Free Nicola and the Viscount by Meg Cabot Page A

“Then you see what I mean, don’t you, Harold?”
    â€œNicola.” Harold looked down at her very seriously. He was not handsome. He was too weak-chinned, and his eyes too small, ever to be called that. But when he looked very serious, as he did just then, it was hard to recognize him as the same person who for so many years Nicola had disparaged. There seemed to be a streak of stubbornness in him that Nicola had never recognized before, a streak that had nothing to do with courage or even spirit, but was nevertheless as indomitable as either of those qualities.
    â€œYou had better get it through your head that Lord Sebastian Bartholomew is never going to ask a penniless little-miss-nobody like you to marry him,” Harold said with chilling certainty. “No matter how many times she lets him put his arm around her.”
    Nicola, outraged by this, stood up in the phaeton, not caring if she tumbled out and met her death beneath a thousand hooves on the dirt path below.
    â€œThat’s it,” she declared. “That is it . Stop this carriage at once.”
    The Milksop, looking more like his usual pale, scared self, hauled on the reins.
    â€œNicola!” he cried. “Are you mad? Sit down!”
    But Nicola didn’t sit down. Instead, the minute the phaeton came to a halt, she clambered down from it unaided. The hem of her gown caught on one of the wheel spokes and tore, and she didn’t even care. She merely yanked it free, turned around, and dashed across the carriage path, barely saving herself from being crushed by a passing chaise-and-four.
    â€œNicola!” thundered the Milksop from his driving seat. “Nicola, come back here!”
    But Nicola didn’t come back. She didn’t care if she had to walk the whole of the way home. She would gladly have walked all the way to Newcastle if it meant she’d never again have to be in the company of Harold Blenkenship.
    As it was only just past noon, Hyde Park was teeming with visitors. It was no easy task, walking along the edge of the carriage path without getting knocked down. But she could not venture into the trees on either side of the path, as she’d heard footpads haunted them. She didn’t care to have her reticule torn from her, for all it contained only fifty pence and a few hairpins.
    Still, she was vastly relieved when, from behind her, she heard a voice calling her name. It was not a voice belonging to the Milksop, who could not leave his carriage to chase after her on foot…not if he wanted to find his phaeton where he’d left it, as the park was teeming not just with those with the urge to see and be seen, but some less savory individuals as well—footpads after bigger game than ladies’ reticules. No, this voice belonged to a lady.
    Nicola turned and was delighted to see Eleanor, her brother Nathaniel, and another man looking down at her in some astonishment from a handsome open-air curricle with seats for four.
    â€œNicky!” Eleanor cried, prettier than ever in a bonnet decorated with silk rosebuds that Nicola had trimmed for her just the day before. “Whatever are you doing, walking by yourself, and along this dusty path? And was that the Milksop we just passed?”
    â€œIt was indeed,” Nicola said with a haughty tilt of her chin. “I was forced to abandon his carriage, as he insulted me quite dreadfully.”
    â€œInsulted you?” Eleanor looked shocked, but the gentleman in the driver’s seat beside her only grinned, perhaps observing that Nicola appeared to have suffered no physical harm from her ordeal.
    â€œThen you had better get in with us,” he said, “where it’s safe. Hadn’t she, Sheridan?”
    Nathaniel, in the backseat, said only, “Indeed.” But he leaned forward, opened the door, and alighted in order to help Nicola in.
    â€œThank you,” she said most gratefully, as she sank onto the padded seat.