Wilton said nothing to that, merely stroked his jaw as if contemplating something before breaking his silence at last. “What do you suppose the lad is doing with his spoils?”
No one knew, but since the house party’s beginning several weeks ago, the lad had been running wild over the household, filching personal items from the guests and various Fangfoss Manor bric-a-brac. The rascal had stolen Olive’s spectacles, and everyone knew Olive could scarcely see without them. Thankfully, she had possessed a second pair.
“I have no notion,” Charity said, doing her best to tamp down her frustration that after the kisses they had just shared, Wilton was more concerned with Ewan’s thefts than the desire sparking between them.
“I suppose it hardly signifies. I merely find it curious, the lad scampering about, causing havoc, no one seeming to know whom he belongs to.”
They knew. But it was a closely guarded secret amongst the friends.
The need to flee the library and the viscount’s maddening presence both trumped everything else in that moment. She had to escape, clutching the remaining shreds of pride she yet possessed. For while her kisses with Wilton had been the most moving she had ever experienced, he acted as if he were scarcely affected. It had taken him nearly an entire day to realize she was the woman he had kissed in the gardens.
She shrugged, hoping her sangfroid had not entirely deserted her. “I must dress for dinner. The hour grows late, and we have already tarried here for far too long. If you will excuse me, my lord?”
And how was that for a dignified exit? Charity swept past him. She had not gone far when his low words trailed after her.
“Thank you for the cream, Flora. It is not every day a goddess shares her potions with me.”
She did not look back, and neither did she stop. But curse the man, she was smiling and that strange, buoyant sensation had returned to her belly as she left the library and him behind.
A goddess, was she?
Quellesurprise. Wilty could kiss,andhe could charm.
Chapter 5
The amusements Lady Fangfoss had planned for the day after his meeting in the library with Lady Charity did not leave Neville particularly enthused. Instead, following an early breakfast—early because he had been unable to sleep for the second night in a row—he departed the manor house for a walk. He did not manage to get far when he realized his error in judgment. The recent rains which had been pelting the countryside had rendered the walking paths little more than muck that threatened to steal his damned boots with each step.
He was heading in the direction of the Roman ruins excavation site in an effort to occupy his mind. Perhaps the search for an errant, left-behind artifact would prove a proper diversion. But distraction ever since those most unwise kisses with Lady Charity in the library—and the equally unwise embrace at the masque ball—had been impossible.
Not just impossible.
Bloodyimpossible.
As bloody impossible as navigating this cursed mud.
With an irritated sigh, he turned away from his attempt at visiting the Roman excavations. No sense in losing his boots. He had already lost his mind. Instead, he turned in the direction of the extensive Fangfoss Manor gardens. Mayhap a turn in the maze—or two, or three hundred—would cure him of what ailed him, all whilst the gravel installed on the path ensured he would not forfeit a boot to the Yorkshire landscape.
He was feeling damned tired.
And despicably randy.
And terribly irritated.
And disappointed in himself.
Neville clenched his jaw as he found the entrance to the maze and slipped within. He was ordinarily a man of reason and ration. He made decisions calmly, meticulously. He had chosen to come to this house party that he might obtain a wife. In his journal, he had crafted a careful list of all the qualities his future viscountess ought to possess.
None of those attributes were vexing, desirable to a fault, bold, hoydenish, scandalous…
Damn! Ballocks! Cock!
Neville was not a man who used oaths or crudity lightly. Not even in his own mind. But this disastrous state of affairs—the desire for Lady Charity Mannerless which threatened to tear him apart—was cause for epithets. It was also cause for stern admonishments by the somewhat cloud-obscured light of day. He had lost his head with her. Lost control with her.
But he was serious about finding a wife. And Lady Charity was not the viscountess he had planned to secure. He wanted a lady who was calm. A lady who was polite. A lady who did not cause scandals.
By God, a lady who had not posed for a nude painting of Venus. He found himself wondering if the breasts he had only been able to enjoy through the barriers of fabric and corset were indeed as generous as the breasts on the Richards painting at the Grosvenor Gallery. Were her nipples the same shade of apricot as the picture? When he had imagined them last night while he was alone in his bed with a raging cockstand, desperate to find release, he had fancied they were pink.
The same tempting, perfect pink as Lady Charity’s beautiful lips.
