“What of Miss L’arbre?” the viscount asked next.
The dark-haired lady in question was scholarly and kind. “She is greatly interested in the ruins here at Fangfoss Manor,” he offered.
“Lady Raina Prince and Lady Angeline O’Shea?”
Damnation.The man trulywasinterested in finding himself a wife.
Dorset suppressed a shudder as he pondered the question. “They are both lovely. However, unless I miss my guess, the Marquess of Rothbury has already captured Lady Angeline’s interest.”
Wilton inclined his head. “There is one more lady on the list of potential brides our hostess sent me, aside from Lady Clementine, who you have already claimed. A Miss Melanie Pennypacker, I believe.”
That the viscount had corresponded with the Countess of Fangfoss and the woman had provided him with a catalog of suitable ladies was further proof that their hostess intended to turn this house party into a veritable matchmaking bloodbath.
“She is an American,” Dorset offered, “with an impressive fortune. A dollar princess, as they say. If you are in need of replenishing the familial coffers, she is the lady you ought to woo.”
The viscount’s frown turned more severe. “My familial coffers are hardly empty.”
Dorset shrugged. “I never meant to suggest they were, old chap. My intent was to help you with your aim.”
It was his turn, so he hit the cue, once more narrowly avoiding striking the object ball.
Wilton regarded him with the first sign of amusement he had displayed thus far. “It would appear that of the two of us, you are the one more in need of help with his aim.”
Well damn it all.The viscount was right, and in more than one way.
Chapter 5
The moon shone high overhead, casting the extensive gardens of Fangfoss Manor in an ethereal, silver glow. The Yorkshire air was cooler than the day had been, tinged with the sweetness of the gardens in bloom. On the air tonight: sweet peas blending with the perfume of Miss Julia’s prized rose collection. But the stillness and beauty of the garden at night was somewhat lost upon Clementine as she made her way along the gravel path for the first time since her unfortunate bee sting incident.
The evening’s entertainment was musical in nature, but since Miss Julia had thankfully not chosen Clementine as one of the evening’s performers, she had decided to take advantage of her lack of official chaperone and slip from the crowded music room. While she was more than happy to be surrounded by her friends for the first time in so long, she could not seem to quell the rising sense of unease which had been haunting her since long before her arrival at Fangfoss Manor.
In truth, it had been haunting her ever since…
Walter.
One name, one man, and yet years later, the memory of their ill-fated courtship still had the ability to affect her. But mayhap it was the notion of being betrothed once more—regardless of the legitimacy of the betrothal—that had spurred her melancholy more than ever this evening. Once, she had been desperately in love, happily on her way to becoming the Countess of Ormond, and then, her future had been ruthlessly ripped from her grasp.
“Oh Walter,” she said softly to herself, wandering along the meandering path, casting her eyes to the gossamer clouds and twinkling stars.
As she had many times since his death, she found herself wondering at the nature of life and death. Could he hear her? Why had he been given to her, why the fragile, finite gift of his love, only to have it, and him, torn so unjustly away?
“Looking for a lover?”
The unexpected voice, a deep rumble with a harsher edge than it ordinarily bore, gave her such a start that she made a most vexing squealing sound. Rather akin to a frightened mouse, she expected. One who was being stalked by a cat about to pounce.
For there, in the milky moonlight, appeared none other than the tall, handsome Marquess of Dorset sauntering about a tall grouping of roses. There he was, in such glaring disparity to her thoughts of Walter; instead, here was the man who waspretendingto love her. The man who was pretending to marry her. What a travesty it seemed.
She bit her lip to stifle the tears that wanted to escape and slide down her cheeks. She would not weep for Walter in the presence of a man who disliked her as much as Dorset had suggested he did. His words returned to her, nettling, hurtful despite her every intention to find them otherwise…no one who knows me will believe I would ever marryyou.
She pressed a hand to her furiously pounding heart and glared at Dorset through the space separating them. “What are you doing in the gardens?”
“Apparently catching my betrothed in an assignation.” He sauntered toward her, and that was when she detected the faint glow in his hand.
The undeniable scent of tobacco reached her, cloaking the floral scent of the blossoms. He was smoking a cigar in the gardens, when he was meant to have been listening to Miss Hortense Sinclair singing whilst Lady Eleanor Grant played the piano. Truly, she could not blame him, even if she was irritated with him for intruding upon her solitude in this evening oasis.
“I am alone,” she pointed out.
“Not any longer,” he countered. “Where is this…who was it you were pining for? Or mayhap you were expecting him instead of me. Walter, I believe you said?”
