Page 6 of Pursued Beyond Treachery
He did not need to turn to know who spoke. That voice was etched in his mind and planted deep in his heart. And even on the days he did not have the opportunity to hear it in person, it managed to fill his dreams.
“G-g-good morning, Miss Wayland.” Blasted stutter, why did it have to emerge when he needed to sound the most composed?
“I did not know you were coming today.” Without a moment's hesitation she slipped up beside him, and, taking his arm, led him into her sitting room. “Lady Stanford, look who has come to visit.”
Lady Stanford rose gracefully to her feet, her brilliant blue eyes dancing with delight. “Lord Newhurst, it is always a pleasure to see you.”
What was with all this Lord Newhurst business? It had been months since Lady Stanford had begun calling him by his given name, an intimacy afforded her by her marriage to one of his closest friends. Miss Wayland also called him John—although he had noticed she’d become more formal after her mother’s death. There was something afoot.
“Good morning, Lady Stanford. I—” Johnathan paused. In all the months she’d been calling him John he’d not once addressed her so informally even though she’d insisted on it. Was this a commentary on his own behavior? Were the ladies upset that he’d not dropped his formality?
He glanced between their far too sunny faces and his already paralyzed tongue tied itself into knots. One pretty woman was bad enough, but when two looked at him with such expectation, every clear thought flew from his head.
“Proclivity means an inclination or predisposition toward something, most often toward something objectionable.”
They both stared at him. Lady Stanford—nay, Melior’s—brow furrowed, and Susannah cocked her head to the side.
If only the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
It had been weeks since he’d spouted random definitions of words and he’d been sure he was making headway toward ridding himself of the nervous habit. If only they were men. His mouth obeyed his will far better in the presence of his own sex.
“That is an interesting word,” Susannah finally said. “Tell me, did you land on that one in particular because you feel Lady Stanford and I are up to something objectionable?”
His cheeks burned. “No, I-I best be going.” Spinning around, he started for the door.
“Lord Newhurst, wait.” Susannah rushed after him. “I had not meant to make you uncomfortable. Please forgive me.”
He glanced at her. Why should she be sorry? He was the buffoon.
“I do have some news for you,” she rushed to say. “Lady Stanford has offered to sponsor me for the season. Is that not wonderful?”
No, but Johnathan did not wish to offend any more than he already had, so he merely nodded.
“You will be attending Parliament this year, will you not?” she asked.
Another nod seemed the only appropriate response.
Susannah smiled. “Then we shall see each other in Town.”
Her words were so hopeful that he did not want to inform her how little he went about in Society. However, if Susannah was to be in town, perhaps he’d find the pleasures of London more… well, pleasurable.
His attention caught on a blonde curl that brushed against her neck, the light shimmering off its golden surface. He itched to paint it. Could he catch the essence of such beauty?
Slowly he let his gaze traverse her cheek and then her face, memorizing the details. He’d painted Susannah dozens of times but had yet to adequately capture her vibrance.
When their eyes met, he stilled. That familiar energy pulsed through him in the most discomfiting way, but he saw none of the same in Susannah. She appeared as happy and peaceful as he’d ever seen her. With an iron clad fist, he pushed his attraction back down, stuffing it in the dark closet he’d fashioned for it.
She only saw him as an honorary brother. And at seven years her senior he could understand why. She’d been a little girl when they’d met, not much older than Michael. Eyes bright with childhood admiration, she’d always come to him with her little problems like a sister would. Stepping over that line now seemed like a betrayal of trust.
“Michael asked me to come see him before I leave,” he blurted out.
“I see.” The brightness in her eyes dimmed.
“Good day, Miss Wayland, Lady Stanford,” he said and rushed out of the room without looking back.
Johnathan swirled a dab of white and just a touch of red into the yellow paint until it finally resembled the golden glint he’d seen in Susannah’s hair. Choosing a fine tipped brush, he gently layered the color onto the darker shape of the curl on the canvas. With each stroke he berated himself for how foolish he’d acted.
In a little over two months Susannah would be presented to the whole of London Society, which meant he only had that much time to enjoy her company without the complication of other suitors. And what had he done? He’d run away to listen to her little brother’s detailed description of a toad.
