Page 8 of A Viscount’s Reluctant Passion

Chapter Four

Chase looked at him strangely when he chose to return home early, but was wise enough not to question him. Nash arrived back at Travers House, and immediately settled himself in the library with a far bigger brandy than he would usually have indulged in. He was a thrice damned fool – there was no question of it. He had been so determined to treat Miss Wormsley well, to show the ton that their gossip about her meant nothing, that he had allowed himself to forget his own rules.

Passion led to pain. It was to be avoided.

Yet he had allowed himself to be captivated by her, to begin, he had to admit to himself, to care. So much so that this evening’s instant of madness had seemed completely reasonable in the moment. The memory of it – the warmth of her skin, the scent of her perfume, the softness of her lips – left him aching even now.

But, as he sipped the brandy slowly, a realisation came to him. His determination to show the ton that their gossip meant nothing had not abated. And the only way to do that was to continue to be attentive to Miss Wormsley. Already, since he had started his campaign, a number of other men had begun to pay her more serious attention. He was not sure that he enjoyed that success, for, when he watched her dance with another man, he found it unaccountably difficult to stay in the same room.

But she deserved the attention – she deserved to find a better man than he to marry, to make her happy. If the price of helping her do that was to continue to call upon her, and to ask her to dance at Balls, then so be it – even if she rejected him again, he would persist – for her benefit, if not his own.

He swallowed the last of the brandy, and took himself to bed. He drifted to sleep, his mind still full of the feel of her in his arms, and of the recognition that, yet again, he was choosing a path which would make his brother declare him to be irredeemably mad.

~~~~~

Bea had determinedly kept the smile on her face as she re-entered the ballroom. She would not permit herself to think about it – not until she was home and safely in bed. This few weeks, she was mostly staying at Blackwood House, so as to be with Honour, and to make it easy to prepare for social events – it had become, of late, rather more like home than Wormsley House had ever felt – as much as anywhere in London might feel like home.

She had, she thought, done rather well at maintaining a cheerful face, although Honour had given her one or two odd looks. She had danced with an assortment of men whom she did not like, refusing to allow herself to compare them to anyone… to Lord Challoner… who had departed the Ball not long after she had left him on the terrace.

Now, finally in her bed, the fire banked and her maid gone from the room for the night, she permitted herself to think about it again. And to cry. She did not cry very often, but this occasion drew tears from her. She had hoped… and the kiss had seemed the confirmation that those hopes were valid – until his words had shattered her.

This last few weeks, his company had shown her what was possible, when a man allowed that a woman’s thoughts had value. She had treasured every minute, and from that joy in conversation a hope for far more had grown. She had, she admitted to herself now, been dreaming of him kissing her.

The reality had been far better than the dreams.

She would keep the memory – but she knew better now than to ever expect that kiss to be repeated. He had spoken as if he was ashamed of it – of wanting to kiss her! Was she beneath him in some way? Or did he really think that it mattered not what she thought, that society’s rules were more important than her feelings? She did not know – but she knew that a man who thought like that would not, could not, truly love her.

There, she had thought the word. The thing that she had hoped for, the thing that her sister had found, and which she envied. Love. The thing that she suspected she would never have.

Some time later, her tears had dried, and she lay there, staring at the canopy above her. Tomorrow, there was another Ball. Most nights this next two weeks, there was an event of some kind. And then, after that, they would go to the country. Most likely, she would go to Blackwood Chase with Honour and James, rather than home to Wormsley Manor – for her mother would be glad of the peace and quiet, and Bea would be glad to be away from those who had talked of her, behind her back, her whole life.

But every event of the next two weeks would present a chance for her to see Lord Challoner again – unless he went immediately to the country? She was torn – she wanted to see him again, and she did not. If she did, what would she say to him? Could they ever converse comfortably again?

And, whispered a tiny voice inside her, would he ever kiss her again, and create that sensation where she melted inside from the heat of his nearness?

~~~~~

The following evening, Bea stepped into the ballroom at Gallopton House and found herself scanning the room – looking for him, of course. No matter how pointless it was, after the previous night’s events, she could not help it – somehow, she needed to see him.

And see him she did – in what was, most likely, the worst possible place. He was dancing, with Lady Phyllis Templeton. The remains of the food she had eaten before coming out seemed to curdle in her stomach, and she turned her gaze away, unable to bear watching.

But the image was imprinted in her mind – his hands holding Lady Phyllis, as they turned through the steps of the dance, his eyes on Lady Phyllis’ face, as if no one else existed. She pushed her emotions aside. She was being foolish – Lady Phyllis was a far better match for Lord Challoner than Bea could ever be – she had a dowry twice the size of Bea’s, was far more beautiful, and had a reputation unbesmirched by gossip.

None of which made Bea’s heart ache any less.

They crossed the room, and as Honour and James spoke with friends, Bea simply watched the others around them. Her eyes kept drifting back to the dancers, and each time, she forced her gaze away again. After some minutes, Lord Walter Winterbourne approached her, and bowed.

“Good evening, Miss Wormsley. Might I say that you look beautiful tonight? And I believe that you are watching the dancers, rather longingly – might I assuage that longing by dancing with you for the next set?”

Bea almost laughed – he thought her expression was a longing to dance, not a longing for one particular one of the dancers. But if Lord Challoner was going on with his life as if she did not exist, then so must she go on as if he did not exist. She curtseyed to Lord Walter.

“Of course, my Lord. I do believe that this set is about to finish, so your timing is perfect.”

He offered her his arm, and she allowed him to lead her to the floor, just as those who had been dancing began to disperse. They came almost face to face with Lord Challoner and Lady Phyllis. Bea’s eyes met Lord Challoner’s, and for a moment, nothing else existed.

Then the movement of Lord Walter’s arm beneath her hand brought her back to reality, and she dragged her eyes away. For that moment, it had been as if the previous night’s terrible events had not happened, as if they were still close friends, with nothing difficult between them…

But that could not be… could it?