Their quadrille had passed pleasantly enough, but he had not been presented with much opportunity to press his suit. Strangely, although he had previously been quite keen on the prospect of Miss Pennypacker as his bride, he felt remarkably less enthused both during last night’s dance and now.
He could think of no other reason save one for that sea change.
Flora.
Since last night, Neville had been able to think of precious little other than the goddess who had lured him into the shadows of the garden and goaded him into kissing her beneath the moonlight. And kissing her.And kissing her.
He would have liked to have done far more than kiss her.
Best not to think of that now. Not in the midst of the afternoon when he had a fishing pole in hand and was surrounded by a gaggle of ladies who were giggling as if they possessed a shared secret. Likely, they did. Neville was sure he was not the only man who possessed a rampant curiosity about just what it was ladies discussed when they were alone.
Hats?
Dresses?
The books they read?
He truly had no notion. Perhaps knowing the answer would have aided him in his quest of acquiring a suitable bride. One who was most definitelynotthe sort of lady to mistake him for a different man in the gardens and almost bring him to his knees with her sensual awareness.
No, Flora was not for him. Which meant he truly needed to cease staring at the pond’s sun-bedecked surface and converse with the rest of the company. Specifically, Miss Melanie Pennypacker.
Unfortunately, it was the disagreeable Lady Charity Mannerless who caught his attention first instead of her friend. There was no denying Lady Charity was beautiful. Their gazes clashed, and a shock of something primeval washed over him.
Desire and awareness mixed with something else.
No, surely not.
He was imagining Flora now, looking for her everywhere. Just because Lady Charity’s bosom was bountiful and she appeared to be of similar height did not mean she had been Flora. He would haveknown, by God.
Would he not have?
Her full lips tightened and she glanced away, severing the connection. He reminded himself of the necessity of interviewing Miss Pennypacker and pulled in his line, before setting his rod aside and joining the assembled group.
Lady Raina, Lady Charity, and Miss Olive L’arbre were chatting away. Dorset and Lady Clementine were engaged in deep conversation, and Lady Angeline and Rothbury were grinning at each other like a pair of fools. Well, surely that was what the simplistic concept of love did to one.
But fortunately, Miss Pennypacker was on the fringe of the group, enabling Neville to edge nearer for a tête-à-tête.
“Miss Pennypacker,” he greeted her. “How pleased I am to see you this afternoon.”
She was lovely and a delight to speak with, her mind excellent. What the devil was wrong with him? He could only blame his lack of enthusiasm upon one thing. Er, one woman.
Flora.
Curse her.
Miss Pennypacker offered him a pleasant smile. “Lord Wilton. I am pleased to see you as well.”
They stared at each other in awkward silence for a moment, Neville attempting to remind himself of all the reasons why the American heiress would prove an excellent viscountess.
He cleared his throat. “The day is warm.”
What a bloody nonsensical thing to say. Wasthishow he wooed a woman? Once more, he thought of those wicked kisses he had shared with his mystery lady the evening before. His gaze lowered to Miss Pennypacker’s lips for a brief moment. It was a perfectly acceptable mouth, but he felt nothing when he looked at it. No urge to feel it beneath his. No overwhelming bolt of lust. Just…nothing.
“It is indeed a warm day,” Miss Pennypacker said agreeably.
Silence reigned for another interminable space of time. It could have been thirty seconds or five minutes. All he knew was that it was painful.
“An excellent day for fishing,” he forced out.
