Page 6 of A Viscount’s Reluctant Passion

“You are serious, aren’t you? You’re not gulling me? You really did just spend hours talking to a young woman about farming practices?”

“I did. And her conversation on the matter was far more sensible than that of many men whom I have discussed such things with.”

Travers snorted.

“Only my brother could achieve such a thing. And do you not find a woman who employs her mind with such intellectual matters tiring? Surely, the value of women is in their beauty and their ability to ease the mind, and body, away from such heavy matters?”

“On the contrary – I find a woman who cares to learn, who is interested in more than fripperies, gossip and fashion, to be much more desirable than the common run of girls.”

“You, Nash, are obviously mad. I cannot see us ever agreeing on the subject. But if it makes you happy, why don’t you pursue her – she is pretty enough, and, no matter the gossip about her parentage, she comes with a decent dowry, I believe.”

Nash stilled on the seat – what did Travers mean?

“Gossip? What on earth do you mean?”

“Oh, you hadn’t heard, then?”

“No. I know of no gossip. I’ve only met the girl twice – at her sister’s wedding breakfast, and today. You know that I pay no heed to society’s prattling.”

“Well, you should know then. Not that I think it matters, or that you will care about it, but you should know. To be concise about it, the story runs that, because Sir Danvers is rather older than Lady Wormsley, and because Miss Wormsley came along eleven years after her sister and brother, it seems unlikely that he actually fathered her. The gossips place their bets upon a stable boy who is rumoured to have had an affair with Lady Wormsley. Nothing proven, of course, and the Wormsleys have never in any way indicated that she is anything but their true daughter, but gossip has a way of getting around. It’s enough to have made the high sticklers strike her off their lists of possible eligible women this Season.”

Nash digested all of that in silence for a few minutes. The carriage bumped along over the cobbles, and Travers waited for his response. The response that came first, internally, was cold anger. He swallowed it, as he had learned to, when faced with rejection and nastiness, years before. Anger would gain him nothing – those who deserved his anger were not even present.

“You are right. I don’t care about it – at least not in the sense of it affecting my opinion of the lady, in any way. But it certainly reinforces my opinion of the gossipmongers of the ton. You can keep your delight in society. They are, almost universally, despicable people.”

“My, my, such venom in your tone, dear brother! But… if you wish to see more of the lady, you really must, this next few weeks, attend the social events that she will – after all, not all possible suitors are put off by a hint of ‘peasant vigour’ in her breeding, especially when she has a decent, if not massive, dowry. I look forward to seeing you dealing with the social whirl.”

Travers laugh was good natured, but Nash knew that his brother had a point, and that he would, most definitely, derive great enjoyment from watching Nash force himself to be the perfect gentleman amongst the ton. For he would do it, for Miss Wormsley’s sake.

~~~~~

The next two weeks went by in a whirl for Bea, as Honour insisted that they make the most of the remaining weeks of the Season, and attend as many Balls as possible, to increase Bea’s chances of meeting a man she might care for. Whilst Bea was happy to attend the social events, secretly, she rather thought that she had already met a man she could care for, in Viscount Challoner.

He both delighted her and confused her. He treated her as an intelligent being, rather than just as decoration, and he happily engaged in complex conversations with no sign that her growing interest in such matters seemed in any way unnatural to him, yet, at the same time, she had the horrible sense that he saw her as nothing more than a friend. He called on her, yet he gave no indication of caring for her in any way beyond friendship.

And she had discovered that she wanted him to.

It was foolish to do so, she knew, but still she did. Every time that he called, as Honour watched on with a smile, and they conversed about ever more complex issues, she maintained the desperate hope that more might come of it. But it did not. She suspected that everyone else was certain that he was courting her – but she was not at all certain of anything.

He even attended Balls and soirees, rather to her surprise, given his stated disinterest in society, and she quickly came to the point where, upon arrival at an event, the first thing she did was to search for him, feeling unhappy until he came within her sight. He even danced with her, which had caused her heart to leap with hope the first time he had done so – yet even that was done in a way which seemed more that of a friendship than a sign of possible serious affection.

Still she treasured those moments, and they nurtured the hope that still grew within her.

On this particular evening, things seemed no different – they arrived, Lord Challoner was present, and soon came to greet them. He begged that she give him the honour of a dance, and greatly daring, she pencilled him onto her dance card for the dance two sets from that moment, which was to be a waltz. Soon after, Lord Walter Winterbourne claimed her hand for the first dance, and Bea allowed him to lead her away, much though, really, she would have preferred to stay near Lord Challoner.

Lord Walter had recently begun to pay her some attention, and appeared to not have been put off by the gossip. He was charming, if rather shallow in Bea’s estimation, and at least did not ogle her bosom all the time. Still, the mischievous part of her wondered how he would respond if she asked him about farming practices.

She did not, however. He would most likely be horrified, and she did not wish to cause yet more gossip. Once the dance was over, he returned her to Honour, with pretty words and a bow, and she was immediately carried off for the next dance by her brother-in-law, who felt it his duty to dance with her once at every event. It was no hardship, for she enjoyed dancing, and he often regaled her with amusing comments on those around them. But her mind was not on his conversation, but rather upon the next set – the waltz she would dance with Lord Challoner.

He came to claim her as soon as she had returned to Honour, and offered his arm.

“Our dance, I believe, Miss Wormsley?”

“It is, Lord Challoner.”

She placed her hand upon his arm, and allowed him to lead her away, every part of her suddenly suffused with heat at the thought that, within moments, he would hold her in his arms. Her heart beat faster, and odd flutterings came, low in her stomach. She knew, in that instant, that what she felt for this man was far more than a simple friendship – but what did he truly feel for her?

The music began, and he turned her into his arms, the touch of his hand on her back intensifying the heat within her. She looked up into his eyes as they began to move, and forgot everything else. Their movement happened by some magic of habit, for she paid no thought whatsoever to her feet and their placement. Instead, she was drowning in those blue grey eyes, where the secret of his feelings seemed half hidden, half revealed.