Wilty.
Even as he entered the mix of masked and costumed revelers assembled beneath the blazing heat of the Fangfoss Manor chandeliers, the name followed him. A reminder. He accepted a champagne and drank it down in an instant, which was quite unlike himself.
Curse Lady Charity Mannerless. He must not think of her now. There were a number of golden-haired ladies in attendance, their hair glinting beneath the lights. At least if he had to suffer through the nonsense of masks, he still could rely upon the color of a lady’s hair to steer him into safer waters and avoid Lady Charity.
Instead, he would seek out dark-haired ladies.
Miss Pennypacker’s hairwasbrunette, was it not? Yes, it was brown. He was certain it was. Or was it jet-black? Mahogany? Chestnut?
Damnation!What if it was red?
Hmm.How distressing to realize he had not paid enough attention to the lady he intended to wed to note her hair color. But then, her hair only signified in that seeking out a hair color that was decidedlynotbelonging to Lady Charity was his course of action for the evening. And perhaps that was most troubling—and telling—of all.
“Wilty,” he muttered to himself, the demeaning sobriquet which had been nettling him ever since its utterance earlier in the day continuing its campaign of irritation.
Did she fancy herself amusing? Certainly, he was not attracted to her, in spite of her beauty. She was scandalous and rude and bold and everything he did not want in a wife.
She was terrible. Full stop.
“I beg your pardon?” asked a voice at his side.
He turned to find the Duke of Cashingham, without mask or costume. The fellow had made no secret of his intention to search for a bride from the bevvy of ladies in attendance at the house party, for he was in search of a mother for his young son. However, he was also deuced cool, and by Neville’s standards, that meant His Grace was a veritable iceberg.
“I did not say anything,” he lied, casting a searching glance in the duke’s direction.
Yes, he spoke to himself. But Neville was quite happy with his idiosyncrasies. He knew he was different from his peers. But he did not give a damn.
Long ago, he had accepted himself.
Everyone else would have to as well, or simply avoid him. Cashingham was not a familiar. However, he seemed a reasonable enough sort. Like Neville, the duke possessed rules. He seemed to be a man grounded in logic rather than emotion.
“Perhaps you were unaware,” the duke countered, “but you did indeed speak. It sounded as if you saidWilty.”
And further damnation, it was as if Lady Charity was before him with her taunts. So what if he had been speaking to himself? And if he had been echoing a certain golden-haired siren’s irritating diminutive for him?
“Why is a Christmas pudding like the Atlantic Ocean?” he asked the duke, and then could have kicked himself in the arse for yet another slip.
This was all the fault of Lady Charity Mannerless, he had no doubt. All he had to do wasthinkof the woman, and he was stammering puns like the awkward unsociable man he had once been.
Cashingham stared at him sternly. “The two are nothing alike.”
“Because it is full of currants,” Neville found himself explaining.
Cashingham did not quirk a smile.
“The ocean has currents, and Christmas pudding has currants,” he elaborated.
And still, not a hint of mirth from the man at his side.
“I dare say I am in need of some refreshment,” the duke said abruptly. “If you will excuse me, Wilton?”
Neville was meant to be Shakespeare.
He frowned. “My costume. Was it that easy to decipher my identity in spite of my efforts to the contrary, then?”
“Of course it was,” Cashingham answered without faltering. “That mustache is askew, old chap.”
“At least I wore a costume,” he grumbled in response.
