It was Lady Somerset. He’d made the mistake of beddingher several years ago, only to discover later that she’d lied to him and her husband was very much alive. He didn’t dally with married women unless their husbands were truly awful, in which case the poor things deserved a little pleasure in their lives.
Lord Somerset wasn’t awful. Far from it.
Suffice it to say, Nicholas had not been pleased by Lady Somerset’s deception.
“Lady Somerset.” He swallowed, his throat tight. Shit. How was he supposed to get out of this awkward situation? “How is your husband?”
She pouted. “Dreadfully dull, as usual.” She motioned lazily toward the far wall, where her short, stout husband was conversing with Lord Wembley’s son. “I told him he ought to remain in London, but he insisted on accompanying me.”
Probably because he knew she had every intention of lifting her skirts for another man as soon as he was out of sight.
“It will be nice to catch up with him,” Nicholas lied.
“Are you here alone?” Lady Somerset asked, touching his arm.
He jerked away. “I—”
Lady Wembley’s booming voice announced that it was time to enter the dining room. Nicholas tilted his head toward the heavens and thanked his lucky stars.
He slipped away from Lady Somerset before she could claim him as an escort. The dining room was cavernous, with candelabras lining the walls and three chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the largest so massive that he was surprised it hadn’t fallen.
The seating had been assigned, and Nicholas was, fortunately, opposite Sophie and Lady Carlisle.
“How was your trip?” he asked as they took their seats.
“Far too long,” Sophie replied, one side of her mouthhooked up. “I wasn’t expecting such an arduous journey. I really ought to have found out how far away Lincolnshire was before accepting the invitation.”
Nicholas’s lips twitched with amusement. “It’s quite a distance.”
Personally, he’d ridden on horseback while his carriage transported his luggage. He’d made better time than he otherwise would have and had enjoyed the experience more.
An older gentleman sat beside Sophie. Nicholas wasn’t familiar with him, but as Sophie looked toward the head of the table, the man glanced down at her décolletage. Nicholas glared at the man until he finally noticed and tore his gaze from Sophie’s chest. He had the decency to look abashed, but that wasn’t enough for Nicholas. Especially when he suspected that the lady on the man’s other side was his wife.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, feigning politeness.
The man cleared his throat. “I’m Mr. Ernest Bigsby. My holdings adjoin the Nunhaven Estate.”
Ah, so he was a country squire rather than a member of the aristocracy.
Nicholas looked pointedly at the woman, and Bigsby awkwardly added, “This is my wife, Mrs. Sarah Bigsby.”
“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m Mr. Nicholas Blackwell.”
Bigsby paled. “Any relation to Viscount Blackwell?”
“His brother.”
Thankfully, that seemed enough to persuade Bigsby that he was better off not eyeballing Sophie, and he kept his gaze firmly off her as servants brought out the first course—a type of bird so tiny, it was hardly worth eating.
Nicholas chatted with Sophie about the weather and the inns they’d stayed at on their journey, ignoring the curious glances he received from Lady Carlisle.
When dinner concluded, the men were shown into a study for cigars and brandy. Nicholas sat in the corner andsipped his drink, hoping that someone would suggest playing cards soon. Socializing was always more enjoyable when accompanied by games.
He never expected Baron Sylvestor to flop onto the chair opposite him, grinning widely. “Blackwell, am I to understand you’ve been courting Lady Sophie Carlisle for a month now and haven’t secured a betrothal yet? For shame! Perhaps you ought to give up and let the better man win.”
Nicholas stiffened and fought against the urge to show how much the baron’s words stuck in his craw. The man was teasing, but for some reason, the barbs struck true.
It’s not a real courtship. Of course it isn’t operating on a particular timeline. You don’twantto marry.
