CHAPTER5
That evening,as Neville’s valet, Hall, helped him undress and ready himself for bed, he heaved a defeated sigh, shaking his head.
Hall offered Neville a sympathetic half-smile.
“I heard you had quite the strange day, today, my Lord. Would you like to talk about it?”
“That is a very kind offer, Hall, but I’m afraid I must say no thank you.” Neville sighed. “I would only be inclined to say things which it would be better that I not speak aloud to anyone, after such a strange afternoon.”
“That is very wise of you, my Lord.” Hall chuckled. “Is there anything else I can do for you, or are you ready to retire?”
“I am ready to retire for the evening. Thank you, Hall.”
More than anything, Neville was eager to be alone with his thoughts. As he turned back the blankets and slipped into bed, a mental replay of the day’s events assaulted him.
Lady Henrietta seemed a nice enough girl, of course, though perhaps a little shallow, with all her talk of jewellery and dresses, not to mention her probing about what colours he might wear to Lady Mowbray’s St. Valentine’s Day Ball.
Why did she care what colours he planned to wear to the Ball? Why would it matter?
Neville tossed onto his side, huffing out a sigh as his thoughts continued running away with him.
Why, after years of their being neighbours with little to no contact with one another, were Lord and Lady Middlebrook suddenly making an effort to get to know him better? Why the sudden interest in cultivating a neighbourly relationship with him? Why ask a relative stranger to keep an eye on their daughter during her first Season out in society?
Neville clenched his hands in his pillow, fluffing it viciously. His usually comfortable bed seemed to be conspiring against him.
The eyes bothered him more than anything else. There was nothing wrong with the colour, or the shape, or the proportion of Lady Henrietta’s eyes. No. Her eyes were what one might consider pretty, objectively speaking. However, there was something in their expression which left Neville uneasy.
Lady Henrietta’s eyes were cold, distant and lifeless, like drowning in a frozen lake. Neville couldn’t help comparing Lady Henrietta’s eyes to Miss Wingfield’s, even though he knew it was foolish.
While both women had blue eyes, the differences were stark. Where Lady Henrietta’s eyes were ice, Miss Wingfield’s were pure sapphire fire. Her gaze seared into his very soul, and haunted him. Miss Wingfield’s eyes were always alive with emotion. Granted, it was possible that it might have been wiser had she practiced guarding and hiding those emotions which played out so clearly in her expressive gaze.
Somehow, Neville rather doubted that Miss Susan Wingfield had any interest in masking her emotions, even if doing so was wise. Everything about her had a wild, unbridled, passionate energy. He couldn’t help but finding it intriguing, even though he suspected that it would not necessarily serve her well amongst the ton.
That was a source of confusion for Lord Seabury, he had to admit. Miss Wingfield was terrible at hiding her true emotions, that much he had seen for himself when she’d accused him of toying with her feelings, then subsequently ignoring her. Her shock at the Count D’Asti’s appearance had seemed truly genuine, too.
Neville rolled back onto his back and stared up at the ceiling as the dim moonlight filtered into the room from a gap in the curtains.
“Oh, Miss Wingfield,” Neville groaned into the darkness. “I do not know what to make of you at all.”
Where in this mess of feelings, rumours, and suspicions was the truth hiding, and would he ever find it? Perhaps it was wrong for Neville to want to unravel this tangled web, to try to reveal the truth. It was none of his business, not his place to concern himself with these things, but he could not get Miss Wingfield out of his mind, and he feared his heart was not far behind.
He finally drifted into a fitful sleep, with thoughts and images of Miss Wingfield haunting him yet again.
* * *
At Billington House,just a few blocks away, Susan was suffering a similar restless torment as she attempted to fall asleep. Worry about the Count D’Asti and their supposed marriage contract ate at her like a rat gnawing on a wedge of cheese.
She couldn’t be promised in marriage to him, could she? Why would Papa not have told Susan, or her Mama at the very least? But the Viscount had never breathed a word of such a marriage to his wife. They were all lost and utterly in the dark without him.
Hot tears leaked down Susan’s cheeks and soaked into her hair, then her pillow. If only he hadn’t died, they could have just asked him for the truth. But no, Papa had taken ill and died more than a year ago, and the Wingfield women had to continue moving through the world without his love, without his guidance, without his comfort and protection.
Certainly, Georgiana’s husband Edward did what he could to aid them to the best of his ability, and Susan appreciated it, but at times like these, she desperately wished that she could talk to her Papa, just once more. She had so many questions, so many worries weighing on her heart and soul.
She bit her knuckles to suppress a sob. When she was a little girl, she’d believed that her Papa was invincible. Then, she could not imagine a world without him in it and she spent hours quietly enjoying his company, sitting in her favourite, sunny corner of his study and working diligently on embroidery while he attended to his business.
Some fathers might have shooed a girl child away, or insisted that she spend time with her mother and sisters, rather than allowing her to hide in his office, but not her Papa. He had been her truest, most understanding friend, as well as her father. They had talked and confided in each other so many times over the years that Susan had never imagined that there might be things he had not told her.
She wiped the tears off her cheeks and threw the covers back, unable to be still for another moment, then paced over to the window and tugged the curtain aside, staring out into the mercurial, silver moonlight-painted world with unseeing eyes.
When her father got sick, Susan should have stayed by his side. She should have spent every precious moment tending to him, cherishing every second that he was still living, still breathing. But she hadn’t done it. She’d retreated inside herself, going on long walks in the garden and on the grounds at Gainsbourne, alone.
Susan would never admit it, never voice it to anyone, but she’d been unable to bear hearing him suffer when he fell ill. She leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the window and squeezed her eyes shut. The fever had been bad enough, but then the wheezing had followed, and then the constant, horrible coughing. She reached up and pressed her hands over her ears, as if that might block out her memories of the sound.
Every time he’d coughed, Papa had sounded like a drowning man desperate for air, who only managed to drag water into his aching lungs instead. In his final living moments, he’d asked for Susan, said he wanted to speak with her, but she had not been in the house. She had been out walking, and by the time she returned to the house, her father was already dead.
Now, Susan would never know what he’d wished to speak with her about on that day. The weight of the guilt which clung to her was crushing, tugging down on her shoulders, and squeezing her chest tighter and tighter until she was not at all sure that she could, or would, breathe ever again.
A dreadful thought occurred to Susan then, and she went deathly still as a chill settled into her bones. What if Papa had planned to tell her that he’d promised her in marriage to the Count D’Asti? What if she was only left unaware of such a promise because she’d wandered too far afield from the house, trying to lose herself in the quietude of nature? What if the Count’s claim was valid? What if he was a decent enough man, and there was nothing she could use as a reason not to marry him?
How would Susan ever bear it if she was forced to marry the Count D’Asti, and worse, if she was forced to bear witness to Lord Seabury marrying someone else?
* * *