The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  A friend? He stared at her while the truth hit him.

  Zeus, I have no friends, do I? No real friends.

  The leaden ball was back in his stomach and heavier.

  It was true. He had plenty of acquaintances, but no one with whom he could share more than a drunken evening—or a spirited romp in bed. No one he’d miss if he or she vanished from his life—or who would miss him. Livy probably came the closest, but he was always aware of the business aspect of their relationship. If he didn’t pay her, she’d—regretfully, perhaps—bid him adieu.

  But Caro was different . . . might be different. He could—

  Zeus, am I really considering marriage?

  No. Or, well, maybe. First, he needed to know if Caro could put aside her distaste for physical, er, affection. He might care for her—he thought he did care for her—but he couldn’t marry a woman he couldn’t bed.

  And get an heir?

  Ahh . . .

  It was too early to think of that. First, he would see if he could give Caro pleasure. It would be his Christmas gift to her. . . .

  Ha! The Almighty should strike him dead—or truly impotent—for entertaining such a profane thought. Still, desire hummed through him. His cock was all too eager to leap gleefully to business.

  Fortunately, his brain—and his heart—held the reins, which they now pulled back on sharply.

  It didn’t matter what he or the Almighty thought. This was Caro’s decision. If she said no, then that was the end of the matter.

  She stirred then, mumbled a little, opened her eyes....

  “Oh!” Alarm flashed across her face.

  He sat up to give her more space, and she scrambled to sit as well, sliding away. . . .

  “Careful. You’ll fall off the bed.”

  She stopped—and glared at him, of course, as if it were his fault the mattress wasn’t wider.

  He grinned back at her. He’d take anger over fear any day.

  * * *

  Caro had had the oddest feeling that someone was watching her—and someone had been. Nick. A naked Nick. Had he . . .

  No. She would have known if he’d touched her. There was none of the discomfort and unpleasant mess between her legs that had been there both times Dervington had been in bed with her.

  And Nick was grinning at her in an amused, not a lascivious, way.

  But what’s he doing in my bed?

  She looked around.

  This was not her bed.

  “You had a bit too much brandy last night,” Nick said. “You, er, weren’t feeling well, so it seemed wiser to have you here with me in case you needed any, ah, help.”

  Lud! She closed her eyes. Now she remembered. Nick had held her hair back for her as she’d puked into his chamber pot. Could anything be more embarrassing?

  “How do you feel now? Stomach all right? Any headache?”

  “I’m fine.”

  And she hadn’t just puked up the contents of her stomach. Oh, no. She’d vomited up far too many details of her encounters with Dervington.

  She hadn’t meant to do that. She’d meant only to tell Nick the bare minimum so he’d be prepared if Archie remembered anything. She’d meant to say only that she’d, ah, sinned with Lord Dervington. She was mortified....

  She blinked.

  No, she wasn’t. Well, yes, she was embarrassed, but her predominant feeling was one of . . . relief? Like a burden she’d been carrying so long she’d forgotten it was there had suddenly been lifted off her shoulders.

  Or her heart.

  The box where she’d kept those dark feelings locked away hadn’t just splintered, it had turned to dust, pulverized, and the feelings had flown free like a flock of birds....

  Or, perhaps more accurately, a cloud of bats.

  Not that the winged creatures hadn’t left a mess behind to be cleaned up, but that could be attended to later. At this particular moment she felt wonderful. Strong and brave and capable and . . .

  She looked at Nick—at his naked shoulders and chest.

  And lusty? Was that what this feeling was? Surely she felt curiosity. . . .

  Curiosity is what got you into trouble thirteen years ago.

  But this is Nick.

  Nick felt safe. It might be foolish of her, but she trusted him.

  “What happened to your shirt?”

  She definitely felt something that wasn’t fear or distaste. It might be a tug of attraction. A warm little ember of desire flickering to life.

  “I took it off after you fell asleep.” He smiled, though his eyes watched her as if he were afraid she might take fright. “And I took off my breeches, too. They weren’t comfortable to sleep in.” His smile widened, but his eyes stayed watchful. “I didn’t bring a nightshirt—I hadn’t planned on having you visit my bed.”

  And she hadn’t planned on being here, but now that she was . . .

  No. She pulled her thoughts back from the primrose path they seemed determined to travel.

  She was definitely in an odd mood this morning. She should get out of this bed immediately and go to her own room—but something in her didn’t want to do that very sensible, prudent thing.

  She looked away from Nick and noticed the painting on the wall across from the bed, a picture of a broad canal and gondolas and buildings and blue sky and white clouds. “Oh! That’s lovely.”

  “Do you like it?”

  Nick’s voice was warm with happiness and . . . pride? He must feel a special connection to the picture. Odd, because he hated everything else about Oakland.

  “Yes. I’m not educated about art—you must know that. The few paintings we had at home were dour portraits of Papa’s ancestors. But . . .” How to put what she was feeling into words? “This painting is so bright. Or, well, the light seems so clear. I can almost feel the heat of the sun and smell the water.”

  He laughed. “You probably wouldn’t want to smell the water.”

  She looked at him. He was grinning as he used to as a boy.

  And then her eyes dropped to his shoulders and chest again before scurrying back to the painting.

  Nick most definitely wasn’t a boy any longer. And I’m not a naïve seventeen-year-old girl.

  A shiver of . . . something went down her back. Excitement? Anticipation?

  It definitely wasn’t fear or revulsion. And it found an unlikely home in the place where Dervington had entered her all those years ago.

  Even more shocking, that thought didn’t dispel whatever this new sensation was. Dervington’s long shadow must have flapped away with the bats.

  Good. It was past time for that to happen. Out with the old, stale ale, she always said. Time to brew some new memories.

  With Nick?

  She glanced at him again. Perhaps. It was Christmas, after all.

  She let herself remember, for the first time in a long, long time, how magical the holiday had been when she was a child and the house had been transformed by the sights and scents of greenery and cooking. The games. The laughter. Even her parents had joined in their play. Rules and regular order had been put aside from Christmas Eve to Twelfth Night.

  At the Home she was too busy working to spend any time playing.

  She wasn’t at the Home now. She had no work to do.

  Perhaps this Christmas, she would play, and the holiday could be magical again. The stagecoach crash had given her this brief opportunity. She should take it.

  And how are you going to play with Nick?

  She couldn’t risk pregnancy, but, over the years, she’d heard the women at the Home talking about other ways a man could give a woman pleasure. She hadn’t believed them. She’d been certain pleasure and men did not belong in the same sentence.

  This might be the perfect time—her only time—to find out for herself the truth of the matter.

  “Is it Venice?” she asked, trying to ignore the warmth that was beginning to spread from her core to her breasts.

  Nick nodded.

  “Did
your father paint it?”

  He nodded again. “Yes. I don’t remember him doing it, but it bears my father’s mark, down in the lower left corner.”

  He pointed.

  She admired his muscled arm—and then forced her eyes back to the painting.

  “Papa must have sent it to Uncle Leon at some point. I found it hanging in the back of Leon’s dressing room after he died.” He grimaced. “If he’d liked it enough to keep it where he could see it, you’d think he would have hung it in a more prominent location. I’m certain everyone would have been happy if he’d taken down one of the many depressing paintings cursing Oakland’s walls to make room for this one.”

  “Did I hear you tell Edward you took them down? What did you do with them?”

  “I’m surprised you heard me over the screaming baby.” He grinned. “Did you think I’d sold them for funds?”

  “N-no.” She hadn’t had time to think anything about it, though it was true the estate had a bit of a shabby, neglected air to it that all the blank, painting-sized squares of darker wallpaper contributed to.

  He snorted. “Right. No one would have bought them. I was tempted to throw them on a bonfire, but decided that was more trouble than it was worth. Instead I had them packed away in the attics. The next Viscount Oakland can deal with them.”

  He said that as if he didn’t intend the next viscount to be his son. That seemed . . . sad.

  “I hung this one here so I would see something warm and happy the first and last thing each day.”

  He looked at her, and there was an odd pause, as if they were both thinking of some other warm and happy way to start and end the day.

  Not that there’d been anything warm and happy about what Dervington had done to her, but with Nick . . .

  Now was her chance to find out. Soon the snow would melt and she’d go back to the Home and her real life.

  “The maid came in while you were asleep,” Nick said, bringing her thoughts back to more practical matters.

  “Oh.” Caro frowned. “Did she see me?”

  He nodded and then added, a cautious note in his voice, “I’m afraid by the time we leave this room, the story of our night together will have run through the servants and probably many of the guests. No one will think we were just sleeping.”

  Well, that would certainly make their charade more believable.

  And I’m staring at Nick’s naked neck and shoulders, again.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t fight it. Feeling this, er, spark could only help her performance. And....

  Curiosity reared its head again. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

  She looked up at Nick’s face. He was watching her cautiously.

  “That was the plan, wasn’t it?” he asked. “Your plan. To pretend to an affair?”

  “Y-es.” Wait a minute. “But when I suggested it, I thought you were impotent.” She frowned at him. “You aren’t impotent”—she glanced down at the bedcovers, half expecting to see them tented by Nick’s . . . enthusiasm—“are you?”

  She’d seen his enthusiasm with her own eyes. She flushed. She’d touched it.

  He flushed, looked away—and then met her gaze squarely, if with obvious discomfort. “No, I’m not. Or at least, I’m not usually. I did fail to”—he cleared his throat—“rise to the occasion with Livy the night before last.”

  “Oh.” So, Livy hadn’t lied to her. “Why?”

  “Why what?” He sounded a bit techy.

  She did suppose it wasn’t a proper question, but she was curious. “Why didn’t it”—she gestured to where she guessed the relevant organ was hiding under the bedclothes—“work with Livy?”

  Nick ran a hand through his hair, and his chest and arm muscles shifted quite entrancingly. He’d definitely be an asset in the brewhouse.

  “I’m not a machine, Caro. I suppose I was . . . I don’t know. Tired perhaps. Or maybe I had one too many glasses of brandy.”

  “Oh.” He wasn’t tired or bosky at the moment. “Is it working now?” It would be better for her plans if it weren’t, but best to find out beforehand.

  His brows shot up, and then he grinned. “Would you like me to show you?”

  “No!” Her courage deserted her in a rush.

  He must have noticed, because his expression gentled from teasing to concerned. He brushed her hair back from her face, tangling his fingers in it, cupping her cheek—and then said something completely unexpected. “You told me last night you’d marry me. Did you mean it?”

  “Urgh. Ah. Er . . .” She hadn’t expected the conversation to take this turn. Had she meant it? Surely, she’d said it only because she’d felt badly for him.

  Buy time.

  “You haven’t asked.”

  No, she shouldn’t dodge the question. His lips were smiling, but his eyes . . . They looked like they wanted—needed—an answer.

  “I never thought to wed.” Point out the obvious, which he must have forgotten. “I’m ruined, remember.”

  He snorted.

  All right, so that argument didn’t persuade him. “And I have a job that I like very well.”

  “Perhaps I can offer you a better position.”

  “As viscountess? Are you offering, Nick?”

  Did she want him to offer?

  Lud! I don’t know.

  He looked just as taken aback as she was. “I think maybe I am.”

  Shock or confusion or panic—whatever this churning feeling was—sent her to her usual defense mechanism: sarcasm. “Now there’s a proposal for the record books.”

  He laughed, apparently not put off by her tone or words. “I’m sorry. I never thought to wed, either.”

  She believed he was sincere, so she should be, too. “I’m not at all certain I’m the marrying sort, Nick. I didn’t like what Dervington did to me, and I don’t think I’m one to grit my teeth and endure just to give you an heir.”

  His eyes widened at heir. Ha! That would get him to change his mind.

  It didn’t.

  “I don’t care about an heir, Caro. I’ve actually never wanted one. I’ve always been content to let some other relative assume the title once I’m gone.” He shook his head. “This is all new to me, too. But I will tell you this. I’m not like Dervington. I won’t hurt you.”

  It might already be too late....

  Nonsense. I haven’t seen Nick in years and have spent only a few hours with him now. I can’t care about him.

  That’s what her head said. Her heart—and the rest of her body—begged to differ.

  Her head must rule. It could very well be that the problem was deeper than one—or two—bad experiences. Yes, she felt some odd sensations now, but they could well vanish the moment Nick touched her.

  “I’m just not certain I want to submit to any man.” She flushed. “I don’t think . . . That is, I don’t . . . I don’t feel things the same way other women do.”

  Or at least the way other women said they felt. She’d always wondered if they were, if not out-and-out lying, then at least greatly exaggerating.

  His thumb was stroking her cheek now, setting an odd warmth fluttering in her stomach.

  “Sexual congress isn’t a matter of submission, Caro. Or at least, it shouldn’t be.”

  She grunted. “Easy for you to say. You aren’t the one having what feels like a log shoved up inside you.”

  Nick flinched. “All right. I see your point. What if we try a little experiment? I’ll touch you, and you can tell me what, if anything, you like.”

  And if I like nothing?

  Best to find that out now, rather than wonder forever after.

  She’d never been one to fear experimentation before. It was experimentation—trial and error—that had perfected Widow’s Brew.

  And there were a lot of brews I threw away as failures.

  “Very well. You may try—as long as you stay above my waist and don’t be too long about it.” She looked at the clock on the mantel. “Remember you promi
sed Edward you’d take him up to the attics this morning to look for that cradle for baby Grace. He’s probably waiting for you.”

  Nick grinned. “Very true. Thank you for reminding me. Shall we say no more than fifteen minutes? That won’t inconvenience Edward too much, I hope. And I’ll even stay above your shoulders. How’s that?”

  She could endure anything for fifteen minutes, especially if he didn’t stray below her shoulders. It was hard to imagine how he could fill even five minutes with that restriction.

  She nodded. “Fifteen minutes, beginning now.” And then she closed her eyes and braced herself for the attack.

  She didn’t expect to hear Nick chuckle.

  She opened one eye. He hadn’t moved. “Shouldn’t you get on with it?”

  He grinned. “That eager, are you?”

  She snorted. “Suit yourself. You have fifteen minutes”—she glanced at the clock—“no, fourteen minutes now. If you wish to spend it staring at me, go right ahead.”

  “Ah, there’s another challenge—one I will have to take some other time. Today I wager I’ll have you sighing my name before fifteen—pardon me, fourteen minutes have passed.”

  Aha! Even better. “A wager you’ll lose.”

  He just smiled and leaned closer.

  She looked at the clock again. “Thirteen minutes now. You—eek!”

  He’d brushed his lips over a spot just below her ear that she’d exposed by turning her head. It had felt very . . . unsettling.

  She inched away from him.

  He inched closer. “I hope you don’t intend to make me chase you around the room, Caro. I hesitate to remind you, but I am as naked as the day I was born under this coverlet.”

  Which made her look down over his broad shoulders, muscled chest and arms, and narrow waist to—

  The coverlet.

  “Shall I push it aside?”

  “No!” Even she heard the nerves in her voice. She forced her eyes up to look him in the face. “No, thank you. I prefer to have that part of you covered.”

  His expression was . . . kind? As if he really saw her—her thoughts and fears—and accepted her in spite of—or, rather, along with—them.

  What a peculiar thought.

  “Your decision.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Which you can change at any time.” His lips brushed her temple.