Just a warning. Slight angst ahead. Hehehe.

And, oh yeah: Anything you see familiar isn't mine. Nicola and the Viscount is Meg Cabot's. Not mine. I just like to dress them up and play Barbie with them.


CHAPTER EIGHT

The sky was still dark, but a hopeful light blue hue was creeping into the horizon, hailing the near rising of the sun. It was indeed a beautiful sight to behold: the dawning of a new morning. Of new adventures. Of new beginnings. Most of London's high society, however, did not see it, for everyone was resting in their bedchambers after a night at Almack's Assembly Rooms.

Everyone, except for Nathaniel Sheridan.

He was far from rested. He had tried sleeping, of course, and there had been points during the night where he came close to it, but his mind was too restless. It kept replaying the events of the previous night, over and over. He knew that he shouldn't dwell on the what ifs, but Nathaniel, as his hazel eyes stared at the ceiling above him, took each word that had been spoken, and explored how they could have been said in another way, in another time, at another place, and would have caused a better things to come to pass.

Unfortunately, the past could not be changed. And now, Nicola Sparks was angry at him. Furious. Enraged. It was to be expected, Nathaniel mused, for what girl would not alienate the man who so rudely and accusingly spoke about the one they love? And Nathaniel had spoken rudely, he knew, despite the fact that he had very much tried to control his words.

The night had actually begun on a happy note. Nathaniel had set aside personal concerns, thanks to Eleanor being monumentally nervous as they prepared to go to Almack's. It was her first night to go there as a woman engaged, and, ecstatic as she might be, she didn't quite know how she was going to handle the attention she was most likely to receive. The Lady Sheridan had, of course, advised her to simply be calm and honestly and diplomatically answer questions. Eleanor had calmed down some after her mother's gentle instructions, but she was still wringing her gloves so much that she eventually called for Nathaniel.

"Oh, just distract me," Eleanor had asked him upon his arrival in her room. "Crack a joke, insult my dress, I don't really care..."

Nathaniel had laughed at that, sitting beside her on her settee and taking her hand.

"Ellie. Relax," he told her. "It'll just be like any other night except you have a ring on your finger. That, and you get to dance with Sir Hugh three times."

Eleanor, to Nathaniel's relief, laughed lightly at that. "But what if I do something unbecoming of a woman engaged?"

"Like what?" Nathaniel asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Like... Like spending too much time with another gentleman?"

"Oh, please, as if you would," Nathaniel said, rolling his eyes. "Besides Sir Hugh probably won't leave your side the whole night. Anything else?"

Eleanor bit her lip, fidgeting with her fingers despite the fact that Nathaniel was holding one of them. Her fidgeting, though, lacked the vigor that it had earlier that evening.

"See?" Nathaniel said when Eleanor didn't say anything else. "You're worried for nothing. It'll be fine."

Eleanor slowly drew in a calming breath, saying, "All right... If you say so."

"You'll be fine," Nathaniel said, offering her a smile. "Just enjoy the night."

As it later turned out, Eleanor did enjoy the night. She visibly relaxed when Sir Hugh came, and she sauntered across the Assembly Room with such grace that Madame Veuxvincent would have been proud.

As for Nathaniel, he didn't purely have such a horrendous time himself. He had courteous dances with a few young ladies; some were old acquaintances and some were new. But the girl that Nathaniel eventually escorted was Stella Ashton. He didn't care if Miss Spurgeon saw him. Miss Ashton was nice company, and that was enough justification for him to chat with her.

Her pretty face looked rather pale that night; Nathaniel was worried that she might not be well. But after speaking with her for a few minutes, Nathaniel saw that she was feeling just fine, and, as usual, she was good-humored and enjoyable to talk to. True, she might not be passionate, unlike Nicola, but Nathaniel found that light conversations were beneficial for the moment. Besides, he had determined that he was not going to think about Nicola that night. A thing that was not going to happen, as it later turned out.

He had just gotten drinks from the refreshment table, and was sharing a few laughs with Stella by the window, when a familiar voice spoke up behind them.

"I beg your pardon," Nicola had said politely, but Nathaniel saw something in her eyes that told him that her politeness was rather forced. Stella didn't seem to notice, though, because she smiled sweetly as she greeted Nicola a good evening.

"May I have a word with you, Mr. Sheridan?" Nicola asked after returning Stella's greeting. "Alone?"

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow at this, wondering what all this was about. He had avoided being near her the past few days... What could he have done that she wanted to talk to him? Instead of questioning her, though, Nathaniel said nothing else but, "Certainly."

He excused himself from Stella, who was looking rather confused, and followed Nicola's lead. Well, if he couldn't avoid speaking with her tonight, then Nathaniel just had to watch his big mouth and make sure he didn't dig his own grave. He had to distance himself from her, that was for sure. He wasn't going to be caught staring at her tonight. Absolutely not.

But, suddenly, Nathaniel realized with a glimmer of hope, could it be that Nicola wanted to talk with him about her fiancé? Was it possible that she finally unveiled the viscount's true nature? No, it was far from possible, Nathaniel decided, because he had seen the way Nicola looked at Sebastian Bartholomew while they were dancing earlier that evening. He had tried to ignore it, but he saw it anyway. It was exactly the way she had been looking at him for the past two months.

With blind adoration.

Therefore, Nathaniel really had to keep his distance, no matter how much he preferred otherwise.

Perhaps it was because he was walking behind her, or because his nose was beginning to recognize the fragrance anywhere, but Nathaniel nearly groaned in defeat when he detected the hint of that distracting lavender scent again. It was just so... well... distracting. And tempting... It made him want to step forward, wrap his arms around Nicola and pull her towards him so he could bury his face on the gentle curve of her neck, letting himself get lost in the torturingly sweet scent. He wanted so much to trace his thumb along her cheek, and, with a simple tilt of her chin—

Nathaniel nearly let out a choked yelp when Nicola whirled around, yanking him back into active consciousness. He suddenly found himself face to face with her, her strawberry lips only inches away from his.

Oh, good lord, I could easily—

ARGH! What on earth are you thinking?!

Sheridan, SNAP OUT OF IT!!!

Nicola apparently noticed their close proximity, as well, because Nathaniel saw surprise flicker through her sapphire eyes. But, true to the Nicola Sparks tradition, she stubbornly kept her ground and demanded, "Just who do you think you are, Nathaniel Sheridan, to cut me?"

Oh, so that's what this was about.

Nathaniel blinked, finding himself in a very uncomfortable condition. Not only did Nicola very nearly catch him daydreaming about her, but she had also cornered him with a question that he had no idea how to answer. He didn't cut her, not really. Cutting someone implied that the cutter deliberately ignored the cuttee, snubbing them as if it was a public statement of their state of conflict. No, he didn't cut her. He just... didn't say 'hello'. Was that so bad?

It was, apparently, because Nicola, when he denied her accusation, was not at all dissuaded.

"You looked right at me at the punch bowl just now," she said, "and walked away without saying a word!"

"Because I couldn't think of anything to say," Nathaniel admitted. It wasn't a lie, either. Although he had bucketloads to tell her — about the train cutting through Beckwell Abbey, about Sebastian Bartholomew being a complete jerk, about Nicola being so very lovely that night — he couldn't bring himself to do it. He didn't know he could do it without offending her, and offending her was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment.

Ironically, that seemed to be precisely what his actions did.

How utterly frustrating.

"Oh, and I suppose 'Good evening, Miss Sparks' would have been too banal for someone of your great mental prowess?"

Well, she had a point there. But what could he say? "So sorry I've been avoiding you, but I've found that my self-control falters alarmningly whenever I'm around you"? Oh, she'd surely be understanding over that.

Feeling his self-control slowly wilting that very moment, Nathaniel only simply said, "I ought to have said good evening. You're quite right."

Nicola paused. She must have expected him to retaliate and begin quarellling with her, because a surprised look overtook her lovely face when she asked him if he was well. Oh, that was classic. Eleanor should have been there.

"It isn't like to you to let me win an argument," Nicola told him. "Are you sure you're not suffering from ague?"

She really should not have said that. She should have just walked away proudly for winning an argument so easily. But she didn't, and Nathaniel felt angry thoughts — thoughts he had so carefully put aside — resurface.

You see? Nathaniel wanted to ask her. You see?! You're an amazingly intuitive girl! Why can't you be like that with that cretin?!

Instead of that, however, he answered her inquiry with a different question of his own. "Yes. But I wonder if I oughtn't be asking the same of you. What can you be thinking, agreeing to marry that bounder?"

Ha! Bounder. He ought to use that more often.

Nicola gasped, and, angered by the way he referred to the viscount, replied haughtily that she happened to love him. "And he loves me," was how she ended her declaration.

"Does he?" Nathaniel automatically asked. "Does he indeed?"

"Of course he does!" Nicola exclaimed. "Nat, really! Why on earth should he have asked me if he didn't?"

"I don't know. Did he tell you so?"

"Did he tell me what?"

Oh, for goodness sake!

"That he loved you," Nathaniel supplied, his patience dangerously thin. Did the viscount impair her common sense? Apparently so.

When Nicola didn't answer at once, Nathaniel's jaw clenched. He knew it. He had known it from the very beginning. That good for nothing Farnsworth was taking Nicola for granted, and she was letting him!

"So he hasn't said it," Nathaniel concluded. "I thought as much. Ask him, Nicola—or, God forbid, ask yourself—why a man in Bartholomew's position would ask to marry a girl—an orphaned girl—with only a hundred pounds a year."

When Nathaniel heard himself, he very nearly winced. He sounded horrid, but what he said was really something to consider. The only acceptable reason Bartholomew could have asked for Nicola's hand was because he loved her. And if he loved her, then he should have said so, especially now that they were already engaged. And if he didn't... Well, Nathaniel could think of one other reason behind the viscount's actions, and it was something not to be desired.

"Go ahead," Nathaniel said, deciding that it would be much, much better if Nicola asked Bartholomew herself. Discovering the truth always was better when done personally, and, after all, Nathaniel couldn't go around accusing someone of something he didn't have real, substantial evidence for. "I dare you. Ask him."

"What do you suppose he's going to say? Obviously you know, or you wouldn't be so confident about it," Nicola said. "Well, if you know something you're not telling me, just say it. I can't imagine why you haven't done so already. You've never felt very squeamish about sparing my feelings before now."

At that last remark, Nathaniel felt something inside him break.

And then, suddenly, he wasn't thinking.

"Fine," he said, feeling livid and thoroughly numb at the same time. "You don't want to have your feelings spared? Then ask your light o' love about Pease."

Nathaniel supposed it would have been funny on any other day, but even if he was only half as angry as he was at the moment, he wouldn't have laughed when Nicola thought he was talking about garden vegetables.

"Not peas the vegetable," Nathaniel corrected her sharply. "Pease the name. Ask your precious Lord Sebastian about Edward Pease, and see what he has to say."

Well, truth be told, he didn't know what Sebastian Bartholomew had to say about Edward Pease, either, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The words had left his mouth, and the damage was done. Nathaniel knew, even as he stood there, watching Nicola leave, that he would regret snapping at her repeatedly.

He just wasn't thinking. Yes, Nathaniel teased her often, and she usually shot back at him with defiance, but her words that night stung him like they never did before. Even as he lay on his bed while the sun began to rise, he felt numb and dulled.

Maybe it was because he was just exhausted. Ever since he found out about her engagement, things seemed to be going downhill.

Or maybe it was because it was the first time she voiced out how his own words had affected her. She thought he didn't care about her feelings. Good lord, how could she say that? He's always cared about her! True, he might have had a strange way of showing sometimes, but... He cared about her! More than that Sebastian Bartholomew ever could! Couldn't she see that?

Then again, maybe it was because she said it after declaring that she loved Sebastian Bartholomew.

"I love him," she had said with absolute conviction.

Nathaniel's jaw clenched as he closed his eyes, feeling excessively tired. Perhaps he should stop thinking too much about Nicola. It wasn't doing very good for his sleep, and, the worst part about it was that she didn't even care what he said. He was just her best friend's brother, the annoying Nathaniel Sheridan, the boy who tied her braids to the back of her chair.

Nathaniel sighed, his hazel eyes turning towards the window as light peeked through the curtains.

Today. He could start today.

It was the dawn of a new morning. Of new adventures. Of new beginnings.


Told you it was angsty.

I've recently been concerned that maybe this story is looking like I'm simply copying off the book. Although it's technically true, since this IS the book, but presented in a different angle, I would like the story to have a slightly different feel, while still being faithful to the story.

... Am I making sense? Hehe. Sorry, just rambling to myself. I just wanted it to be a good balance of faithfulness and creativity. :þ

Thank y'all for reading and reviewing! Love you guys!