Nicola and the Viscount by Meg Cabot Page A

rode, Nicola knew, but he wasn’t fond of shooting, and he was even less fond of bagatelle—and who seemed to think that a good day was one spent adding up long columns of numbers on behalf of his father’s estate manager, would naturally dislike a fellow like Lord Sebastian, if only because their natures were so very disparate. It was, as Nicola had said to Eleanor, entirely a matter of prejudice. Nathaniel was prejudiced against the God for the simple reason that the God was so unlike him. It would, she assured Eleanor, pass, as Nathaniel and the God got to know one another better.
    But until it did, things were not going to be pleasant between Nicola and her best friend’s brother. This became clear the very next night, when Nicola happened to run into Nathaniel Sheridan at—where else?—Almack’s.
    He was getting punch. Nicola, who’d already had her three dances with the God that evening, had not felt right accepting invitations from anyone else for the next set—after all, she was virtually a married woman—and had instead gone to find something to drink, as the room was hotter even than usual. She spied Nathaniel at the refreshment table. Otherwise, she would not have ventured near it. Her engagement was still so new, she felt protective of it. She did not want to hear it—or her future husband—maligned by anyone, even in a teasing manner.
    She needn’t have worried. Nathaniel saw her—she was quite sure he saw her. Their gazes met above the crystal punch bowl. And yet he did not say a word. He merely lifted the two glasses he held—apparently he’d been getting punch for someone else in addition to himself—and walked away, his well-tailored black evening coat melting into a sea of similar coats, until Nicola could not make him out anymore.
    Stunned, Nicola stood where she was for a full minute before the enormity of what had just happened sank in fully: Nathaniel Sheridan had cut her!
    Nicola had heard about cutting before, of course. Madame had warned them most seriously about the dangers of cutting—or socially ignoring another person with whom one was very much acquainted. Cutting was ill-mannered, immature, and just about the cruelest thing one person could do to another.
    Even so, sometimes cutting was necessary. Overzealous suitors sometimes had to be cut in order for a lady to preserve her reputation. And of course if one girl was spreading slanderous rumors about the other, the girl about whom the rumors were focused had every right to cut her slanderess.
    But for Nathaniel Sheridan to cut her, Nicola Sparks, his sister’s most particular friend? There was no excuse for such behavior!
    Well, if he thought he was going to get away with it, he had another think coming entirely. Nicola was not the type of girl to meekly accept such a slight.
    Accordingly, setting down her punch glass, Nicola flung herself into the sea of black coats into which Nathaniel had just disappeared, determined to find him, and then make him apologize for his unspeakably rude behavior. This was not the course of action Madame Vieuxvincent recommended to her pupils who found themselves in the ignominious position of being cut. Confronting the cutter was not the prescribed method for solving the problem. But Nicola was too angry to think what Madame would have wanted her to do. All she could think was that Nathaniel Sheridan was going to rue the day he’d ever cut Nicola Sparks.
    Which might have been why, when the God came up to her a second later, she brushed him off with a curt, “Not now, my lord.” She had no time for gods just then. She had a mortal she needed to set straight about a few things.
    She found him standing by a window, chatting amiably with Miss Stella Ashton, who wore a dress in a hideous shade of yellow that made her skin look far more sallow than it actually was. It was for Miss Ashton that he’d brought the punch glass. They