Chapter 1
Fangfoss Manor, Yorkshire
Neville Astley, Viscount Wilton, had never, in all his years, stooped so low as to eavesdrop upon a lady. Or, as in this instance, upon ladies. Although, to be fair, one could hardly consider Lady Charity Manners aladyin the true sense, her honorific aside.
Still, his excuse for doing so now was as humiliating as the words he was currently overhearing.
“You cannot be considering Lord Wilton, Mel. He may be wealthy, but he is a terrible bore.”
There was a pause as Miss Melanie Pennypacker appeared to consider Lady Charity’s words. “He seems pleasant enough.”
Thank you, Miss Pennypacker. I knew you were a lady of worth.
“If one considers a killjoy pleasant,” returned Lady Charity, who, contrary to her surname, did not possess any manners at all.
Akilljoy? How dare she? He was an excellent companion. He knew an inordinate number of puns. Terrible ones, it was true, and he had overcome his habit of blurting them nervously with great effort. He had not uttered a single joke since his arrival at this house party, much to his credit.
“It hardly matters if the man is a spoilsport, as long as he will agree to my conditions,” Miss Pennypacker said.
She had conditions for marriage? A lady after his own heart, should he believe in anything as inconvenient as tender emotions. Which Neville most assuredly did not. Life was far better lived when governed by order, ration, and intellect. All the more reason to be secure in his selection of the American heiress defending him as his future bride.
If only he could get himself out of this alcove without being seen. Admittedly, it had been foolish to dip into the curtained area, where a bust of Venus and some eighteenth-century tapestry was on display, when the door to the gallery had opened. But he had been seeking solitude and quiet. Gatherings as large as the house party at Fangfoss Manor invariably left him ill at ease, with a need to escape. He preferred to be alone. He had imagined that whomever it was who entered would be on his way soon enough.
But he’d had no notion the interlopers in the gallery would be none other than the lady he hoped to make his viscountess and her very irritating, exceedingly scandalous, altogether-lacking-in-ladylike-polish friend. It was a pity Lady Charity’s loveliness had been wasted upon her. No gentleman worth a ha’penny would ever want such an ill-mannered wife.
She was loud. She was bold. She was vexing. She was beautiful. Everything about her was too much. Her lips were too large, her laughter too husky, her hair too blonde.
He shuddered. Miss Pennypacker, on the other hand, more than made up for what her friend lacked. She was intelligent, equally lovely, and more importantly, she was not a wayward, indecent, outrageous minx.
“Lord Wilton is so seriously staid,” Lady Charity was continuing her unprecedented denunciation of his character. “I very much doubt he would consider your conditions, let alone accept. Likely, he would swoon at the suggestion. You know how men of his sort are.”
On second thought, should he be concerned about her conditions? Just what were they? And how weremen of his sort?
He ground his molars until his jaw ached. He was of half a mind to burst forth from his hiding place and denounce her. However, doing so would require him to admit that he had been hiding behind the curtain, listening to their every word. It would also require him to indulge in a tedious conversation with a woman whom he very much did not like.
No, Neville would remain where he was, admiring his host’s newly acquired tapestry, which was an admirably skilled depiction of…
Good God.
Surely that was not two nymphs cavorting with a satyr in the background?
He inhaled in shocked horror as recognition dawned. For it was indeed.
“Did you hear that?” Miss Pennypacker asked.
“Hear what?” Lady Charity returned.
He held his breath as the sounds of their footsteps neared his hiding place. It seemed a despicable fate that he should be discovered ogling a vulgar tapestry by none other than Lady Charity Manners. And as she was in the midst of insulting him, no less.
The footsteps drew nearer still, then stopped.
He awaited his fate, wondering what the devil he would say if the curtains were drawn back to reveal him.
“I think the sound came from the alcove,” said Miss Pennypacker.
Oh sweet Christ, no.
He truly had no wish for this to be his first impression upon the lady he had selected as his future viscountess. Skulking in the shadows, listening to her conversation with her friend like some sort of villain. Nor had he wished for his antisocial tendencies to so readily become apparent.Time, curse it. He had wanted time. The ladies of his past acquaintance had all been horrified by his lack of desire to maintain the societal whirl, beyond his duty in the House of Lords.
