He was a handsome man. But he was also, as she had warned her dear friend Melanie, fully aware the viscount was hiding within the alcove, a bore, a killjoy, and a staid lump. He was wonderfully attractive, and yet he was cool as ice and interesting as a bowl of porridge.
“Lord Wilton,” he corrected her, some of that ice in evidence as it lent a sharp edge to his voice.
She noted his emphasis on the latter half of his name. The sobriquet she had created for him, much like the one she had invented for her dear friend Clementine, amused her.
“Yes,” she said now, “of course it is Wilton. But Wilty seems so much more appropriate. I take joy in crafting clever sobriquets for my friends, you see.”
If possible, he stiffened further. “Wilty is not clever, and we are not friends, Lady Charity. At best, we are brief acquaintances brought together by the advent of this house party.”
She pursed her lips, considering him. Why did the man refuse to meet her gaze? It was a curious habit she had taken note of before, which seemed to be exacerbated by discomfiture.
“And also brought together by the advent of your eavesdropping upon myself and Miss Pennypacker while we were engaged in what we imagined a private discussion,” she pointed out.
His ears went red. How utterly adorable.
Hmm.
She did not wish to find the boring Lord Wiltyadorable. Indeed, she did not wish to find him anything at all. All she truly wanted was to watch him squirm for a few moments in return for the manner in which he had lingered without announcing himself in the alcove.
That had been badly done of him.
“What part of England has the most dogs?” he asked her abruptly.
His question, so sudden and unexpected and seemingly unrelated to the moment, took her aback. “Kent?” she guessed.
“Bark-shire,” he told her.
Oh dear.The viscount was telling a dreadful joke. What a strange response to having been caught eavesdropping. Worst of all, she had almost laughed.
“As inBerkshire,” he elaborated, apparently taking her silence for a lack of understanding. “But Bark-shire. It is a pun.”
“A terrible one,” she said.
He winced. “It is indeed regrettable.”
“What is regrettable, my lord? Your attempt at a joke, the sobriquet I have chosen for you, or the fact that you were listening to my tête-à-tête with Miss Pennypacker, wholly uninvited?”
She ought to let the man go, she knew. But from the moment she had arrived at Fangfoss Manor for the house party being thrown by her former finishing school headmistress, she had found herself both fascinated by Viscount Wilton and repelled by him.
Fascinated because there was something about him which set him apart from not just the other gentlemen in attendance, but from other men she had known. He did not appear interested in her in any fashion. He had not flirted with her, danced with her, or admired her beauty. He had not attempted to hold a conversation beyond polite observations.
Rain in less than an hour, he had predicted, looking at the horizon on one of their walks.
And later, on another walk when they had spied a poor orange kitten floating downstream in the River Derwent,I cannot swim.
That had been after she had entreated the viscount to leap in to save the poor creature. In the end, the Marquess of Dorset had done so and had emerged the hero of the house party as a result.
“The eavesdropping,” Wilton said now, meeting her gaze at last. “It was not my intention.”
The shock of his eyes on hers made a strange, new sense of awareness creep over her. They were not merely green, she realized, but unusually flecked with hints of gray. Coupled with his golden hair, the result was arresting.
“Why did you not announce yourself then,” she forced herself to continue, “having realized Miss Pennypacker and myself imagined ourselves alone?”
“I was embarrassed,” he admitted.
Oh.
She had not expected him to capitulate so easily, or to offer up such a confession.
