The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance by Lynn Messina Page B

pointed interruption. Addleson was not possessive of his victimhood. He didn’t care who was thought to be the sufferer as long as it was acknowledged that someone in the conversation was suffering.
    “It has not been confirmed yet,” Petrie said, continuing his monologue unabated, “for I have not had the chance to complete my research, a development that I attribute to this delightful visit, which I may have mentioned before—please forgive me if I repeat myself. At a certain point, one acquires so much knowledge one cannot keep all the facts and figures straight in one’s head without a chart or an assistant, such as the helpful Mr. Clemmons. I do wish he were here so he could give you the particulars you seek. However, as I was saying, it’s my belief that Ammophila breviligulata is less vigorous in stabilized sand. This theory is based on the curious fact that Ammophila breviligulata is harder to find inland than along the coastline. From my astute observation, I can naturally suppose that it thrives under a certain circumstance.”
    Finding coastal plants no more interesting than root systems, Addleson looked at his watch again. Over the years, he had developed a method for surreptitiously checking the time so as not to give offense, but he did not bother to employ it now, for it was clear to him that Petrie would not notice. Nobody in the room would notice, he thought with a chagrined look at his cousin, who remained in thrall to Moray. Damn Edward! Bolingbroke was no better, nor was Lord Waldegrave, with his ingratiating smile at his host’s wife, or Mrs. Clydeon, who was bent over a modest pamphlet with a green cover, or—
    Shifting his head, Addleson suddenly found himself the object of Lady Agatha’s frank appraisal, her black eyes steady as she watched him. He was startled to discover himself unknowingly observed—had she seen him consult the time? wince at her father’s waistcoat?—and assumed his surprise explained the odd little buzzing sound he heard in his head as his gaze locked with hers. It was the strangest thing he’d ever experienced—the way the world seemed to stop and hum as they stared at each other, as if immobilized by a swarm of bees circling above their heads.
    Lady Agatha did not look away. She did not flinch or cringe or recoil or jump or show any reaction at all at being caught in so blatant a study of him. She did not pretend to suddenly be fascinated by the seam of her glove or a spot on the floor. She kept her head straight and her eyes fixed and her expression blank.
    Addleson remained still, as well, his own gaze as constant as hers, as the seconds ticked by. He couldn’t say what he was doing exactly. Not staring. No, sir, for he would never engage in such deliberately boorish and rude behavior. Observing, perhaps. Lady Agatha, with her severe black eyes, resolute chin and implausibly pert nose, was certainly a curiosity as worthy of close examination as the root of the sunset hyssop. Categorizing the act as mere observation, however, was too feeble and failed to account for the compulsive nature of the moment because, yes, there was something about it that felt a little beyond his control. Maybe it was merely a contest, a battle to see whose will was stronger, and Addleson, a competitive sort, could not bring himself to abandon the field.
    The problem with that simple explanation, which the viscount favored because it was so straightforward, was it did not account for the buzz that continued to sound in his ears. The hum was an odd development, to be sure, but with his well-established skepticism of superlatives, he doubted that it was truly the strangest thing that had ever happened to him, for how could such a momentous event happen there, in Lord Bolingbroke’s tasteful drawing room during his tedious soiree in the middle of a tiresome discussion of beach grass by an international bore?
    No, nothing of import had occurred, except, perhaps, the viscount’s reluctant