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CHAPTER2
Though Neville Hastings,the Earl of Seabury, counted himself grievously wounded by the exchange which had just occurred, he could not remain as still and stoic as he wished to, when Miss Wingfield swooned and crumpled to the floor.
Count D’Asti be damned, he thought as he rushed to kneel beside the unconscious young woman. Neville’s heartbeat drummed in his ears, drowning out all sound around them as he looked down at her. Some of her dark hair had spilled loose from its pins, splaying out around her deathly pale face.
She looked like an elegant white marble statue, with delicate features carved by the hand of some long-forgotten ancient master, with dark mahogany for hair. Miss Wingfield was a study in contrasts, and the most beautiful creature he’d ever beheld in his life.
Neville reached out, heedless of the Count D’Asti or anyone else in the room, lifting her in his arms and cradling her limp body against his tight, throbbing chest. He stood, then, and carried her to the settee she’d been sitting on when he entered. With absolute tenderness and care, he deposited her on the couch.
His fingers ached with the need to trace the curve of her cheek, or to brush back the hair which spilled loose from her hairpins and fell across her forehead. Instead, Neville rounded on the Count D’Asti with a fierce scowl.
“Shame on you for giving poor Miss Wingfield such a terrible shock!” Neville admonished, his hands balled into tight fists at his side.
Count D’Asti snorted and shook his head, giving Neville a dismissive once-over. “Who are you to chastise me so? My future bride is none of your concern. I think it would be best for you to leave.”
At that, Neville backed away and gave a stiff bow to the room at large. The man was right, curse him.
“Excuse me, please,” he rasped, rushing from the room as fast as his politeness might allow.
Neville couldn’t stand to be in the Count D’Asti’s presence for another second. He all but sprinted from the drawing room, and groaned when Lord Billington caught him at the top of the stairs, gently gripping his elbow.
“You are my dearest friend, Seabury, and I loathe seeing you so aggrieved. And do not try to pretend that you are not upset, not to me. I know you too well, and I’ve never seen you be as bold as you were when you scolded the Count for shocking Miss Wingfield.”
“I… do not know what possessed me, Billington. I’m afraid I’ve embarrassed myself quite enough.”
Lord Billington did not release Neville’s arm. Instead, he cleared his throat.
“Please believe me when I tell you that there is no possibility that Miss Wingfield knew of any betrothal to the Count D’Asti. I know her well, and she would never intentionally lead anyone on.”
Neville winced, shaking his head.
“Be that as it may, it appears that the Count does, in fact, exist. Does that not, then, lend credence to their betrothal?”
“Perhaps,” Lord Billington hummed thoughtfully, “But it is not a certainty just yet. Do not despair so easily, my friend.”
Neville stiffened and squared his shoulders, staring up at the ceiling, rather than looking Lord Billington in the eye.
“Until we know for certain whether or not she is truly betrothed to the Count D’Asti, I think it is best that I keep my distance. After all, I have my reputation to consider, as well as Miss Wingfield’s. The last thing I want is to cause a scandal for either one of us by courting another man’s betrothed.”
With that, Neville hurried down the stairs and out into the cobblestoned street, aiming for Hyde Park. He needed air. He needed time to think. He needed, most of all, to put some distance between himself and this mysterious Count D’Asti as quickly as possible.
Never before in his life had Neville wanted to strike someone, not for any reason. All his life, Neville Hastings had been praised for his calm, gentle, mild demeanour and generally pleasant air. No matter how tumultuous his inner feelings were, he had found that everything was more agreeable when he presented a well-mannered and serene facade to the world.
But right now, Neville wanted to plant the obnoxiously handsome and exotic Count D’Asti a facer. He had walked the short distance from his townhouse to Lord Billington’s. Hyde Park was not too far up ahead. A vigorous walk would help, surely.
With long, purposeful strides, he stormed towards Hyde Park, focused only on dragging deep breaths of the chill air into his lungs. The frosty air was bracing, but not enough to erase Miss Wingfield from his thoughts. The cold fire in her blue eyes when she’d accused him of toying with her feelings was burned into his mind’s eye. His fingers itched to sketch her, even if it was against his better judgment.
Silently cursing himself for a fool, Neville was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn’t realise he had already entered Hyde Park. He certainly didn’t notice the young woman who’d stepped directly into his path – until, that is, he crashed into someone with enough force to send them both toppling to the ground.
The fall knocked the wind out of Neville, and he heard the air whoosh out of whoever he’d knocked into.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he gasped. As quickly as he could, he untangled himself from the flurry of pastel green silk which was the young woman he’d knocked over. The moment he was on his feet, he extended a hand to help her up. “You have my sincerest apologies. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I failed to pay attention to where I was going.”
“That is quite all right, Lord Seabury.”
Neville blinked at the mention of his title. Had he met this young lady somewhere before? Shaking off the dregs of his introspection, he looked the girl over, trying to place her. The hand which lingered in his was almost childishly small and plump. He took in a series of details in rapid succession as he struggled to place the young woman.
Round face. Small, rabbit-like nose. Ruddy cheeks. Full, pink lips which were far and away the most pleasant aspect of her face. Cold, calculating, intelligent blue-green eyes. The look in those eyes reminded him of the look his dogs got before they retrieved birds he’d shot while hunting. Brassy, limp strawberry blonde hair.
It was the eyes Neville came back to.
He’d seen those eyes somewhere before. It took a moment for the memory to catch up to him. She was the one who’d warned him about Miss Wingfield’s betrothal to the Count D’Asti as he was leaving the Thistlewayte Yuletide Ball.
“Lady Henrietta, is it?”
“Yes, Lord Seabury.” The girl gave him a smile which somehow fell just short of being pleasant, and curtsied. “My father, the Earl of Middlebrook, has a country estate which abuts Seabury Grange, you know.”
“Ah,” Neville nodded. “I knew that Lord Middlebrook had a daughter, of course, but I don’t think I quite realised that you were one and the same when we spoke as we were both leaving the Yuletide Ball at Thistlewayte Hall.”
He removed his hand from hers, then, frowning at the dirty spots on the knees of his breeches. He attempted to dust them off, and was surprised — not to mention somewhat befuddled — when he looked up to find Lady Henrietta still standing there, staring at him expectantly.
