August, 1796
Shoreley Park, Hampshire
âSo, Miss Faraday, how do you fare now that all of your close circle of friends are marriedâ¦?â
Miss Faraday turned sharply where she stood on the terrace of the country home of the Earl and Countess of Westbourne. Her cheeks became slightly flushed at having been caught observing one of that âclose circle of friendsâ and her husband of only six weeks as they strolled about the sunlit garden together. The two were in the throes of a tight-lipped argument, if the fiery glitter in Charlotteâs eyes was any indication.
The colour stayed in Trudieâs cheeks as she found herself gazing up at the extremely eligible Mr George Sebastian Reynolds Wilson, known privately to friends and foe alikeâof whom he seemed to have acquired an equal number!âas simply Bastian.
And a man Trudie had seenâand admiredâseveral times since his return to England from the Continent two Seasons ago. Not that this aloof gentleman had ever stood up to dance at the balls or assemblies, instead preferring to stand on the sidelines and observe the members of the ton with brooding intensity. Which was not to say that Trudie hadnât looked her fill of Bastian Wilson whenever he deigned to grace Society with his disdainfully aloof presenceâ¦.
Indeed, aged one and thirty, Bastian Wilson was the sort of man that no woman, of any ageâlet alone one of two and twenty!âwould ever overlook. He was exceptionally tall and powerfully built, that height and power shown to advantage today in the black silk jacket he wore over a lighter grey waistcoat, fine white Brussels lace at the throat and cuffs of his white linen, his black breeches moulding to the muscled length of his thighs, with unadorned silver buckles upon his shoes. Contrary to fashion, Bastian Wilson always wore the darkness of his hair uncovered by a wig or powder, its silky length at this moment pulled back and secured with a black velvet ribbon at his nape. Mocking grey eyes glittered above a straight slash of a nose, sharp and high cheekbones and a sensually sculpted mouth that was more often than not curved into a disdainful smile as he observed the rest of humanity through those cold and uninterested grey eyes.
Of course, Trudie had been well aware that the elusive Bastian Wilson was to make up one of the party of summer guests invited to spend the week at the Hampshire estate of her friend Lady Harriet Copeland, Countess of Westbourne for this past year. Indeed, his attendance was an unprecedented social coup which had already earned Harriet many an envious glance.
Trudieâs own glance, as she now looked up at the obviously contemptuous Mr Bastian Wilson, was guarded rather than covetous, unsure as yet as to what this particular conversation was leading up to. âI believe I fare very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,â she answered him dismissively.
He arched a condescending brow. âIndeed?â
Trudie gave a haughty inclination of her head, her dark curls falling in ringlets against her exposed breasts above the blue of her silk gown. âMore so than most of my married friends, I believe.â
âHow so, Miss Faraday?â Mr Bastian Wilson drawled.
Her chin rose. âFrom my observations, none of my friendsâ marriages seem to be particularly happy ones.â Her friend Charlotteâs current argument with her husband was an example of that discord. As was the unhappiness of their beautiful hostess, Lady Harriet Copeland, married for one year to a man more than twenty years her senior, with a baby daughter already in the nursery. One only had to look at her to know the true state of her emotions.
Arrogant brows rose over hooded grey eyes. âAnd do you consider the happiness of a husband and wife in each otherâs company to be a necessary part of marriage?â
âOf course.â Trudie was well aware of the suitability of an advantageous marriageâindeed, she had received many such offers of marriage herself since her coming out five years ago. But with no regard, let alone liking for any of those gentlemen, she had not hesitated in refusing every one of them.