When he mentioned such musings to his valet, the man positively glowed with excitement. He pulled out an assortment of waistcoats and asked him which might be to his liking.
As Hargreaves fussed with his selections, picking out this and folding that, Nicholas’s mind was drawn back to Madeline’s attention. He did not consider himself a vain man, though he knew the effect he often had on women. But she could not have been plainer about her regard for him.
Yet the only woman I wish to look at me seems entirely immune to my charms.
Although Miss Crompton had blushed profusely at the mention of the kissing boughs. He had a sudden jolt of desire as he looked at his reflection, imagining having the opportunity to kiss her in the privacy of the corridors of the house. Perhaps they would find themselves unexpectedly beneath a bough, and all other conversation would cease as they stared into one another’s eyes and—
“Perhaps the green coat this evening, my lord?”
Nicholas cleared his throat and nodded stiffly. Hargreaves beamed and helped him to pull the thing over his shoulders.
Nicholas brushed down his sleeves as he considered the many choices he had made in life and the inevitable truth that he would have to make many more—for better or worse.
Lady Wilde was just the sort of woman he should admire. She was beautiful, fashionable, and well-connected with a large fortune. He would have rejoiced in the flirtation—for flirtation, it was—not three days before.
But now, all that filled his mind was Miss Crompton. It was surprising and rather alarming to be so bowled over by a lady.
She was reluctant around him, which he was unaccustomed to. He found himself longing for her good opinion, and as Hargreaves stepped back with a smile of pleasant enjoyment, Nicholas realized that he looked very well indeed as he surveyed the finished ensemble.
For the first time, he looked like the Earl of Bernewood. He wore a strict evening jacket and cream waistcoat, with a complicated construction about his neck that framed his face.
He had never cared how others perceived him up until today. He was desperate for Miss Crompton to see beneath the façade he presented to the world.
For the first time in many years, he finally wanted to be known and not simply seen.
CHAPTER NINE
“Perhaps the pink satin?” Annie asked as Clarissa looked over the gowns that might be suitable for dinner. She found herself contemplating them rather longer than usual, and Annie had picked up on her indecision.
“Should I not have packed the darker pieces, Miss Crompton?” she asked, looking concerned.
“Not at all. I am just so used to white that I have forgotten these others. You are right. The pink will do very well, thank you, Annie.”
The gown was dutifully fitted, and Clarissa contemplated the evening ahead. Lord Bolton’s presence in her life was unexpectedly troublesome and she was struggling to interpret her own feelings.
Before they had come to the house, the idea of an attachment had not entered her head. She had been focused on whether it was wise to come at all and not on who she might meet.
She had been surprised by how friendly everyone had been. True, the attendees were chiefly made up of Lady Eleanor’s, or her own, family. But Lady Bartholemew and Garriton had also been very amiable. There wasn’t a hint that anyone had considered the scandal since the night of the ball. As a result—she had let down her guard.
She had not expected Lord Bolton to be a part of the party, and now that he was, he presented a complication she had not planned for.
Given his history, nothing could recommend him. Rosemary’s reassurances of his character were of little consequence. Considering that she was his sister and wouldlikely think well of him whatever he did, Clarissa did not put much store by them.
She would be civil but drove any other thoughts out of her mind.
Even so, she still felt a flutter of nerves in her gut at the prospect of another evening in his company. She chided herself for such foolishness, but try as she might, she could not banish those feelings.
As she prepared to head down to dinner, she was surprised to be summoned to the sitting room. Upon entering, she found both her parents waiting for her.
Her stomach in knots, she chiefly concentrated on her father. He was by far the most sensible of the two, and she made a bargain with herself that whatever he asked, she would see it done—just as she had since Catherine left them.
Her father’s brow was rather furrowed, and her mother was bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Lord Crompton cleared his throat. Before he began speaking, his gaze moved to his wife before finding hers. Clarissa thought she could detect an element of apology in it.
“Your mother has brought to my attention that you may have formed an attachment with Lord Bolton.”
“He is the most virtuous of men, Clarissa,” her mother interrupted. “To think that you have managed to ensnare an earl with title, wealth, and a great estate. It is beyond my wildest imaginings. This connection could change everything for us.”
