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Felix’s gaze lingered for a moment on Miss Sterling’s face, her wide smile momentarily distracting him.

“Have your eye on someone?” a familiar voice said from behind him.

Felix turned. The Viscount Weymouth had shocked him the night before with his presence at the house party. Felix hadn’t known he was Lady Dalmeer’s nephew, but the two of them had grown up in the same neighborhood in Somerset. Felix had always known him simply as Freddie.

He wore a mischievous grin as his gaze followed Felix’s toward Miss Sterling.

“No—not at all.” Felix forced a laugh, shaking his head.

“Ah, Woodward beat you to it?”

Felix gave him an exasperated look, lowering his voice. “I’m not interested in Miss Sterling.”

Freddie raised his hands in surrender, a smile still playing across his lips. “Very well. I’ll take your word for it.”

Felix returned his smile. He had always looked up to Freddie in his youth, even if they and the other neighborhood boys had often caused trouble. The memories were fond, nonetheless.

“At any rate, I don’t move as quickly as you, Weymouth,” Felix said with a pointed look toward the new viscountess who stood near the window. Felix had been meaning to ask about the rumors he had heard about their swift marriage.

“Yes, well, perhaps I was wise to select a wife so quickly,” Freddie said. “I am quite happy with my choice.” His gaze drifted toward Lady Weymouth. “You might consider doing the same.”

Felix wouldn’t tell him that he did have such a plan. He didn’t have the chance to, anyway.

Freddie bid him farewell with a nod before heading in his wife’s direction, giving Felix the chance to set his attention on the other guests. There were a generous number of pretty women gathered in the room. The thought that one of them could be his wife formed a knot of nerves in his stomach.

Before he could think too much about it, he started in the direction of a tall young lady with dark hair. She had been introduced in a group of new arrivals that afternoon as Miss Bowles.

As Felix drew closer, she met his gaze. Her expression was slightly alarming in the way it shifted instantly toward flirtation.

He lowered his head in a bow. “Miss Bowles, is it?”

She pressed her lips together with a nod. “And you are Mr. Hawthorne.” The authority with which she stated his name was equally alarming. She must have noticed, because her smile grew. “Yes, I have a very keen memory.”

“I am thoroughly impressed.” Felix smiled.

The intensity of her gaze was unsettling as it traced over his face with a gleam of approval. Her mother, who stood nearby, was giving him the same look.

He conversed with her and her parents for several minutes, but he found his attention to be quite forced. She seemed to enjoy speaking about herself more than any other subject, and her disposition was not as kind as he was hoping for.

Already, his interest in Miss Bowles was fading.

If he was this difficult to impress, how would he ever settle on a decision by Twelfth Night? He would have to be a little less particular—and perhaps a little slower to form such firm opinions.

As his gaze drifted across the room, he caught Miss Sterling watching him—brow knit together, eyes dark.

Had she discovered his involvement with the incident that morning?

Her look seemed to suggest that she had.

It was, however, the manner in which she usually looked at him. Perhaps there was no reason to worry.

He turned his attention back to Miss Bowles. In contrast to Miss Sterling, her disposition suddenly looked much kinder. She might have been a viable option after all.

He would keep her in mind, at least.

He departed the conversation with a bow, content with the impression he had made. His gaze shifted back to the corner where Miss Sterling stood. Mr. Woodward had witnessed the incident that morning, so he very well could have been the one who had revealed Felix’s involvement. He couldn’t afford to have any enemies at Bellthorne Hall. If one bad rumor about his character were to spread, he would be done for.

Proving his manners to Miss Sterling was a tiresome task, but an essential one. He had made a muddle of his efforts a few times already.