Nicola and the Viscount by Meg Cabot Page A

wretched man?
    â€œHe isn’t my uncle,” was all Nicola said, but she raised a hand to wave to them, as they were too far away to call to. Ladies, according to Madame, never called greetings to anyone from across crowded public squares. The Grouser did not return the wave, but the Milksop did, all too eagerly.
    â€œMy goodness, Nicola,” Honoria said, taking Nicola’s arm as the two of them strolled back toward the Bartholomews’ carriage, “but Mr. Blenkenship seems to be holding quite a torch for you.”
    It took a moment or two for Nicola to realize what the Lady Honoria meant. When she did, she was so appalled she stumbled to a halt and stared at her friend in disbelief.
    â€œHarold?” Nicola cried. “Oh, my lady, you must be joking!”
    â€œNot at all,” Honoria said, looking puzzled. “I noticed it at Almack’s the other night, as well. He looks at you like…well, the way Papa looks at the Catch Me Who Can . I think he must be in love with you.”
    Nicola was glad breakfast had been so long ago, or she was certain it would have all come back up. The Milksop! In love with her! Impossible!
    Nicola shook her head. “You are mistaken. The Milk—I mean, Mr. Blenkenship only looks at me because he is so disgusted with my lack of business sense. His father wants me to sell my childhood home, you know.”
    But Honoria was adamant. “It’s hardly disgust I see in his face when he looks at you, Nicola,” she said. “Quite the opposite, I should say. I would have a care with him. You know what Madame said.”
    Nicola did, for Madame Vieuxvincent had been quite firm on the subject: there was nothing on this earth that could do more damage to a girl’s reputation than a string of lovers scorned.
    But Harold ? In love with her? Surely Lady Honoria was imagining things.
    Fondly, Nicola patted her friend’s arm and said, “I will have a care, my lady, because you ask it. But I assure you, my cousin feels nothing for me.”
    Indeed, Nicola was quite certain the Milksop was devoid of any proper feeling. For what sort of creature could pass up a ride, as he had done, on the cunning little Catch Me Who Can ?
    Because the thought was so utterly ridiculous, Nicola put it from her head…particularly when, at the door to the Bartholomews’ carriage, Lord Sebastian offered her his hand to help her up the carriage steps. In that instant, Nicola was flooded with the memory of how his strong arm had felt about her shoulders.
    And then she could not, for the life of her, think of anything else at all. Well, what girl could?

CHAPTER FIVE
    The Lady Honoria Bartholomew had not, it was true, been blessed by nature—at least not in the manner that her brother had. She was distinctly horsey about the face, and unfortunately possessed her brother’s broad, athletic frame.
    This would, Nicola knew, have not been such a disadvantage—indeed, it might almost have been a boon, for statuesque women could wear the high-waisted gowns that were so fashionable that season very well indeed—had her ladyship not insisted upon adorning her gowns and bonnets with feather trimming. In Nicola’s opinion, feathers, on a large woman, looked ridiculous. What the Lady Honoria needed were clean lines and classic trimmings, to draw attention away from her heavy shoulders and thick waist and toward her better features, which included her really lovely thick blond hair and exquisitely azure eyes.
    What Lady Honoria needed, then, was not feathers, but braid and the barest minimum of lace.
    Convincing her ladyship of the truth of this, however, was proving difficult.
    Nearly a month had passed since Nicola had come to stay with the Bartholomews, and it was now approaching the height of the season. But Honoria, unlike a good many other graduates of Madame Vieuxvincent’s, had yet to receive a single marriage proposal. It was not unusual that