Page 14 of The Viscount’s Forgery (Bluestocking Book Club #4)

Nicholas nodded. “I thank you.” He did not say anything more, did not ask her about whether she was truly a bluestocking or not, recognizing that, by the glint in her eye, she was all that she claimed to be.

An uncertainty filled his heart, for he had never been faced with such a creature before, and did not know how he felt about such a thing either.

“You will not ask Miss Sherwood about the painting?” Lady Isobella folded her arms and tilted her head, appearing a little irritated by his refusal to, thus far, speak of it. “I am surprised, Lord Suffolk.”

“Why would you be surprised?”

“Because,” she answered quickly, gesturing towards Miss Sherwood, “you have here one of the most well-versed persons in all of England when it comes to such things, and you refuse to even speak with her about why she thinks your painting is a forgery?”

The urge to scoff at this notion, to state that he did not believe that Miss Sherwood could be so learned in this subject, burned hot in his throat, sending sharp words to his lips, but with one look at Miss Sherwood, he silenced himself before he could say a word.

There was something in her eyes that he recognized, a glint of determination and pride.

It was not an arrogance, only a certainty that yes, what her friend had said was quite true, and Nicholas became aware that he could not speak against that – especially when he had no understanding of such things himself!

“I could also consider your other paintings,” Miss Sherwood said, taking a small step closer to him and keeping her voice low.

“As I said to you last evening, I am more than a little certain that there are others. I did not manage to peruse all of them for an adequate amount of time but from what I saw, I think there are at least three others which are worth further consideration.”

That was a shock to Nicholas, who was forced to snatch in a breath as she spoke.

Three others? That would mean that his hall could, potentially, be filled with forgeries!

If the ton discovered this, then he would be mocked mercilessly, he was quite sure.

He had a reputation for being a very wealthy viscount indeed, with his houses filled with the very finest of things.

If society were to discover that it was not so, then he would have more than just embarrassment!

He would, no doubt, have to go back to his estate to hide his shame!

How would he find out the truth about his paintings?

If he dared to ask someone to come and look at each one, would that spread to society in some way?

“Lord Suffolk?”

He pulled himself out of his thoughts and looked back at Miss Sherwood.

She had drawn even closer to him and, in a single moment, everything about the paintings had flown right out of his head.

Instead, he found himself gazing down into her blue eyes, her face framed by dark curls and her lips gently parted.

What felt like lightning zipped through his veins, making his breath curl up and disappear from him entirely, his chest growing tight.

He did not know what was happening, seeming unable to pull his eyes from hers and yet, at the very same time, wanting desperately to break the connection so he could bring himself back.

“I want to be able to help you,” she said, ever so quietly, though whether that was for her benefit or his, Nicholas did not know.

“I do know a good deal about paintings and the like. I have learned about the artists of the past and of the present, the ones who are beginning to find favor amongst society, and those who are fading away. If I can use that to be of assistance to you – to even help you find out how this has happened – then I should be very glad to do so.”

Nicholas coughed and ran one hand over his eyes, finally severing the connection between them. “Thank you, Miss Sherwood, but I do not think that I have need of you in that way.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You are refusing my help?”

Utterly confused by what he felt – and a little disconcerted by it – Nicholas spoke bluntly and without truly thinking about what he was saying. “Yes, I am. I do not want your help, Miss Sherwood. I should never request the help of a bluestocking.”

The gasp that came not only from Miss Sherwood and also Lady Isobella was a slap to Nicholas’ face, bringing him back to himself in an instant.

He realized what he had said, how poorly he had spoken and immediately dropped his head.

“I did not mean to speak so,” he muttered, trying to take in a breath, trying to find the words to explain and to apologize but all he could hear was a buzzing in his ears.

Turning quickly, he began to walk away, his steps quick and his heart pounding.

Why had he spoken in such a way? It had been the most foolish thing to say, the most insulting thing he could have possibly imagined to have come out of his mouth, and Nicholas was utterly ashamed of himself.

I must stop.

Forcing his feet to stop marching forward, he let out a low groan and rubbed one hand over his eyes.

This was not a situation that he could simply leave as it was, could he?

It would not be right for him to walk away.

He had to apologize, had to explain to her that he had not meant to be so insulting.

With an effort, he turned around and let his gaze search the crowd.

He had thought that Miss Sherwood and Lady Isobella would be standing together, sending sharp, angry gazes towards him, but they were not there.

With frustration driving his steps forward, Nicholas returned to the picnic and looked in desperation for the two ladies, the guilt in his heart beginning to cover over him completely.

And then, he saw them.

Miss Sherwood was standing under the branches of a large tree, with Lady Isobella beside her.

Much to his horror, he saw tears glistening in her eyes, watching as she pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it against her cheeks.

Lady Isobella was leaning closer to her, one arm around her shoulders as she said something into her ear.

Shame washed like a wave over Nicholas, his feet fixed to the ground beneath his feet.

He could neither move forward nor step back, could not pull his gaze from her.

He had not thought for a moment that his words would affect her so, but then again, neither had he meant to speak such harsh words.

When it came to bluestockings, he had no general feeling or thought, and yet, somehow, that vitriol had come out towards her.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, as if somehow, she could hear him as he dropped his head and pushed one hand through his hair. “I did not mean to pain you.”

“There you are! Are you coming to have some punch?”

Nicholas was pulled from his overwhelming guilt for only a moment, looking at Lord Bothwell and seeing him smile, a smile that grated against his sense of shame. “No, I cannot.”

“No?” Lord Bothwell’s smile faded. “My friend, is everything all right?”

With a shake of his head, Nicholas began to turn away. “No, it is not,” he answered, his voice catching. “But without a doubt, it is all my own fault.”