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Unsure of what she wanted, or where she thought the conversation might be going, Neville simply returned her stare for a moment before clearing his throat.
“I hope that I did not injure you, or ruin your gown with my clumsiness, Lady Henrietta.”
“Even if the gown were ruined, it would hardly matter, Lord Seabury. Papa is more than capable of replacing as many gowns as I might ever ruin in a season.”
“No doubt,” Neville nodded vaguely, his mind still elsewhere despite his wishes otherwise. “Your father’s estates do quite well, or so I am told.”
Neville cast a quick glance over his shoulder, suddenly wishing he’d gone back to the townhouse, rather than to Hyde Park. He was in no mood for polite conversation, however grateful he was for the warning Lady Henrietta had given him about Miss Wingfield.
“Tell me, Lord Seabury, can we ladies of the ton who are not yet promised in marriage to someone expect to see you at Lady Mowbray’s St. Valentine’s Day Ball?”
Lady Henrietta batted her pale eyelashes at Neville, and Lady Middlebrook materialised at her daughter’s side, as if mention of a Ball had somehow summoned the Countess and caused her to appear out of thin air.
“I had not planned on attending,” Neville shrugged. “Lady Mowbray’s events tend to be a bit… flamboyant and eccentric for my taste.”
“Surely you do not mean to deprive the eligible young ladies of the ton of your delightful and charming presence, Lord Seabury?” Lady Middlebrook clucked like a hen, shaking her head. “That would be most disappointing, indeed.”
Neville bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning aloud. After a moment, he nodded.
“You are quite right, Lady Middlebrook. I will do my best to put in an appearance at Lady Mowbray’s Ball, then, at the very least.”
“How delightful!” Lady Middlebrook clapped, nodding her approval. “We look forward to seeing you there, Lord Seabury.”
“It will be my pleasure, I’m sure,” Neville said. He gave a stiff bow. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have some business I must attend to. Good day to you both.”
He turned and scurried away before their goodbyes were even properly out of their mouths. He positively dreaded any and all functions hosted by the wildly eccentric Lady Mowbray, but refusing to attend after Lady Middlebrook had pressed him about it would have felt too rude to bear. Besides that, Neville felt terrible about knocking Lady Henrietta over.
If his presence at some silly St. Valentine’s Day Ball might help Lady Henrietta forgive him for his thoughtless clumsiness — which had all but ruined the back of her dress, he was sure — then he would just have to suffer through it like a man. He would be polite and well-mannered. And perhaps he would be lucky, and Miss Wingfield and the Count D’Asti wouldn’t attend the Ball, so he wouldn’t have to see the two of them together.
* * *
The Count D’Astihad suspected that Miss Wingfield might have started the rumour of their betrothal herself. It wasn’t an uncommon practice among enterprising young women seeking an eligible and titled husband, after all.
To say that he was startled when he overheard her declaration that his arrival must be a joke would be an understatement. However, Marco Bianchi, Count D’Asti, would not be ruffled by the unexpected. No, he was used to the unexpected, to say the least, and the rumour that Miss Susan Wingfield had been promised to him since her birth could not have come at a better time.
The last thing Marco had expected when he entered Lord Billington’s drawing room and laid eyes on the young woman he was supposedly betrothed to for the first time, was for her to laugh at him, turn ghost-white, and crash to the floor in a faint, as if she’d seen the very devil himself.
Even stranger was the presence of another gentleman who attended Miss Wingfield so closely that Marco did not even have the opportunity to attempt to come to her aid. And to be chastised for shocking her, as well? This day was to be full of surprises, indeed, then.
Still, Marco was a man on a mission, and he would hardly be deterred so easily. The coffers needed filling, and he was a Count in want of a wife. Miss Wingfield was of noble birth, with a decent dowry and striking beauty to aid her.
Marco studied her unconscious form until someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, then, taking in Lord Billington with a quick nod.
“Shall we discuss my betrothed, Lord Billington?”
“Since she and her living family members are unaware of any such betrothal, Count D’Asti, I should think it only fair that you court her this season, like any other eligible suitor might. What say you?”
Marco chuckled at that and inclined his head.
“If that’s the way you’d like to play it, Lord Billington, then I shall gladly rise to the challenge of winning Miss Wingfield’s hand and her heart.”
As confident as Marco seemed on the outside, he found himself quite unsettled. What if he could not win Miss Wingfield’s heart? What was he to do then?
That was an outcome he refused to consider – could not afford to consider. His creditors would only wait so long, and everything would be lost if he could not at least show that he would soon have the funds to pay.
He would simply have to woo the young woman – very fast. Surely, she would not be too hard to convince?
