Oh, very well, damn it, hedidhave something against the viscount. A dozen somethings, starting with that business in the Ring, and ending with the increasingly besotted expression on the man’s face whenever he gazed at Harriett.
James had kept a close eye on Gilbert yesterday afternoon after he and Miss Templeton had rejoined the party, and it hadn’t taken long to see that things had progressed further than he’d initially thought.
This was no schoolboy’s infatuation.
Gilbert fancied himself violently in love with Harriett.
Worse, he’d come to Londonfor her.
He spent all his time following Harriett about and making a nuisance of himself, and it was only a matter of time before he begged for her hand in marriage.
As for Harriett’s feelings… well, it was difficult to tell with young ladies, but he had an uneasy suspicion that Harriett might return the viscount’s affections.
She’d been instantly charmed by him when they’d met at Lord and Lady Houghton’s house party in Kent this past summer, and Gilbert had spent every waking moment of the house party following her about like a half-witted schoolboy.
Damn Lord and Lady Houghton, anyway. This was all their fault, for throwing their blasted house party in the first place and inviting such a fool as Viscount Gilbert.
But Harriett didn’t think him a fool. Quite the opposite. She couldn’t open her mouth these days without going on and on about Lord Gilbert’s sweetness, his pleasing temper, and his cleverness.
A cleverness the viscount kept well hidden, by the way.
But Harriett had been equally as enamored of Lord Wyle, hadn’t she? She’d found him just as pleasing as she did Gilbert, and look how that had turned out.
Not that he could accuse Gilbert of being the villain Wyle had been. He may not be in favor of a match between Harriett and Gilbert, but even he could see the viscount didn’t have a wicked bone in his body.
The trouble with the viscount was that he was flighty and impulsive. Childlike, even, much as Harriett herself was, and the two of them together— good God, it was like pairing a puppy with a newborn kitten.
Gilbert was a bit of a fool, to be honest, and he had no patience for fools.
So, what the devil was he doing here on the man’s doorstep?
It had been madness to come here in the first place. He didn’t have anything to say to Viscount Gilbert, and God knew his appearance here would only serve to give the viscount hope when he’d much rather not encourage?—
“Lord Fairmont?”
Too late, damn it.
Gilbert was standing in the doorway, staring at James, and looking utterly flummoxed to find the Earl of Fairmont on his doorstep.
Well, that made two of them. “Gilbert,” he replied curtly, giving the man a brief nod.
Then the two of them stood there like a pair of fools, staring silently at each other, until at last Gilbert gave an awkward little cough, clearing his throat. “How, er, how do you do, my lord?”
James wasn’t in the mood for trivial pleasantries, and given the squealing chickens and the dust from the wagon wheels besmirching his new Hoby boots, it was a question that was far better left unanswered.
So he didn’t answer, but instead got straight to the heart of the thing. “Do you plan to attend Lord Powell’s ball tomorrow night?”
Gilbert’s eyebrows shot up. “Er, yes?”
“Is that an answer, Gilbert, or another question? I couldn’t tell.”
“Yes, Lord Fairmont. I do plan to attend.”
“Do you intend to ask my sister to dance?”
“Er, well, I did have hopes of?—"
“Yes, or no, Gilbert?” God above, it was like pulling teeth.
