“Good afternoon,” Bernadette murmured, curtseying low. She frowned. The older woman, who was smiling at the countess as if they were friends, was unfamiliar. But the young lady, who wore a white muslin gown, her blonde ringlets the height of fashion, looked like someone she was sure she had seen before.
“Good afternoon,” the two women greeted her. The younger woman dropped a courtly curtsey. Bernadette flushed.Something about her put her on edge, though she couldn’t say what—perhaps it was that insincere smile. So many society beauties looked like that.
“Well, we should be getting along,” the countess murmured.
“Yes, of course, Lady Lockwood,” the older woman answered politely. “We wish you a pleasant day.”
“I wish you the same, Lady Alverton,” the countess replied, inclining her head. She turned to Bernadette, who dropped a low curtsey, cheeks burning. Somehow, the encounter made her uncomfortable.
The countess bobbed the briefest curtsey and they went on their way.
“Now! This has been a successful day,” the countess announced, evidently well-pleased with the outcome, or with her browbeating of Bernadette. It was hard to tell which. She walked with her to the street and Bernadette followed, exhausted.
They settled down in the coach and Bernadette sat wearily opposite the countess as the coachman lifted the reins. They set off slowly down the street.
“Now,” the countess instructed. “I will have to insist that you wear a showier gown when you go to the park with Nicholas tomorrow.”
“What?” Bernadette exclaimed. “Sorry, my lady. But...but...he made no mention of such a plan.” She felt herself sway, feeling even more exhausted than before. She would seehim again so soon? She felt entirely unprepared.
“Did he not?” the countess frowned. “Well, I know he is expected to arrive at half-past two tomorrow.”
“Oh?” Bernadette asked weakly.
“Yes. And that should put an end to wagging tongues,” the countess said, sounding very pleased.
Bernadette sat opposite her, head reeling, numb with confusion and weariness.
Soon, whether she wished it or not, she’d be seeing the viscount again. Oddly, the thought wasn’t altogether repellent. Part of her felt excited to see him soon.
Chapter 13
“Nicholas...stop it. You’re over-exerting yourself.” Andrew shouted. Nicholas barely heard him through the din in the cellar and the fog in his brain.
The leather bag swung, and Nicholas thumped it hard, his fists—wrapped in linen to protect the finger-bones—thwacking into it again and again. He swore aloud at the sudden sharp pain and shook his right hand as he unwound the bandage, the ache in his knuckles making him convinced he’d done permanent damage. He flexed the fingers. They all still worked, if painfully.
“You’re right,” he whispered. He was unsteady on his feet. Sweat poured down his face and adhered his shirt to his back. He shook himself, feeling uncomfortable for the first time as his awareness slowly returned.
“I’m sure I am!” Andrew laughed with some amusement. “You’ve been fighting that damned thing for the best part of half an hour. You need some water and some rest.” He chuckled again.
“Oh.” Nicholas blinked wearily. He had no idea how much time had passed. He blinked again, looking around the cellar at the Northbrook Club. The day had clearly progressed, the sunshine that had slanted in from the level of the street was nowreplaced with crisp shadow. “What’s the time?”
“It’s past midday,” Andrew informed him.
“What?” Nicholas swore. “I need to hurry. I have to be across town in an hour and a half. I need to go home first, too.” He glanced down at his shirt, which was stuck to him with perspiration. He had agreed to escort Miss Rowland to the park at two o’ clock. He certainly didn’t think Grandfather intended him to show up sweat-caked and dirty.
And,he thought with a frown,I wouldn’t want to.
He wanted her to like him.
“Come on, old fellow.” Andrew thumped him playfully, making him wince. His arms were sore after so long spent in boxing with the leather bag in the club’s cellar space. “You need food first.”
“I do,” Nicholas agreed, wincing as he flexed his hand. He looked down at his sweat-soaked shirt. “But first, I need to do something about this.”
“No trouble, old chap. My lodgings are just here,” Andrew gestured vaguely towards his London home. “Come and borrow a shirt. And then we’ll come back and take lunch here.”
“Yes,” Nicholas agreed, grinning. “Better here.”
“Indeed,” Andrew replied warmly. Andrew employed a truly terrible cook. Nicholas had eaten there once and decided he’d rather meet at the Northbrook Club than eat at Andrew’s houseever again. Andrew, whose father had lost his fortune to bad investment and worse debts, lived in rented lodgings near the shopping street. He had a cook and a maid to clean the house, but otherwise lived rather more unencumbered than Nicholas; a state that Nicholas sometimes envied. Andrew might have no fortune, but he likewise had no burden and nobody to tell him what to do.
