Just another mistake of many. “I shouldn’t have taken such a large drink. I shouldn’t have come outside alone. I shouldn’t have come to this house party. I shouldn’t have waited for him. I shouldn’t have turned down Binkerton’s proposal—or Lord Harrington’s.” Or Mr. Williams. Or Sir Riley’s… As she spoke, she heard herself sounding more shrill with each word.
She’d wasted so many opportunities!
“Nonsense. You’ll feel differently about all of it in the morning.”
Oh, but he was wrong. “He didn’t want me.”
A hard swallow flexed his throat again. Rather than comment on her miserable moan, Manningham met her gaze sympathetically and dabbed the linen along the curve of her left cheek. “This shouldn’t scar.”
His ironic words drew her stare to the jagged white line marring the right side of his face. It all but mirrored the cut on her own.
A scar on a man was a sign of his strength, evidence that he’d been tested; on a woman, it was a significant flaw. “Are you sure?”
He paused in his ministrations. “My cut was deep. And it wasn’t properly cleaned. Yours is little more than a scratch.”
Enough moonlight shone so she had a good look at him, allowing her to study that which she’d always averted her gaze from in the past. “Does it pain you?”
“No.” His answer came out clipped.
The viscount was quite handsome, if not a little unrefined. “Did it happen in a duel?”
“I was sparring with my Fath—my teacher. I lunged when I ought to have stepped sideways. Stupid of me. I deserved it.”
“No one deserves that.” She shivered again. His father. He’d nearly saidhis father. What kind of man spars with actual blades rather than foils and then slashes his own son?
Lord Manningham-Tissinton pocketed the flask and took her arm. “You’re shivering. Let’s get you out of the cold.” He glanced around. “Not the ballroom.”
“But Bethany and Tabetha will be wondering where I’ve gone off to, and my father. Already I may have missed a dance—”
“Not the ballroom,” he repeated, pulling her to her feet and removing his jacket. “Take this. I’ll escort you to the orangery. You can wait for your maid there.” He dropped the coat around her shoulders.
“You don’t need to…” But he was right, of course. The orangery would be empty. And after Susan repaired her gown, Felicity could return to the ball with no one being the wiser.
“This way.” He dragged her along effortlessly, not allowing her a chance to argue. Nor, it seemed, was he willing to leave her to her own devices. She’d have Susan bring out her lilac silk. If anyone asked why she’d changed, she would say she’d spilled her wine.
Felicity flicked a glance to the forgotten dance card dangling from her wrist. She didn’t need light to comprehend the name signed beside the first dance.
Westerley had led her in the opening set and claimed the last waltz of the evening. She wanted him to beg her forgiveness at the same time she never wanted to see him again.
She would fulfill her commitment and perform the dance with him. Everyone would comment if she did not.
Manningham grasped her arm when her knees nearly gave out beneath her. More than once, he kept her from falling as they navigated the perimeter of the manor. Her emotions alternated between anxiety and apathy. The latter, although hardly recognizable, beckoned like a soft glow.
Fragrant, warm air fanned her cheeks when Manningham held the door for her to enter the glass building.
Any other time and she might have found the setting to be romantic and fanciful—but romance was only an illusion.
As had been her entire betrothal.
What else was an illusion? Society? Friendship?
Manningham escorted her to a chaise placed beneath one of the exotic trees Lady Westerley had cultivated. Felicity felt nothing as she welcomed the apathy. It dulled all of these unfamiliar emotions: the hopelessness, rejection. She could be pathetic, and she didn’t even care.
“Wait here while I send for…?”
“Susan—my maid. Her name is Susan.”
The Viscount supported Felicity as though she was an invalid, assisting her into the chaise. And once she was seated, he moved away.
