Page 17 of Vanquishing the Viscount

He tried to focus on the play of light on the whisky glass and rekindle his enthusiasm for the ball. But all he could see was the governess’s devastated face and the tears glistening in those hazel eyes at his harsh accusations.

He’d never knowingly driven a woman to tears before. Miss Hibbert didn’t even know the true nature of her crime. Her play-acting tonight had been a touch paper to his emotions—emotions he’d held in check ever since Belinda had thrown him over for Cornwallis. And he’d unfairly taken it out on Miss Hibbert.

It was time to stop blaming anyone but himself for that debacle. He should have acted sooner, asked Belinda for her hand as soon as he was sure she would make him the perfect wife. That was all there was to it.

He’d spent so much time courting her, he’d been so certain they were made for each other, he’d never imagined she felt differently. There was the laughter they’d shared, the dances, the carriage outings, the walks, the stolen kisses. Mama had been right—Waterloo had become a mere shadow lurking at the edges of consciousness when the golden image of Belinda was before him.

Belinda’s face faded, replaced in his mind’s eye by the sweet, sad face of Miss Hibbert. Why did this stranger, whom he’d met but thrice, have the power to move him to such an unaccustomed display of emotion? She clearly thought nothing of him, or his opinion—was that the reason? He wasn’t used to being disliked, but in her case, he’d made a total ass of himself, and thoroughly deserved her disrespect.

He was an honorable man, so an apology was in order. For upsetting her, at least. He still couldn’t condone her pretending to be a countess, even in jest. Maybe one day he’d look back on this unfortunate incident and laugh about it with Charles.

But not today. He was still too cross at being made a fool of.

There was, however, something he could do today.

Thumping the glass down on the leather surface of his desk, he leaped to his feet and set off in search of Miss Hibbert, determined to make amends.

Chapter Eleven

Emma spent the rest of the evening accepting as many requests to dance as she could fit on her card, determined to keep Lord Tidworth at bay. If he so much as breathed in her general direction—which he seemed alarmingly determined to do, following her around the room no matter where she turned—she took refuge with another dance partner, until finally he gave up the chase and disappeared off to the card room.

Thank heaven.

It was Miss Philippa who precipitated their departure from the ball, by spilling a large glass of port down her tunic, making her look more like Clytemnestra than a decent English gentlewoman. Mr. Charles made no effort to bid his host farewell, for which Emma was extremely grateful. She was too exhausted to face the viscount or his parents, and her efforts to avoid the man had left her nerves in shreds.

Philippa dozed off almost as soon as their carriage lurched away down the tree-lined drive, but Charles, despite a slight slur in his speech, was wakeful.

“What exactly did you do to put Tidworth in such a pet?” he asked her.

Should she tell him about the incident on the road before her arrival at Figheldene? Perhaps not.

“He recognized me,” she said. “We met briefly when he was last at your house. He didn’t like our jest—he thought we were making fun of his guests and felt it unfair when they were all donating grand amounts to his good cause.”

Charles sniffed. “He used not to be so particular. His experiences during the war took all the humor out of him.”

Ah. That would explain a lot. “I didn’t realize he’d been a soldier. Was he wounded?”

“Only minor injuries—a couple of saber cuts and some fractures, all long since healed. But his older brother, Nathaniel, died of gangrene in a veterans’ hospital before his parents could get him home.”

“But that’s awful!”

“Yes, but don’t look so gloomy, my dear Miss Hibbert. James is not to be pitied. While you and I have not a feather to fly with, Tidworth’s so well set up, he can afford to give it away in barrow loads. He’s been a bore tonight. Let’s decide how we will punish him.”

Revenge was the last thing she wanted—what would that achieve? It was better not to make an enemy of a man of his station. She’d already told him she came from a once-great family, and if he decided to make inquiries… Mrs. Keane would not be impressed to discover Emma had hidden her true identity. And without a good reference, what chance did she have of finding another respectable position?

She shook her head. “Some of what he said may well have been deserved. I think he was trying to speak to me so he could apologize. Please, forget about it.”

Charles drew a finger around the neck of his Harlequin costume, then unclipped his ruff and yanked it off. “Stupid piece of neckwear,” he muttered. “Yes, James Markham, Viscount Tidworth. I would say he’s a capital fellow, mostly. Not really like him to be rude to ladies. Although I can easily guess why he’s sensitive these days.”

Emma sat forward. “Why?”

“Because, not very long ago, he was jilted by the woman he intended to marry.”

“That must have hit him hard,” she said, recalling the conversation she’d heard below the schoolroom window. “I assume they didn’t make it as far as the altar?”

“No, it didn’t get that far. He courted her for a year, but she was corresponding with another man the whole time. Poor show. Very shabby to treat a decent sort like James that way.”

Her jaw dropped. Even she would be forced to think twice if she received an offer from the Earl of Rossbury’s heir. And she had plenty of reason to distrust the attentions of handsome, magnetically attractive aristocrats.