The Merry Viscount
Page 12
“Ah, but I’m sure you must want new friends, too.” The man tried to leer at her again—and only reminded her of how Bumblebee, Jo’s horse, looked when she thought you might be hiding an apple or carrot in your pocket.
Caro was no expert, but she’d say the fellow needed to work on his flirting skills.
Then again, the man had come to attend an orgy. Flirting was likely superfluous in such a situation—not that she knew anything more about orgies than she did about flirting, thank God.
“Leave off teasing Miss Anderson, Bert,” Nick said, annoyance sharpening his voice and sending Bert’s brows shooting up to meet the lock of brown hair on his forehead.
Caro was surprised by the testy tone as well. She glanced up at Nick. He was smiling now, but his eyes still looked hard.
Does he think me a bone to be fought over?
She did not like that notion at all. She would just—
No, she wouldn’t. Much as she hated feeling like a tasty scrap Nick was defending from the other dogs, that was what she was at the moment. It was infuriating and annoying, but it was necessary. This boy-man was likely harmless, but the Weasel and the others might not be. She needed Nick.
And Nick needs me.
That thought salved her pride.
“Miss Anderson, may I introduce Mr. Bertram Collins? Bertram, Miss Anderson.” Nick’s voice was still tight. “Do come in, Bert, and stop blocking the door.”
Mr. Collins threw Nick a cautious glance as he stepped into the room. “My pleasure, Miss Anderson. I apologize if I gave offense.”
And now how should she react?
Oh, bother. She was never going to get through this if she questioned her every action.
“No offense taken, Mr. Collins.” Might as well be blunt. “But it’s true. I’m not in the market for dalliance.” Can I manage a coy look?
Likely not, but she would try. “At least not with anyone but Nick.”
If that wasn’t jumping in with both feet, she didn’t know what was.
Nick smiled at her, but managed at the same time to give her the impression he was rolling his eyes—though of course he wasn’t actually doing that.
She looked back at Mr. Collins.
His eyes had widened. “Ah, well, then. I’ll just say that Nick’s a lucky fellow.”
Nick finally took up his role in this farce. “Indeed, I am.” His free hand came up to cover hers on his arm. “I used to spend school holidays with Miss Anderson’s family, but the last time I saw her, she was only a girl—which is why I didn’t recognize her at once.” He grinned at her. “You’ve grown up quite nicely, my dear.”
Now it was her turn to give the impression of rolling her eyes without actually doing so. “As have you. I remember you as short and scrawny and spotty.”
His eyes narrowed, promising she’d pay for that comment later. Oddly, the notion didn’t frighten her or even make her uneasy. Instead, she felt . . .
Excited? Is that what this peculiar, fluttery sensation is?
“Surely not spotty, but I will admit I grew late. I believe I was just fifteen when last you saw me.”
“Yes, I believe you were. I—”
Someone cleared his throat—
Dear God! She’d been so focused on Nick, she’d completely forgotten about Mr. Collins standing not three feet from her. That would never do. She was only playing at being a lovestruck fool; she wasn’t really such a poor creature.
Keep your wits about you!
That had been her mistake with Dervington—not staying alert. Well, she’d thought he’d gone out that day. And she’d never expected to encounter him on the servants’ stairs.
Lesson learned. She’d vowed never to put herself at such risk again.
“Do you know where Felix is, Nick?” Mr. Collins was asking. “I thought he must be, er”—he sent her a cautious look and revised his words—“cavorting with Polly, but when I said as much to Fanny, she told me Polly was in Mrs. Dixon’s room with the baby.”
Nick scowled. “He must be in the house somewhere—it’s snowing too hard for him to have been daft enough to go outside—but he’d do well to play least in sight.”
Mr. Collins’s brows shot up, likely as much in reaction to Nick’s harsh tone as his words. “Oh? Has Felix offended somehow?”
“You’re bloody right he has. He’s the baby’s father, Bert.”
Mr. Collins’s eyebrows almost flew off his forehead at that. “Are—are you certain? Felix didn’t say anything about a baby.”
“I’m certain. Edward recognized the moles on Felix’s cheeks—both sorts of cheeks.”
Caro flushed. She really wished she hadn’t heard that. She did not want to contemplate Mr. Felix Simpson’s naked hindquarters or speculate how Edward had seen them.
Bathing. It must have been bathing. Please, God, let Edward have seen the man in his bath or perhaps swimming in a pond.
The sound of voices in the corridor claimed their attention then. Caro must have tightened her hold on Nick’s arm, because Nick bent his head close to hers again.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured so only she could hear him.
Or at least she hoped only she could hear.
The first two people through the door were the idiots who had driven the coach into the ditch. They looked to be in their early to mid-twenties—certainly old enough to have known better.
“Lord Devil!” the shorter one said, grinning. “What luck to have landed on your doorstep. I’d heard you were having a Christmas orgy.” He leered at Caro—a real leer, nothing like Mr. Collins’s awkward attempt—and whistled. “Are all the fillies like this one?”
If Nick had stiffened at Mr. Collins’s words, he turned to marble now. Caro swore she could feel waves of anger radiating from him.
Mr. Collins inspected an invisible spot on his coat.
The speaker’s companion must have noticed their reactions, because he put a hand on the man’s arm. “Er, Archie, we don’t want to annoy Lord Oakland.”
Archie laughed and shrugged off his friend’s hold. “Lord Devil never turns snappish over a bit o’ fun, Oliver. Do you, Devil?” He finally stopped ogling Caro to look at Nick.
His expression froze, mouth dropping open slightly.
If Nick carried a quizzing glass, he didn’t employ it, but he did somehow manage to look down his nose at Archie—a feat that, until this moment, Caro had thought was merely a figure of speech.
The silence was quite, quite deafening.
“Er,” Archie said. “D-didn’t mean to offend, of course. A th-thousand apologies if I did. I mean, it was all over Town, you know, that the Devil was hosting a Christmas orgy at his family seat. Fellows thought it a capital joke, just what you’d do, don’t you know?”
Nick kept staring at him in silence.
“I-I . . . th-that is . . . D-didn’t mean to intrude. ’Twas an accident. The snow. The stagecoach. The d-ditch.”
The fellow might have babbled on for the rest of the evening if Nick hadn’t finally, blessedly, cleared his throat and stopped the flow of words.
“I don’t believe I know you, do I?”
Caro shivered at Nick’s tone. He could have been addressing a pair of loathsome bugs that had had the effrontery to invade his home—not that Nick talked to bugs, of course.
She felt some sympathy for the two men shrinking in on themselves in front of her eyes.
“N-no, my lord. You—you don’t, my lord,” the other fellow stammered before executing a jerky little bow. “Mr. Oliver Meadows, my lord.” He glanced at his friend.
Archie looked to be struggling with a combination of anger and mortification.
Anger won. The man’s chin came up. He almost succeeded in looking haughty—would have succeeded if his Adam’s apple hadn’t started bobbing rather wildly and his voice had been steadier. “I-I’ll h-have you know, I’m L-Lord Archibald T-Turner—”
Oh, God. Oh, God.
The roaring in Caro’s ears preve
nted her from hearing anything else the man said, but it didn’t matter. She knew who Lord Archibald was—the Marquess of Dervington’s second son.
He won’t recognize me.
She hoped. Archibald and his brother, the heir, had been away at school the whole of her very, very brief stint as their half-sister’s nursemaid. She’d left London immediately after quitting their father’s employ, so hadn’t been in Town for anyone to point out.
But will he recognize my name?
I just need to keep my composure—not let on . . .
Nick’s thumb stroked her hand in a firm, calming sort of way—and she realized her fingers had tightened so they might leave imprints on his skin even through his jacket and shirt.
She tried to relax her grip.
“Ah. Yes,” Nick was saying. “I can see the family resemblance.” His tone made it very clear that was not a compliment.
Before Archie could puzzle out a proper reply, the rest of the company arrived—minus Felix, Polly, Mrs. Dixon, the children, and the coachman. It said something about Caro’s emotional state that the Weasel’s unwelcome presence did little to increase the violent storm raging in her.
Nick turned his attention to the room at large, but kept his broad, strong hand on Caro’s. Normally, she’d have stepped away from him, or at least reclaimed her hand, but she needed something—someone—to hold onto.
Am I really so weak?
Sadly, yes. But she would get over it. It was just the surprise that had thrown her. She would collect herself and come up with a plan.
Another plan. At the moment she had to focus on convincing the onlookers that she and Nick were undertaking a passionate affair.
Perhaps I’m holding up my end of the bargain by letting Nick hold me up now.
“I am Lord Oakland,” Nick said. “Welcome to my home. I’m sorry your stagecoach ended in a ditch, but—”
“But it wouldn’t have happened if not for those two ruffians!” The clergyman jabbed his finger at Archie and Oliver. “Call the authorities, my lord, and have these men locked up! Remember, the Good Lord’s commandment: Thou shalt not steal!”
“We were only borrowing the coach,” Archie said, unwisely.
Fortunately, that reply enraged the clergyman so much that he was rendered mute—which, unfortunately, gave the Weasel an opening.
“I see ye didn’t waste any time scooping up this tasty piece, milord,” he said, baring his teeth at Caro. “Didn’t ye land on yer feet, girl—or should I say yer back?”
Caro saw Nick’s jaw clench as he worked to control his temper. The Weasel must have seen it, too, because his twisted grin wavered, and he took a step backward.
Which reminded Caro it was time for her to step forward, onto the stage to recite her lines.
She attempted a giggle—and thought she was rather successful. She’d got Nick’s attention, at least, though he still looked angry—and rather taken aback. In the heat of the moment, he must have forgotten their plan.
“If you mean am I happy to have encountered Lord Oakland again, then yes, I am. We were friends as children, but lost track of each other over the years.” And now it was time for another besotted, adoring gaze into Nick’s face.
Nick’s mouth twitched as if he were suppressing a grin, and his eyes once again gave her the impression they were rolling on the inside.
“And here he is”—she ran her free hand down his coat—“all grown up.”
She half expected to hear applause for her dramatic performance. Instead her audience greeted her acting skill with grunts, snorts . . . and a sigh from one of the women. She glanced over at the group—and happened to catch Livy’s eye.
Livy gave her a knowing and strangely satisfied look—and a wink. Good Lord!
Caro looked back up at Nick. Was that a flicker of heat behind the humor in his eyes? Oh! It made her feel very . . . odd.
It was definitely heat. Nick’s mouth slid into a slow, intimate smile. His voice when he spoke was low and, er, sultry.
“Yes, I’m all grown up now, aren’t I? As are you.” His look got even hotter. “I can’t wait to play, though our games will be rather different than they were when we were children, won’t they?”
Dear Lord, she was going to die of embarrassment or melt into a hot, steaming puddle on the floor.
He looked back at his guests—thank God, because if he’d kept looking at her, she wasn’t certain what she would have done, but she was afraid it would have been something extremely embarrassing.
“As the snow shows no signs of letting up,” he said, “I’m afraid we shall very likely be stuck here together for Christmas. We would all do well to try to get along, make the best of things, and help out in any way we can.”
There was some grumbling over that, but Caro thought everyone saw the truth in what Nick said.
“So, let’s begin by introducing ourselves. As you know, I’m Lord Oakland, and this is Miss Caroline Anderson.”
Caro held her breath, looking at Archie out of the corner of her eye to see if he would recognize her name and leap to reveal her sordid past. He didn’t, though he did frown as if a chord in the farthest recesses of his memory was vibrating.
She hoped the sound was faint and faded quickly, but she would be on her guard nonetheless.
They went around the room. First Livy, then Fanny, and then the clergyman—Tobias Hughes, who was between positions.
That did not sound good. The Little Puddledon vicar was between positions, too, because he’d attacked her friend Pen, now Lady Darrow, last summer. Caro made a note to watch out for the clergyman as well as the Weasel.
The Weasel was Uriah Woods, a wainwright by trade.
“Splendid!” Nick said. “Perhaps you can figure out how to repair the stagecoach so it will be ready when the snow stops and the roads clear. Mr. Pearson, my estate manager, tells me my men and the stage’s coachman were able to tow it up to the stables, but, after inspecting it, they fear it’s beyond their abilities to fix.”
Mr. Woods grinned, which made him look much less threatening. “I’ll be happy to see what I can do.”
“And I can help with the baking, milord. Ye can’t have Christmas without Christmas pies,” Humphrey said. “I’m Humphrey Parker, milord, and this is me wife, Muriel. Muriel’s a dab hand in the kitchen, too, I’ll have ye know. She helps me with me baking, but she can also make a tasty meal out of all sorts of odds and ends.”
Muriel nodded. “Aye, that I can. I’ll be happy to help out, if yer cook would like. I’m always in the kitchen when I visit me sisters in Marbridge. It’s not Christmas without the smell of meat roasting and Humphrey’s pies baking. And he always makes a special treat for the children.” She looked around. “Where are the boy and his mother and the baby?”
“Mrs. Dixon and her family are resting in their room,” Nick said. “I suspect it’s well past Edward’s bedtime. One of my guests, Miss Polly White, is acting as a temporary nursemaid until Mrs. Dixon recovers her strength.” He frowned. “The only other guest who’s not in the room at the moment is Felix Simpson.”
Nick did not mention Mr. Simpson’s connection to Mrs. Dixon and her family.
“I say, Mr. Parker,” Mr. Collins said enthusiastically, “I don’t suppose you can make a Yorkshire Christmas pie, can you?”
“O’ course, I can, sir. Me wife says I make a bang-up Yorkshire pie, don’t ye, Muriel?”
Muriel nodded. “The best I’ve tasted.”
“That sounds splendid,” Nick said. “Anything we can do to make the holiday merry. I have to confess that I’m not usually here at Christmas, so I’ve no traditions of my own to follow. I welcome your suggestions.”
“Holly and ivy,” Oliver Meadows said. “You have to have holly and ivy hanging about.”
Fanny nodded. “And mistletoe. I used to love making kissing boughs when I lived at home.”
“Right.” Archie, Dervington’s son, grinned rather salaciously.
Ugh.
“And we have a baby to play the part of Baby Jesus,” Livy said.
“We could have games.” That was Mr. Collins. “I used to enjoy playing snapdragon and blindman’s bluff.”
“And don’t forget the Yule log,” Fanny added. “Christmas isn’t Christmas without the Yule log.”
Caro wished she could offer to brew some Christmas ale, but she hadn’t any of the ingredients. She could, however, offer to mix up some wassail. She did that for the Home’s inhabitants every year—though this year someone else would have to fill that role.
She opened her mouth to suggest it, but Mr. Brooks came in then to announce dinner. Oh, well. She would mention it to Nick later.
She walked on his arm past Archie. Oh, blast. Archie’s brow was furrowed, and she felt his eyes follow her. Clearly, he was still trying to puzzle out who she was.
Her stomach twisted as she took her place at the table on Nick’s right, and what little appetite she had fled.
There was no getting around it—she would have to tell Nick about her time at Dervington’s London house. Not the whole story—there was no need to do that. But enough of the tale so that if Archie did remember who she was and said something, Nick wouldn’t be taken unawares.
She stared glumly down at her plate. She was not looking forward to that conversation.
Chapter Nine
Nick shrugged out of his coat and hung it over the back of the chair to his writing desk. If anyone had told him this morning that he’d sit down to a meal with company that included a baker, a wainwright, a clergyman, and two whores, he’d have thought they were drunk as an emperor. And yet he had. And the experience had been surprisingly pleasant—a regular Christmas miracle!
He grinned as he unwound his cravat. Christmas stories had dominated the conversation, tales of the various ways his guests celebrated the season now and in the past. He hadn’t had much to add since Uncle Leon had frowned upon Christmas cheer, deeming all nonreligious festivities pagan, if not outright demonic. There had been no wassail bowl, no caroling, and certainly no games at Oakland when Nick was a lad. He’d spent every English Christmas head bowed, mind wandering as his uncle read from the Bible.