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CHAPTER9
Neville had intended,at the outset of the Season, to avoid Balls entirely, so he would not have to see Miss Wingfield any more than necessary. It galled him, body and soul, knowing that she might very well truly be betrothed to the Count D’Asti, and the last thing in the world that he wanted was to see the two of them together at some Ball or another.
Though he had never before thought of himself as the jealous type, something about the thought of seeing Miss Wingfield dancing with that arrogant, smug creature D’Asti set Neville’s blood boiling, though he knew it wasn’t his place to interfere. No, it was best if he left them both alone entirely.
And yet, somehow, he had not only allowed Lady Middlebrook to talk him into attending Lady Mowbray’s St. Valentine’s Day Ball, but he had also found himself obligated to attend Lady Walcot’s Ball to make good on his promise to keep a helpful eye on Lady Henrietta at this year’s society events. He’d even received a letter from Lady Middlebrook to thank him for his thoughtfulness in agreeing to look out for her sweet little Henrietta, along with a not-so-subtle hint stating that they hoped that he would be true to his word, and they would see him at Lady Walcot’s Ball that evening.
Neville was nothing if not a man of his word, so he’d decided to attend quite at the last minute. The instant he arrived, he regretted being there. Lady Henrietta rushed to meet him the very moment he entered the ballroom, with her mother barely a step behind her, and the Earl of Middlebrook bringing up the rear. Lord Middlebrook was the only one who looked like he wished to be at the Ball even less than Neville did, but he greeted Neville with a polite nod and a tired smile.
“We are so delighted that you are here to grace us with your most wonderful company, Lord Seabury.” Lady Middlebrook smiled, dipping in a curtsey which Lady Henrietta mirrored with a broad, if somewhat forced, smile.
The young lady reached up then, as if to straighten the sapphire tiara nested in her brassy red-gold hair. When she did, he could not help noticing the dance card which hung from her gloved wrist.
The moment Neville spotted the dance card, his stomach dropped to his feet. He remembered, of course, the conversation he and Lady Middlebrook had had, upon their visit to his townhouse just a few days ago. Fool that he was, Neville had promised Lady Henrietta the first dance of the evening at Lady Mowbray’s Ball. Judging by the coy look she had now fixed upon him from beneath her lowered lashes, she expected him to do so at this Ball, as well.
Though Neville had no particular desire to dance with Lady Henrietta, he did not wish to hurt her feelings or embarrass her. Neville could not muster an ounce of cruelty, no matter how much he wished to deter her from affixing any romantic hopes on him.
He darted a sideways glance at Lady Middlebrook, and sure enough she was watching him through narrowed, expectant eyes. The Countess had not forgotten their conversation, and Neville could not, in good conscience, pretend he didn’t remember it. So, he motioned to Lady Henrietta’s dance card.
“May I request the pleasure of a dance with you, Lady Henrietta?”
The smile she flashed him then was positively feline. She extended her dance card to him, her eyes flashing victoriously as he signed his name on the first line.
“I would be honoured, Lord Seabury. Thank you.”
As Neville released the dance card and straightened up, he locked gazes with none other than Miss Susan Wingfield. Her blue eyes narrowed as their gazes clashed, and she looked him up and down, her expression growing ever more frigid by the second. Neville did not think her expression could become any colder, but then she seemed to register that he’d just signed someone else’s dance card.
They hadn’t made any promises to one another, despite the connection they’d both felt at the Yuletide Ball, but the way Miss Wingfield’s shoulders drew back, and her lips pressed into a hard, thin line, pierced him deeply. Neville’s gut twisted as Miss Wingfield leaned over and murmured something to her sister, Lady Billington.
Every instinct Neville had urged him to go to her, to explain that he had no romantic feelings for Lady Henrietta, to explain that he was simply humouring his neighbours from the country by looking out for their daughter during her first Season out in society.
Judging by Miss Wingfield’s expression, not to mention Lady Billington’s and Lady Eugenia’s — who flanked Miss Wingfield on either side — Neville was certain that his explanation would be less than welcome. Even so, he found himself taking half a step toward her, hating that icy, stiff, tightly withdrawn expression which was marring Miss Wingfield’s painfully beautiful face.
As he lifted his foot to take another step towards Miss Wingfield, the musicians struck up their instruments. Neville nearly choked to keep from groaning aloud. He did not wish to hurt Lady Henrietta’s feelings, after all. So, he turned and dutifully extended a hand to the young lady to whom he had promised the first dance of the evening.
“Shall we, Lady Henrietta?”
She all but beamed, took his extended hand, and bobbed in a curtsey which Neville could have sworn was meant to draw every eye in the room to them.
“I’d be delighted, Lord Seabury.”
Lady Henrietta’s pleased purr seemed to be well-practiced second nature, but it did little to soothe the ache constricting Neville’s chest.
He could feel Miss Wingfield’s gaze following them to where the dancers were forming up for the first set. His skin crawled, almost burning with the weight of her gaze. Even as Neville faced Lady Henrietta on the dance floor and bent at the waist in the requisite bow, a thought occurred to him.
Miss Wingfield’s silent admonition pains me so deeply it is a physical ache. Should I be subjected to it for very long, I fear I might collapse and perish under its weight. I have done nothing wrong, yet I feel like a brigand.
Neville shook his head, as if that might somehow clear his thoughts and pull him back to the present, back to the dance which he was obligated to share with Lady Henrietta. With every movement and step of the dance, however, he found his gaze drawn inexorably back to Miss Wingfield.
Her pale, powder blue gown gave her already pale skin an unearthly, borderline translucent hue. There were strings of pearls artfully woven into her dark hair, as well as dripping from her ears and hanging around her neck and wrists, over her elbow-length white gloves. Neville rather doubted that the heavens held angels who could equal Miss Wingfield’s striking, breath-taking beauty.
With great effort, Neville dragged his gaze away from Miss Wingfield and turned his attention back to Lady Henrietta and the dance they were sharing. Lady Henrietta flicked a quick glance in the direction Neville had been looking, moments before, and she sniffed, as if she smelled something unpleasant.
As they stepped closer together, twirling around one another, Lady Henrietta’s lips gave a little twist of disapproval and she spoke in a snobbish tone which would surely carry to the other people dancing closest to them.
“I confess myself quite shocked that Miss Wingfield dared to attend Lady Walcot’s Ball at all, when she led you on the way she did, surely knowing full well that she is already promised in marriage to the Count D’Asti.”
Lady Henrietta’s smug, haughty tone — not to mention the looks it drew from those dancing nearest them — left Neville gritting his teeth so hard that he was certain they would break at any moment. When he spoke, his voice was low and heavy with warning.
“I must ask you not to speak ill of Miss Wingfield in my presence, Lady Henrietta. There may be certain facts of the matter with the Count D’Asti which we are not privy to, and she is the sister-in-law of one of my dearest friends in all the world. It would not be a wise thing for anyone at this Ball to cross the Marquess and Marchioness of Billington. One day, they will be the Duke and Duchess of Thistlewayte, and I do not think anyone in attendance at this Ball is fool enough to want them as enemies, either now or later.”
“You are right, of course.”
Lady Henrietta’s cheeks burned deep crimson with shame, and Neville found himself hoping that the miniscule dose of censure he’d given her would leave her feeling some small measure of humility, at least enough to stop her from saying such things again, when so many people who were prone to wagging their adder tongues stood well within earshot of them.
The set ended, and Neville offered Lady Henrietta another stiff bow.
“You must excuse me, Lady Henrietta. I fear I am feeling quite unwell. Until we see each other next, I bid you farewell.”
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