The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  Everyone thought Nick and she were lovers. That had been their plan, and it had worked flawlessly. On their way to the attics, she’d noticed the female servants’ giggles—and their looks of envy.

  Nick was very handsome with his broad shoulders, which were even more attractive in the, er, flesh. She flushed, remembering all the handsome flesh she’d seen last night and this morning. Even his naked cock had been strangely appealing.

  And his face was very easy to look at, as well. His warm, brown eyes and faintly olive skin gave him a slightly exotic, exciting appearance. And when he smiled—mmm. She loved his dimples and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled.

  She even loved his voice. It was deep, but not too deep, and warm.

  But, more important than his appearance was his . . . kindness. He’d been kind to her last night as she’d emptied her stomach into his chamber pot and kind this morning even when he’d been touching her. He’d been kind to Edward in the attics. She smiled. She suspected he would ultimately have gone sledding, no matter how much he hated the cold, if they hadn’t encountered the footman.

  And he’d mentioned marriage—

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  She startled and felt a hot blush rush over her face—and likely every other inch of her body.

  His brows shot up. “It looks as if they are worth far more than a penny.”

  “Oh, stop it.”

  He grinned, but took pity on her and didn’t press her.

  She had to get out of here. The snow had stopped. Once the sun was out, it would begin to melt. Soon she’d be able to flee Oakland and get back to the Home and her sensible, steadying routine. Then all these odd feelings would subside, and she’d be cured of whatever this madness was that Nick had infected her with.

  And the pang she felt at that thought would fade as well.

  They reached Mrs. Dixon’s room. Nick raised his free hand to knock—and then lowered it again and looked at her.

  “I don’t know if you caught Thomas’s drift, Caro, but I suspect we’re going to find Felix Simpson in the room with Mrs. Dixon.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I gathered that.”

  Nick frowned. “I’m afraid I have no clear idea what to say to her—or him. I have no power to force Felix to take responsibility for Grace and her mother—and Edward—if he doesn’t wish to. I can’t even throw him out until the roads clear.” He shook his head. “I suppose I can confine him to his room if that will ease Mrs. Dixon’s mind, but”—he inclined his head toward the door and shrugged—“my guess is, if he’s in there, she doesn’t want that.”

  Likely true.

  “So, what do you suggest I do?”

  Caro blinked, surprised Nick would ask her advice. In her experience, men assumed her gender robbed her of any valuable opinions, unless the subject was something within feminine purview like cooking or cleaning.

  Or, in her case, brewing.

  Though Nick likely saw Mrs. Dixon’s problem as a feminine one, so she shouldn’t give him too much credit.

  In any event, she had no good suggestion to offer.

  She shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Could she go to your Benevolent Home?”

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. “I’m afraid we don’t take boys.”

  Nick’s brows shot up.

  It did sound odd, but there was a good reason for the rule.

  “The Home isn’t large, Nick. There’s no room for two separate dormitories, one for boys and one for girls. As it is, the girls all sleep in what was originally the Long Gallery.”

  He was frowning. Surely he understood?

  “And boys are very active—just think of my brothers. They were always fighting or wrestling, climbing or throwing things. Boys require more space than we have.”

  “I-I suppose I see your point.”

  “And we don’t get many mothers with boys. Those women seem to be able to find husbands easily.” She snorted. “Men prefer women who are proven breeders of sons. Daughters are only useful if they can be sold off as wives to other men and thus increase their father’s wealth and connections. If a girl makes the great mistake of squandering her virginity before—”

  Oh, God, where was her mouth taking her? She pressed her lips together, took a long, deep breath through her nose, and focused on the door rather than Nick. “That is, I’m afraid the Home isn’t an option for Mrs. Dixon, unless she gives up Edward, which I can’t imagine she’d do. She seemed very devoted to him on the coach yesterday.”

  There was a beat or two of silence, long enough for Caro to brace herself for Nick’s response, but, blessedly, he let her comment on lost virginity pass.

  “I suppose I can offer her a position of some sort here, if need be,” he said, “but I do hope Felix comes through and does the right thing.” Then he raised his hand and knocked.

  They waited. No one came to the door.

  He knocked again.

  Still no answer.

  “Perhaps they’re not there,” Caro said.

  “Right. We’ll just go in and leave the cradle.” He reached for the door latch.

  Another thought occurred to her, and she put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Or perhaps are there, and they’re, er, busy.”

  Nick looked down at her. “Then they will have to interrupt themselves. We went to the trouble of getting this cradle, and I’m not lugging it back upstairs. The baby still needs a comfortable, safe place to sleep, doesn’t she?”

  “Y-yes.” And, now that Caro considered the matter further, a more sinister possibility occurred to her. What if Mrs. Dixon was in need of rescuing?

  “You’re right.” She reached for the latch.

  But the door opened before she could touch it. Mr. Simpson stood there, hair askew, shirttail hanging over his breeches. Clearly, he’d scrambled into his clothes.

  “Oh. Nick,” he said, “and, er . . .”

  “Miss Anderson,” Nick said. “Miss Caro Anderson.”

  “Sorry.” Mr. Simpson grinned, looking quite happy and rather boyish. “I’m bad with names.” He looked over his shoulder. “It’s Lord Oakland and Miss Anderson, Emma.”

  Mrs. Dixon was sitting in the middle of the bed, her nightdress askew and her hair tumbled over her shoulders, but her smile was so wide and bright, it distracted completely from her dishevelment.

  “We found the cradle for Grace in the attic,” Caro said. How could Mrs. Dixon be so happy? It was obvious she and Mr. Simpson had been in bed together, and, given the fact that they’d produced Grace, it was unlikely that they’d just been sleeping.

  She must have enjoyed what they’d done.

  “Excellent. Thank you.” Mr. Simpson reached for the cradle, but Nick stepped past him into the room.

  Caro followed. She didn’t know what Nick meant to do, but she wasn’t about to be left in the corridor—and in the dark.

  “I wanted to let you know, Mrs. Dixon, that Edward has gone out sledding with one of the footmen,” Nick said. “I hope that’s all right?”

  Mrs. Dixon nodded, blushing. “Oh, yes. And it’s not Mrs.”

  “Not yet,” Mr. Simpson said. “I’ve asked Emma to marry me, Nick.”

  Nick smiled, but his eyes were still guarded. “I’m glad to hear it. But what of Edward, Felix? Will you take care of him, too? He might not be your son, but he seems to be in need of a father.” Nick looked back at Mrs.—no, Miss Dixon. “Pardon me, madam, but I got the impression from Edward that his father wasn’t part of his life.”

  Miss Dixon scowled. “You are right about that. The skunk took a swing at Edward when Edward was still in leading strings.” She shook her head. “It was bad enough the blackguard hit me, but when he tried to hurt my boy—”

  Caro sucked in her breath at the thought of a grown man hitting a child. Fortunately, no one paid her any attention.

  Miss Dixon pressed her lips together, brows meeting over her nose so she looked very fier
ce. “I wouldn’t put up with that. I packed up and left that night, as soon as the scoundrel had fallen asleep in his usual drunken stupor.”

  Nick nodded. “You did exactly right.” Then he turned to look at Mr. Simpson.

  “Do you plan to be a father to Edward, Felix?” Nick’s voice was suddenly taut with emotion. “It may not be my place to say anything—well, I know it’s not—but I feel I must speak up for Edward’s sake. I lost my father at a young age, though not as young as Edward, thank God. I know what it feels like to be fatherless.” He frowned and then said, his words clipped, “My uncle was not an adequate substitute.”

  Oh! Caro felt the pain in Nick’s words like a stab to her heart. She’d known he’d not got on well with his uncle—well, he’d told her yesterday how bad that had been—and she’d known he was always very happy to come home with Henry on school holidays, but she’d never really considered how it must have felt to suddenly lose both parents and have to leave everything and everyone you’ve ever known to come to a strange country, even though that country was your father’s native land.

  She’d lost her parents, in a manner of speaking, but she’d been an adult and in control of her life when her father had disowned her. And, she’d been partly to blame. Even so, it had hurt terribly.

  It still hurt.

  Felix ran his hand through his hair and looked at Miss Dixon. “I know I’ve made mistakes—serious mistakes—and I haven’t been very responsible, but Emma has accepted my apology, and I’ve promised to do better. I’m going to try to be a good father to both Edward and Grace”—he grinned—“and any other children we might have.”

  Nick grinned back at him, shook his hand, and slapped him on the back. “That’s all anyone can do, Felix. Resolve to try one’s best.”

  And then Grace let out a wail, and Felix jumped.

  “She’s probably hungry,” Miss Dixon said. “She’s always hungry.”

  Felix nodded, Caro and Nick’s presence forgotten as he reached in and carefully lifted baby Grace out of her box. His hands looked so big, the baby so small.

  How would Nick handle an infant?

  No. She shouldn’t be thinking that. It was ridiculous.

  “We’ll see you downstairs later,” Nick said, heading for the door.

  Mr. Simpson grunted, but Caro would wager he hadn’t heard a word Nick had said. His attention was all on his baby and his baby’s mother.

  She felt as if she were intruding on a private moment.

  And she felt something else, something that felt painfully like envy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Do you think Mr. Simpson is sincere about trying to be a good husband and father, Nick?”

  They’d just left Mrs.—Miss—Dixon’s room and were walking back down the corridor.

  “Yes.” Nick glanced at Caro briefly and then focused again on a point in the distance. He should say more—he didn’t mean to be abrupt—but the domestic scene he’d just witnessed had unsettled him.

  Why?

  Because it’s yet one more thing that makes the life I’m leading, a life of mindless drinking and whoring, of living in the present and not thinking about the future seem . . . foolish at best.

  Since he’d passed his thirtieth birthday—especially since he’d succeeded to the title—the small, annoying voice of . . . maturity, adulthood—whatever you wanted to call it—had started to whisper more and more insistently in the back of his thoughts. He’d always been able to drown it out with another glass of brandy.

  Until now.

  It had got louder when he’d arrived at Oakland, far removed from the frenetic energy and distractions of Town—and far too close to his largely ignored responsibilities as a landowner. It had got louder still with the arrival of the coach passengers—and had turned surprisingly persuasive this morning in his room. In his bed. With Caro.

  And after seeing Felix with his baby and future wife?

  It was bloody shouting.

  Nick rubbed the back of his neck. If anyone had bet him Felix would turn into a devoted husband and father, Nick would have taken the wager in a heartbeat—and expected to collect handsomely. He’d thought Felix irresponsibility personified.

  He’d been wrong.

  Do I want what Felix has? A wife-to-be. A family. The beginnings of an orderly, settled existence.

  Perhaps he did.

  He’d been alone for so long—really since his parents had died and he’d left Italy. And while he had plenty of acquaintances now, people with whom he enjoyed drinking or swiving—depending upon their gender—he’d not miss any of them if they all vanished from his life today.

  Except Caro.

  How can that be? She’s been here less than twenty-four hours. We haven’t seen each other—or likely even thought of each other—for years.

  He didn’t know the why of it. He only knew how he felt. And speaking of feelings . . .

  He glanced down at Caro again. Had she felt the same odd pull he had back in the room with Felix and Miss Dixon and Grace? Was she beginning to change her feelings about marriage?

  Or am I just letting the oddness of the situation—the snow, the children, Christmas—bewitch me?

  He certainly was acting as if he were bewitched. His proposal this morning had been made without conscious thought. He’d been surprised—shocked—to hear the words as they’d tumbled out. He hadn’t been certain then that he’d meant them—and he wasn’t completely certain now.

  But he was almost certain.

  Yet I vowed never to marry. I don’t want to carry on Uncle Leon’s line, remember?

  The swell of glee—he’d admit, evil glee—and satisfaction that always came with that thought didn’t come this time. Instead he felt . . . empty. Wistful. Now that he knew how Leon had suffered . . .

  When he’d made his pledge to remain single, he’d been young, driven by his own pain to defy his uncle and pay him back for . . .

  What? Taking me in? Doing the best he could, perhaps? Zeus!

  He didn’t yet forgive the man, but perhaps finally, he understood a little why Leon had acted as he had.

  Seeing baby Grace had impressed on Nick what small, helpless creatures babies were. And Leon had lost eight babies. He’d seen his wife, whom Mrs. Potty had said he’d loved, suffer, and he’d been powerless to help her or do anything to stop the horror—besides avoiding her bed.

  Nick closed his eyes briefly as he imagined the torment his uncle—his uncle and his aunt—must have felt for years.

  But when Nick was young, he’d been unable to see past his own pain. Instead, he’d fanned it to an anger that had burned so fiercely he’d thought it would light up the night. It had lit his nights at first as he’d careened from one wild escapade to another. And while his anger had dimmed over the years, it had never burned out completely.

  Perhaps it was time to snuff it for good—it and the pain that had fed it—and try to feel some sympathy. Just as Caro needed to stop letting her long-ago encounters with Dervington keep her from experiencing passion.

  Though she’d done much better than he had at rising above her past. At least she’d built a satisfying, productive life for herself.

  They’d reached the end of the corridor where a window looked out on the grounds.

  “That must be Edward and Thomas.” Caro pointed to two small figures in the distance, trudging through the snow, dragging what appeared to be sleds behind them. Thomas must have found another sled somewhere.

  “Yes, I think it must be.” Nick didn’t quite manage to hide the shudder that went through him at the thought of being out in the cold and the wet, nasty snow.

  Caro laughed up at him. “You need to get used to the English winters, Nick. Are you going to enlist a footman to take your own son sledding someday?”

  “Ah.” His son. A jolt of some strong emotion shot to his cock—and his heart. It was lust, yes, but it was also a new, more profound desire. He wanted sexual congress, but, even more, he wanted a
connection to a woman—this woman—that lasted more than a few minutes.

  He did want a family. Even a son—an heir.

  Or a daughter. I might have only daughters.

  He laughed inwardly. He could marry and have children and yet still have the title go to a distant branch of the family.

  Or I might not have any children. Look at Uncle Leon. Even Papa and Mama had only me—and that hadn’t been for lack of trying.

  Zounds! Now he found the thought of not having children lowering.

  It was all so confusing. He’d mull it over later. Caro was looking at him now, likely wondering why he hadn’t answered her question.

  “I’ll wager most English viscounts do indeed enlist a footman to take their children sledding,” he said.

  Caro snorted derisively.

  He agreed. If he had a family, it would be like the family he’d had in Italy. He would be very much a part of his children’s lives.

  Though he probably still wouldn’t go out to play in the snow.

  He smiled down at her. “Perhaps my wife will teach me to enjoy—or at least tolerate—the cold.”

  “Mmm.” Caro flushed and stared out the window as if she were examining something far more interesting than a vast expanse of snow with two specks.

  Ah! This is promising. She didn’t snap at me and tell me to go to hell.

  “Do you want a family, Caro?”

  That got her to look back up at him—with suspicion, eyes narrowed. “Are you proposing again?”

  He was not going to be lured into brangling with her, much as he might enjoy it. There was something very . . . stimulating about matching wits with Caro.

  “If I were, would you say yes?”

  “No.”

  He grinned, suddenly even more hopeful—though why, he couldn’t say. “Then, no, I’m not proposing.”

  She looked frustrated, as if she’d wanted a nice verbal brawl.

  He watched Edward and Thomas slide down the hill. It looked like fun—until you remembered about the cold and wet.

  “I always envied you Christmas,” he said. “Henry would come back to school and tell me about all the fun he’d had—tell me about all the decorations, the games, the food.”