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It was at this horrifyingly direct disaster of a moment which Edward Calthorpe, Marquess of Billington, chose to enter the drawing room in his London townhouse. He stopped short and went very still, taking in the red faces and flared nostrils, and the daggers Susan seemed to be staring at his friend. Edward opened his mouth, probably about to ask what on Earth was going on, but Lord Seabury had gathered his wits enough to respond to Susan’s accusation at exactly that moment.
“I most certainly did not set out with the intention of causing you emotional distress, Miss Wingfield. I was just as enchanted at that Yuletide Ball as you claim you were, enraptured, even, and I had every intention of seeking you out during the Season. It is purely by happenstance that I discovered, just as I was leaving the very Ball you mentioned, that you are — in fact — already promised to the Count D’Asti, and that he has recently arrived in London with the intent to claim his betrothed. So, if anyone here captured someone’s affections only to emotionally wound them in the cruellest way imaginable afterward, I’m afraid that fault must be laid at your door.”
Susan felt positively faint. The room spun, suddenly too hot, too cloying for her taste. She frowned over at Georgiana, wondering if Lord Seabury was, in fact, quite mad.
“I assure you, Lord Seabury, I know of no such person and no such arrangement, and I would never dream of toying with your emotions in such a manner.”
Edward stepped up then, laying a calming hand on Lord Seabury’s shoulder. “I know my sister-in-law well, Lord Seabury, and I can vouch for her honour. She would not have danced with you if she were aware of any promises of marriage made regarding her.”
“That’s right,” Georgiana said, wrapping a protective arm around her younger sister’s shoulders. “If Susan were promised in marriage to a foreign Count, would we not know of such an arrangement? Surely, this is just interference on some meddlesome gossip’s part. I sincerely doubt whether such a man even exists.”
No sooner had the words left Georgiana’s lips than a footman entered, clearing his throat.
“May I present the Count D’Asti, here to see the Viscountess of Gainsbourne.”
It was the most absurd thing Susan had ever heard. She stared at the footman.
“Surely, this is a joke.”
But in strode a tall, dark, handsome man who must have been Italian, with his olive skin and dark, brooding gaze. He cut a proud and imposing figure, to be sure. Susan could have spit in his eye, just for daring to exist, for appearing at exactly the wrong moment and destroying any future happiness she hoped to have, simply by entering the room.
“I assure you, amate, I take our betrothal quite seriously.”
The dark gaze he directed at her was nothing short of scorching, and might have warmed the blood of any other young lady.
Susan, however, let out a bark of laughter which was nothing short of hysterical, teetering on the edge of madness, and fainted dead away.
