Also by Sally MacKenzie
What Ales the Earl
When to Engage an Earl
How to Manage a Marquess
What to Do With a Duke
Loving Lord Ash
Surprising Lord Jack
Bedding Lord Ned
The Naked King
The Naked Viscount
The Naked Baron
The Naked Gentleman
The Naked Earl
The Naked Marquis
The Naked Duke
Novellas
In the Spinster’s Bed
The Duchess of Love
The Naked Prince
The Naked Laird
The Merry VISCOUNT
SALLY MACKENZIE
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
WHAT ALES THE EARL
IN THE SPINSTER’S BED
WHAT TO DO WITH A DUKE
HOW TO MANAGE A MARQUESS
WHEN TO ENGAGE AN EARL
THE DUCHESS OF LOVE
BEDDING LORD NED
SURPRISING LORD JACK
LOVING LORD ASH
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Sally MacKenzie
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-4672-1
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4675-2 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4201-4675-0 (eBook)
With thanks to my brilliant, long-suffering editor,
Esi Sogah. Someday, maybe, if we wish upon a star,
I’ll hand a book in early . . . or at least on time.
For Kelly—welcome to the MacKenzies.
And, once again, for Kevin.
Chapter One
Caroline Anderson gave up her attempt to protect her space and shifted closer to the stagecoach wall, away from the beefy thigh pressing up against her.
The owner of the thigh spread his legs wider.
Blast! She glared at the cloth-covered appendage, her fingers itching to pull her knife out of her cloak pocket and prod the encroaching body part back into its own—
No. There was no point in making things more uncomfortable than they already were. She’d been lucky this coach was wider than normal and could squeeze six people inside, because she certainly didn’t want to spend another night in London. And the man wasn’t dangerous—his wife was seated on his other side, after all. He was just male and oblivious.
She’d be in far worse straits if the weaselly-looking fellow sitting diagonally across from her were in Beefy Thigh’s place. The Weasel had been staring at her as if she were a tasty sweetmeat ever since they’d left London. Fortunately, two other men were wedged onto the bench next to him, preventing him from sliding any closer.
She turned her head to stare glumly out the window.
Oh, hell!
Could things get any worse? The snow, which had been lazily dusting the buildings when they’d left Town, was now falling in thick curtains. It covered the grass and decorated the trees. If it kept up at this rate . . .
No, the road had to remain passable. She needed to get back to the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children today. It was almost Christmas Eve.
She let out a long breath, fogging the window. She could do with a little luck, but luck—or at least the good variety—had not been her companion on this journey.
She’d had such high hopes when she’d set off from Little Puddledon yesterday. Mr. Harris, the owner of the Drunken Sheep in Westling, had again increased his order of Widow’s Brew, the ale she produced with her fellow residents of the Home. Even better, he’d told her he’d visited his brother in London and had persuaded him to give their ale a try. She’d been so thrilled, she’d almost hugged the man. Getting Widow’s Brew into the London market had been her dream ever since she’d perfected the recipe. Here, finally, was her chance.
Some chance. She pulled a face at the passing scenery, her stomach knotting in anger and frustration. Oh, what a colossal fool I’ve been.
The pasty-faced man seated directly across from her sneezed, a great, wet eruption—and only then pulled out his handkerchief to give his nose a honking blow.
Splendid. That was all she needed—to come down with a horrible head cold. It would quite put the final flourish on this fruitless jaunt.
She frowned. It wasn’t as if she’d gone running up to London only to fulfill her personal ambition. The Home needed the money. The more ale she sold, the less they had to depend on the whims of their noble patron, the Duke of Grainger.
Well, patrons now. When Pen Barnes, the Home’s former hop grower, had married the Earl of Darrow in August, the earl had promised to lend his support to that of his friend, the duke.
Ha! Caro had learned from sad experience to trust a peer only as far as she could haul a full hogshead of ale—which meant not at all.
Her frown deepened to a scowl. Apparently, she could trust a London tavern keeper even less. The Westling Mr. Harris had very much mistaken the matter. Yes, his London brother had been eager to discuss terms, but the commodity he’d wished to purchase had not been her ale.
Her lips twisted into a humorless smile. She’d made good use of her pocketknife then. The dastard would think twice before putting his hands on the next businesswoman he encountered.
For all the good that does me.
Her shoulders slumped. To be brutally honest, the bounder’s bad behavior wasn’t the real cause of her dismals. No, her spirits were so low because she’d finally realized that her dream of breaking into the London market was pure self-delusion. Pen and Jo—Lady Havenridge, Baron Havenridge’s widow and the founder of the Home—had tried to tell her that, but she’d refused to listen. She’d had to slam her head into the truth before she’d believe it.
She’d last been to London when she was seventeen, thirteen years ago. She’d forgotten how large and busy and overwhelming it was. Even if she could somehow brew ten times—a hundred times—the quantity of ale she did now, her output would be only a tiny drop in the enormous vats of the London bre
weries. And if she did get any orders, she’d never be able to deliver reliably. Little Puddledon was too far from Town.
Oh, Lord. How I wish—
The coach lurched, skidding a foot or two.
“Lawk-a-daisy!” That was Beefy Thigh’s wife. “We’re gonna end in a ditch, Humphrey. See if we don’t.”
Beefy Thigh—or, rather, Humphrey—put his large hand over his wife’s. “Don’t fret, Muriel. The coachman knows what he’s about.”
Caro heard the quaver in his voice if Muriel didn’t.
He turned to the somberly garbed man sitting directly across from him. “Ain’t that right, Reverend?”
The clergyman looked up from his book—a Bible—opened his mouth and—
Was interrupted by an expressive snort from Pasty Face, who then had to make quick use of his handkerchief.
“I’m getting off at the Crow,” Pasty Face said. “I don’t want to break me neck.”
Muriel sucked in her breath and then moaned.
The clergyman gave Pasty Face a reproachful look before smiling at Muriel. “Now, now, madam. Remember what the Good Book says.” He patted his Bible. “‘Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed, for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’ Joshua chapter one, verse nine.”
Pasty Face snorted again, this time with handkerchief at the ready. “The Lord can go with me into the Crow.”
The reverend scowled. “Sir, you border on blasphemy.”
Pasty Face shrugged. “As long as I border on a nice, warm fire with a pint in me hand, I’m good.”
Caro’s thoughts veered off on a new path. The Crow wasn’t London, but it was on the main coaching route and closer to Little Puddledon. If she could persuade its tavern keeper to serve Widow’s Brew, word would spread. She might find a larger market that wasn’t too large.
Should I get off and talk to—
No. Mr. London Harris’s wandering hands—it was truly shocking how different two brothers could be—and the Weasel’s wandering eyes had reminded her of the dangers a woman traveling alone faced. If she stopped, chances were good she’d be stranded at the Crow for several days. Even if the tavern keeper himself wasn’t a lecher, she was certain to encounter more than one drunken, lascivious lout on the premises. Her poor pocketknife would be worn to a nub.
Not to mention coaching inns were terribly expensive, and she was short of coin. And she was needed back at the Home.
Muriel was still whinging. “Humphrey, maybe we should get off, too.”
“But yer sister is expecting us, dumpling. She’ll worry. Ye know that.”
“Y-yes. But what if we do end in a ditch? What if we freeze to death? What then?”
“Zounds, woman! It’s just a little snow.” The Weasel finally stopped staring at Caro long enough to scowl at Muriel.
Caro looked out the window again to confirm that the “little” snow had now given the stone walls running along the road white caps.
Pasty Face snorted again and dabbed his nose. “Mebbie it’s not much if yer a polar bear. I don’t have a big white fur coat. I’m gettin’ off at the Crow and sittin’ in front of the fire, warmin’ me coattails.”
That did sound appealing.
“What is your opinion, madam?” The clergyman suddenly turned to Caro. “Do you think the weather too, er, uncertain for further travel, especially for delicate females such as yourself and this lady?” He nodded toward Muriel.
Caro blinked at him. Delicate female? She’d wager she could work longer, harder hours than this sermon-writing, Bible-toting parson. And there was nothing uncertain about the weather. But she couldn’t afford—on any level—to take shelter at the inn, and if Muriel and Humphrey got off, the Weasel was certain to move over and sit next to her. Ugh!
“I’m not getting off the coach,” she said as they rattled into the innyard.
“Well, I am,” Pasty Face said. And, true to his word, as soon as the coachman unlatched the door and pulled down the steps, Pasty Face was out and heading toward the Crow’s light and warmth and liquid refreshment.
Caro looked longingly after him, tugging her cloak’s collar closer in a vain attempt to keep out the cold. She’d like to be sitting by the fire—
Remember the lubricious louts.
“If ye need to use the privy, do it straightaway,” the coachman said. “We’re not stopping long. I want to make it to Marbridge afore the weather worsens.”
“Do ye think it’s safe to go on?” Humphrey asked, Muriel gripping his arm and peering anxiously around him.
Caro held her breath.
The coachman nodded. “Aye. The road’s good—straight and flat—and the horses are steady. The snow’s not too bad . . . yet. But the sooner we leave, the better.” He scowled at them. “So be quick about yer business. I won’t wait fer ye if ye dillydally.”
The coachman stepped back, and Humphrey, the clergyman, and the Weasel clambered out, the Weasel managing to “accidently” brush his hand over Caro’s knees as he passed.
“Pardon me,” he said, sending a noxious cloud of stale breath her way.
She forced a smile, fingering the knife in her pocket, and decided she could forego the jakes. Braving the cold and, more to the point, the filth of the public outhouse wasn’t appealing, but she especially didn’t want to risk being caught alone by the Weasel or to open herself to the possibility that he could rearrange the seating while she was gone.
Muriel must have come to the same conclusion, at least about the outhouse.
“So, yer traveling alone, are ye?” she asked after the men left, eyeing Caro with a nervous mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
Mostly suspicion.
Caro was tempted to say, no, she had an imaginary companion by her side, but bit her tongue and forced a smile instead. She was a good saleswoman and selling herself—that is, her skill and dependability as a businesswoman—was often part of convincing skeptical tavern keepers to take a chance on her ale. She’d use those skills now. “Yes. I’m going home for the holidays.”
No need to clarify that home meant the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children.
“Did I hear you’re visiting your sister?” She’d also found that throwing the conversational ball back to her inquisitor usually worked very well—as it did this time.
Muriel’s face lit up, and she rattled on about her sisters Mildred, Mirabel, and Miranda, who all lived just outside Marbridge, and how she went back every Christmas to celebrate the holiday with them.
Caro nodded and made encouraging noises to keep the woman talking, counting the seconds until the men returned and they could resume their journey. One of the things she most hated about Christmas was the way people dug up their old, moldering memories and dressed them up with garlands and candles and nostalgia. The past was best left in the past. Fortunately, most of the women at the Home agreed with her.
Humphrey and the Weasel returned then. Humphrey climbed right in, but the Weasel loitered in the cold.
Oh, Lord. He’s going to try to take Pasty Face’s place.
Caro gripped her knife, ready to pull it out the moment any part of the Weasel touched her. If he thought she’d bear his insults politely, he was going to be very painfully surprised.
Humphrey turned into an unwitting ally. “What are ye doing out there, sir?” he said. “Get in afore ye freeze yer arse off.”
The Weasel shrugged—or perhaps shivered. “I’ll g-get in when the reverend comes back. No need to s-sit longer than I have to.”
“But ye’ll catch yer death out there,” Muriel said.
“Naw. I’m used to the c-c-cold.”
That was definitely a shiver. In any event, the coachman appeared just then to put an end to the Weasel’s plot.
“Get in, man.” His voice had an edge to it. “We need to be off at once. The coachy coming from Marbridge said the roads are getting worse.”
“B
ut what about the reverend? He’s not back from the privy.”
The coachman put his hands on his hips. “Are ye wanting to keep him company? Because ye shall if ye don’t get in the coach right now.”
There was a momentary standoff, and then the Weasel grumbled and climbed in. He leered at Caro the moment his rump hit the other bench.
“Why don’t ye join me?” He patted the spot next to him.
“Good idea,” Humphrey said.
“Do move over, dear.” That was Muriel. “We’ll all be more comfortable.”
Ha! Caro would be vastly more uncomfortable—as everyone else would, too, after she stabbed the Weasel in the leg.
She was saved from violence by the clergyman, who came stumbling up at that moment, still buttoning his fly.
“Just in time, Reverend,” the coachman said. “We were going to have to leave ye here.”
“Sorry.” The clergyman hoisted himself in, forcing the Weasel to slide over. “Balky bowels.”
That was more information than Caro wished to have, but she welcomed anything that forced the Weasel away from her.
The coachman started to put up the steps—
“Wait! Oh, please, sir. Wait.”
He stopped and looked—they all looked—toward the inn. A young woman, carrying a small satchel, and a young boy, about six or seven years old, half ran/half slid over the snow-slick cobblestones.
“Sir,” the woman said, her voice tight and breathless, “I’ve a ticket for an inside seat. They said I might have a place here, since the gentleman got off.”
The coachman frowned, hesitating.
“There’s only one seat and two of you,” the clergyman said. “You won’t fit. Go back to the inn.”
Now there was Christian charity.
The coachman scowled. “Now see here, Reverend. This is my coach. I’ll be the one making the decision about who rides and who doesn’t.”
The Merry Viscount Page 1