Nicola found herself waiting with some suspense. His easy smile and “It'd be my pleasure,” were as welcome to her as the sunshine that awaited them outside.

And really, out of all of it,
that
was the most curious thing of all.

A girl who had survived the ignominy of a broken engagement might reasonably spend the rest of the social season in hiding, far from the critical eyes—and tongues—of matrons who might be less than sympathetic toward her, as their own daughters had not yet received a proposal, let alone had the privilege of breaking one.

In fact, it might almost have been preferable for a young woman to wait until the following season to reenter the social scene, in the hopes that by that time, her indiscretion might be forgotten, or at the very least put down as a youthful blunder.

But Nicola Sparks was no ordinary young woman. One might have attributed this to the fact that she had never known her mother, and so had never, except for her time at Madame Vieuxvincent's, been schooled in the appropriate course of action in such a case as this one.

Or it might have been something innate within Nicola that would not allow her to shrink, as so many young women had before her, into social anonymity, following her public scandal.

Whichever the case, the fact was, Nicola passed only a week out of public scrutiny. The following Wednesday she was right back at Almack's, where her reception from the hostesses installed there was chilly, but not completely lacking in sympathy.

For it could not be forgotten that Nicola was an orphan, with only Lord Renshaw in the way of parental guidance. And of course anyone who knew Lord Renshaw—and everyone, much to their regret, did know Lord Renshaw—could have nothing but pity for his ward. Though there were a great many people who felt a good deal more sympathetic toward the rich and handsome Viscount Farnsworth than they did toward the lowly Miss Sparks, no one particularly despised Nicola for what she'd done, as the general thinking was that she was very young, and hadn't, until recently, had much in the way of adult supervision.

And so upon her arrival at Almack's the Wednesday following her breaking off her engagement, there was a minimum of nastiness toward Nicola…but a great, great deal of curiosity.

“But
why
did you do it?” Stella Ashton wanted to know. Nicola had barely made it out of the ladies' cloakroom before being besieged by questions pertaining to her broken engagement. “The viscount is the handsomest man alive!”

“
I
wouldn't cast off the handsomest man alive,” declared Sophia Dunleavy. “Not unless I discovered something very dreadful about him, such as a clubfoot, or a wife yet living.”

Stella Ashton—who Nicola was relieved to see had taken her advice about her yellow gown, and given it up for a shade of palest pink that suited her complexion a good deal better—sucked in her breath.

“Oh, say it isn't so! A wife yet living? Lord Sebastian? Wherever does he keep her? Oh, don't say Scotland!”

Nicola was forced to calm the girls' fears, explaining that Lord Sebastian had neither a clubfoot nor a secret wife in Scotland, that she knew of. She had, she informed them, decided merely that she was too young to marry yet, and had chosen to cast the viscount back for some girl more deserving and better ready to settle down.

“And I would think,” Nicola scolded her former schoolmates, “you would be pleased I did so, as all of you might take your turn at him now.”

There was gratitude among her fellow debutantes, which was good. What Nicola most feared—that some of them might suspect the true reason behind Nicola's breaking off her engagement to the viscount—did not occur. Not a single time that evening did she hear the dreaded words, “He was only marrying her for her property in Northumberland,” or the name of Edward Pease.

So in that way, at least, Nicola escaped some of the indignity she might otherwise have been forced to endure.

But not all of it.

Because of course if a broken engagement was not going to dissuade Nicola from attending Almack's, it most certainly wasn't going to dissuade any of the Bartholomews—who were busy maintaining an air of bewildered blamelessness in the affair—from using their tickets, as well.

In Honoria's case, and possibly even Lady Farelly's, Nicola suspected the blamelessness might not be feigned. Honoria surely could not have known of her father's and brother's wretched plans for her beloved friend's childhood home. She knew only that Nicola had, suddenly and inexplicably, broken off all relations with her family, with hardly a good-bye.

And so her reception of Nicola that evening was accordingly, and perhaps even deservedly, cool. In Honoria's eyes, Nicola had grievously injured her poor brother, a crime for which she could not soon be forgiven. Nicola could not tell the other girl the truth because, really, except for the map she'd found, she had no proof of what she suspected….

And the map she'd come by, of course, through less than scrupulous means.

So when Honoria, in the middle of a quadrille, cut her, Nicola pretended not to notice…though everyone else in the room, she was quite certain, saw it, and most likely approved. Her eyes stung at the unfairness of it all, but Nicola managed to finish the set, and even to curtsy to her partner with her usual grace and aplomb.

But that did not mean that, on the inside, her emotions weren't seething. For not only had Honoria quite cruelly snubbed her, but she had also, Nicola saw with dismay, had every last feather that Nicola and Martine had so diligently stripped away sewn back onto her gown. She looked, not to put too fine a point on it, ridiculous.

How Nicola longed to go up to her and say, “Hate me, my lady, all you want, but for the love of God, get rid of the feathers. They don't suit you, not one bit!”

But such an outburst—at Almack's, anyway—would be unforgivable. And so Nicola bit her tongue, and tried not to look in the Lady Honoria's direction, lest the urge to pluck became too great to be borne.

Fortunately Nicola had not had to face all of this adversity alone. No, she had the protection of Lord Sheridan, who, while only a viscount, at least had a title, and a reputation for not snoring too loudly in the House of Lords, which was better than nothing. And Lady Sheridan, as well, was a well-liked and well-respected member of society. Her sheltering Nicola went a long way toward stilling many of the tongues that would ordinarily have wagged about her without stopping. If Lady Sheridan thought the girl worth sponsoring, then there must, many a matron decided, be something there worth salvaging.

And of course she also had Nathaniel, Eleanor, and Sir Hugh, all of whom had taken Nicola under their own personal care, and would not allow her to dwell upon her misfortunes. With each blow she took that evening, they soon had her rallying again….

At least until, across the room, she happened to spy Lord Sebastian.

Nicola had, up until that moment, avoided laying eyes upon this so-called gentleman for a week. The last time she had seen him had been when she'd told him she could not marry him.

A good many people in the assembly room seemed to know this. And so when Nicola's gaze met the viscount's, a hush fell over the people around and between them, as if everyone were waiting—and perhaps even hoping—for one of the players in the little drama erupting before them to do something interesting, such as burst into tears and run from the room, or perhaps draw a pistol and put a bullet in themselves.

When neither event transpired—Nicola chose merely to ignore the viscount, and he, after one long, inscrutable look, returned the favor—the crowds, disappointed that there was to be no bloodshed, neither emotionally nor physically, went back to what they were doing.

But Nicola, much as she tried to pretend otherwise, was affected by what had occurred far more than she cared to admit. Lord Sebastian had looked so handsome, standing there in the candlelight, his golden hair slightly tousled from dancing, and his purple evening coat, so snug-fitting, looking so fine! To think, that all of that manliness might have been hers, and hers alone! Never mind that he had turned out not particularly to want her. He had still chosen her, her above all others….

Fortunately, Eleanor noticed the warning signs, and she took Nicola by both shoulders at her earliest opportunity and gave her a slight shake.

“Jolly,” she reminded Nicola in a whisper. “He said he loved you because you are so
jolly
.”

Which, really, was all it took to bring Nicola out of the depression into which the sight of her former fiancé had sunk her. Of course. What had she been thinking? It would never have worked out between the two of them. Lord Sebastian would have tried to convince her to sell Beckwell Abbey, for the sake of his father, and Nicola would have refused, and there would have been nothing but ill feeling in the family. She would have become the dreaded daughter-in-law, the one blamed for everything, regardless of whether or not she was the guilty party, and all because she had been so stubborn and intractable over a silly little abbey in Northumberland….

She wouldn't think about it. She wouldn't.

And she didn't. She was having quite a nice time sitting with Nathaniel and pointing out to him all the ways in which the other ladies present that evening might improve upon their appearance with only the slightest adjustments of their wardrobe when, from out of nowhere, the Milksop appeared.

As if Nicola's evening had not been trying enough. No, it seemed she must not only be publicly humiliated by the Bartholomews, but also plagued by her own relations.

As if he'd wished to make himself as conspicuous as possible, the Milksop had chosen that evening to wear an ensemble Nicola could only describe as
most
trying, made up of umber—no, really—sateen, with a waistcoat in a florid shade of pink. It really was most shocking. Nicola could think only that the tailor who made it had done so as a joke. If not, the man ought rightfully to be taken to a village square and immediately shot, so as to prevent him from ever again committing such a heinous crime against fashion.

“Oh, Harold,” Nicola could not help exclaiming when she saw him. “Whatever is the matter with a black evening coat? There is nothing smarter, I think, than a man in a really well-tailored black—”

But the Milksop hadn't, apparently, any patience that night for Nicola's helpful wardrobe tips, since he interrupted her with an urgent bow.

“Cousin, may I have a word with you on a most pressing matter?” he asked, with a glance at Nathaniel. “In
private
?”

Nathaniel, who had observed the Milksop's approach with a single raised eyebrow, said casually, “You know, Blenkenship, it generally isn't considered at all the thing to discuss private matters at public assemblies. Why don't you call upon Miss Sparks tomorrow to discuss this pressing matter.”

It wasn't a suggestion, but a command. There could be no mistaking Nathaniel's tone.

Yet the Milksop would not be swayed. He said, his rabbity lips twitching a bit—not due to having inherited his father's sensitivity to flowers, of which there were more than a few scattered about the rooms, but to an apparent excess of emotion—“I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr. Sheridan. I need to speak to Miss Sparks, and at once.”

Nicola sighed and, standing up, extended her hand toward her cousin.

“You may walk me up and down the room,” she said severely. “But only once. If you cannot say all you have to say in that time, then I advise you to put the rest in a letter, as I haven't the patience tonight to listen to it…as I suppose you might imagine.”

This last remark referred, of course, to Nicola's current social status as a girl who'd broken off her engagement to a handsome and popular member of the assembly…not an enviable position to be in.

“But that's why I'm here, you see,” the Milksop hastened to explain to her in a low voice as he walked with her the length of the room, half the distance he'd been allowed during which to say his piece. “It's about Lord Sebastian.”

Nicola, noting that a number of heads swiveled in their direction as the Milksop said this last, shot her cousin an aggravated look, and said in a hiss, “Not so loud, please, Harold.”

The Milksop, glancing nervously about the room, lowered his voice and whispered, “I have been trying to reach you all week. I have something very serious to discuss with you. Why have you not agreed to see me?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Harold,” came Nicola's sarcastic reply. “I only broke off my engagement to the man with whom I thought I'd be spending the rest of my life. I apologize for not receiving callers, but as any normal person might expect, but which apparently did not occur to you, I was prostrate with grief.”

The Milksop looked exceedingly surprised to hear this. “You, Nicola? I don't believe it. I've never seen you prostrate before. Not even after your pony died.”

Nicola longed for her seat in the corner beside Nathaniel. There was something so very nice about Nathaniel, a fact Nicola had never, until very recently, realized. It wasn't only that he was so very attractive—although, of course, that certainly helped. But Nicola also quite enjoyed the fact that, since that day in the drawing room, they seemed to have come to a sort of unspoken understanding with one another: they were friends. While they still argued, of course—and even occasionally fought, as they had just that afternoon over the literary merits of Mr. Scott's latest (Nicola thought it a masterful work, while Nathaniel put it down as pig swill for the masses)—they seemed to agree a good deal more often than they disagreed, much to Nicola's surprise. They even agreed that Sir Hugh was good for Eleanor, and that Phillip needed a good deal more discipline than he seemed to be receiving from either of his parents.

It was, on the whole, excessively strange. And excessively wonderful. And Nicola wanted to return to it just as soon as she possibly could.

“I assure you, Harold,” she said tiredly, wishing she could end this interview posthaste, “I felt my broken engagement most keenly. Now tell me, please. What is so important that we have to discuss it here, in the middle of a ball?”