In Love with the Viscount (American Heiress Trilogy Book 3)

by Julianne MacLean

  “I am, but I will do my best to be patient.”

  He nodded, appearing satisfied, then turned his attention back to the task of treating her wound. The droplets of water tickled her skin. A few times, her leg jerked upward from the intensity of the dribbling sensation—the odd combination of pain and tickling. She wished she could keep her leg still, but it was no use.

  “Try to relax,” he whispered, glancing up at her again. “Breathe deep and count each breath.”

  She did as he suggested, keeping her eyes locked on his. All the knots in her muscles began to untie themselves, while she stared at him.

  Slowly, the blood washed away, along with the tension in her neck and shoulders. Her breathing slowed.

  Lord Alcester bent to look more closely at the gash, then he reached for the bottle of whiskey. “This is going to hurt, but it must be done.”

  “I understand.”

  “Squeeze my arm if you have to.”

  She didn’t want to.

  He paused to give her time to prepare herself, then poured the alcohol over the wound. He might as well have poured liquid fire on her. Adele clenched her teeth together to keep from crying out.

  As soon as he tipped the bottle upright, she leaned forward and squeezed her thigh. “Sweet Mary!” she ground out.

  “Apologies.” He set the bottle down and reached for the long bandage he’d fashioned from her petticoat. “I’m going to wrap the wound now.”

  Adele nodded in agreement. He tried to press a smaller bandage to the gash, but she had unconsciously pressed her legs together at the knees. She was clenching her teeth together, too.

  He cupped her other knee in his hand and gently pushed her legs apart, again keeping his eyes fixed on hers the entire time. “It’s important to do this properly,” he said. “Relax if you can.”

  She struggled to still her racing heart—for no man had ever parted her legs before—and forced herself to surrender to the gentle pressure of his hand.

  “Perhaps you could bend your knee slightly?” he politely asked, then he reached for the bandage and wrapped it around her thigh.

  His movements were swift and efficient. Before she knew it, he was tying a knot and sitting back. “There. All done. You can breathe now.” He lowered her skirt to cover her leg.

  She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath until he mentioned it.

  He helped her rise but as soon as she attempted to walk, pain flooded through her. She felt suddenly nauseated.

  “Let me help you.” He wrapped his arm about her waist. “Lean into me. That’s it.”

  She began to limp beside him, and felt the thick, firm muscles of his shoulder and the solid, steady support of his body. He did not waver or lose his balance.

  “It will be difficult to walk for a few days,” he said.

  “But how will we ever get me away from here? For one thing, I don’t have shoes. And it will be torture to ride.”

  “No shoes?” He paused. “Leave that to me. I will ride out at first light and return with a coach and driver for the journey, and I will bring shoes for you.”

  “What about him?” She gestured toward her kidnapper.

  “I will alert the authorities in the morning and have someone come to collect him. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll make sure our names are not connected. We’ll be long gone by the time they arrive.”

  They hobbled together into the hall and reached the top of the staircase. Adele stopped and looked down. “This might be a challenge.”

  “Allow me.” He held out his arms.

  He meant to carry her? Her heart did a little nervous flip at the thought of it.

  Before waiting for her reply, he scooped her into his strong, able arms and descended the narrow steps effortlessly. When he reached the bottom, he carried her to the kitchen, where a faded upholstered chair faced the fireplace. Other than that, the room was unfurnished. There was only a small pile of kindling, some cooking utensils, and provisions to prepare a few meager suppers.

  Lord Alcester set her down on the chair. Lightning flashed outside the window. Thunder rumbled almost immediately afterward as darkness began to descend.

  “If you will excuse me,” he said. “I must take my horse to the stable before the storm is fully upon us.”

  “Of course.” Yet she did not want him to go. She had been trapped alone for three days, helpless and locked in a room. She had just been shot. She was an ocean away from her home, and he was all she had.

  Lord Alcester raised his coat collar up around his neck and picked up the hat that lay on the floor. He must have torn it off quickly when he’d first arrived. She remembered the violent commotion that ensued when he’d entered and could only imagine what had occurred.

  Settling the hat on his head, he faced her. “The worst is over now.”

  It was exactly what she had needed to hear. Had he known? He seemed very intuitive.

  He opened the door and let in a powerful gust of wind carrying a pattering of cold, hard rain. The gale swept into the cottage and whirled like a tempest, but the room calmed quickly when he slammed the door behind him.

  Adele sat alone in the silent kitchen, staring at the door and trying to come to terms with her situation. She couldn’t believe that she had been kidnapped and shot. Bookish Adele Wilson, who avoided adventure at all costs....

  Her sisters were sure to be shocked when she told them her tale of woe—how she’d been abducted, trapped and finally rescued by a proverbial white knight.

  It was embarrassing, actually, to think of him that way. She had always considered those fairy tales to be silly and unrealistic and would have preferred to read about heroines who rescued themselves.

  Either way, Lord Alcester was hardly a white knight. He was more of a dark knight. She remembered how intense and angry he had appeared when he burst into her room. Her knees had turned to jelly.

  Then he’d killed a man. For her.

  A cold shiver moved through her as she replayed that horrific moment when she’d gazed into that dark barrel of death. She had been impossibly lucky. If her kidnapper had fired a fraction of a second sooner....

  She was immensely grateful to be alive.

  And she owed a tremendous debt to Damien Renshaw—her future cousin. True, his reputation was concerning, and she would never get over the embarrassing fact that he had seen her naked thigh. But he had come to her rescue, galloping across England to what felt like the ends of the earth. He had been her champion, when despite her own efforts, she had been unable to rescue herself.

  Adele inhaled deeply, glanced at the door and considered the night ahead, trapped in this isolated cottage with such a man.

  All at once, she found herself wishing that the man who had come to her rescue had been Harold instead.

  Chapter 2

  Osulton Manor

  “Harold should not have sent him, Mama. It was an unwise decision.”

  Eustacia Scott, Lady Osulton, lifted her impatient gaze from her embroidery and glared at her daughter across the blue drawing room. “Contrary to what you might think, Violet, your brother is not an unwise man. He trusts his cousin.”

  “I hardly know why, considering Damien’s reputation with women.”

  “You do know why,” she replied. “They are the closest of friends, and they share a bond of many years. Damien has always been very protective of Harold, and Harold knows it. He knows Damien would not betray that loyalty.”

  Violet shook her head at her mother. “That may be true, but this American girl—Miss Wilson.... Can she be trusted? Damien is a very attractive man, and you know what they say about those Americans.”

  “No, I do not know what they say.”

  “Oh, Mama, don’t be so provincial.”

  “I am not being provincial. I simply do not listen to gossip or
idle generalizations.”

  Violet harrumphed. “The Americans are passionate, Mama. How do you think they won at Yorktown? They were feral and wild, overtaken by a blazing fire in their veins—not unlike Damien can be sometimes. When they want something, they spare nothing to get it. They are like stubborn, unstoppable rams.”

  Lady Osulton began to stitch faster. “From my understanding, what Miss Wilson wants is Harold.”

  “She wants a title. And Damien has one, too. Plus good looks.”

  “A lesser title.”

  Violet raised a severely arched eyebrow. “I don’t think it matters to these Americans. One is as good as another.”

  Lady Osulton laid down her embroidery and gazed across the room in shock. “Surely that cannot be true.”

  “Oh yes, it is. Most of them don’t even know that an earl outranks a viscount, or that a marquess outranks an earl. I heard it from the Countess of Lansdowne, and she herself is an American, though no one seems to remember that. She changes her voice, you know, and copies our accents.”

  Lady Osulton lifted her embroidery again, though she had not fully recovered from the inconceivable notion that anyone could think one title was as good as another, American or not. She could barely hide the tremor of incredulity in her voice.

  “The Countess of Lansdowne does not concern me. All that matters is that Harold has finally chosen a wife when I thought he would never look up from his silly scientific experiments long enough to even think of it. And if Damien is our most reliable courier to bring her home, then Damien it shall be, because I want that girl delivered to us.”

  “Oh, Mama. You know her money is her only recommendation.”

  She laid down her embroidery again. “I know no such thing, and shame on your vulgar tongue!” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Sometimes I wonder how you and Harold could possibly be brother and sister. He would never say such a thing to torture me. Harold is such a polite boy.”

  Violet had to work hard not to roll her eyes at her mother’s melodrama. “I’m only being honest, Mama. I agree we need the influx of capital… The estate is not performing as it should, and I can’t bear another reduction in our spending.”

  Lady Osulton picked up her embroidery again and resumed her stitching. “Don’t talk about that, Violet. You know I don’t like it.” A moment went by before she spoke again. “The fact is, Harold has taken a fancy to someone, and I am greatly relieved. I don’t care where she comes from, and I have every intention of welcoming her into this family like one of our own. She will provide us with an heir, after all. I only want what’s best for this family, Violet. That’s all. I don’t care about the money.”

  “Of course you don’t, Mama.”

  But it was generally understood by all members of the prestigious Osulton household that Violet—wanting a substantial dowry of her own to snare the very best husband possible—most certainly did.

  The storm raged on, and the cottage creaked and groaned like an old ship. Damien sat on the floor, slouching against the wall while sipping coffee out of a tin cup, his long legs stretched out in front of him, one bent at the knee.

  He gazed at Miss Wilson’s profile in the firelight while she sat before the hearth watching the flames dance, and wondered why Harold had neglected to mention that she was so beautiful.

  “I have found the perfect woman,” Harold had said with a dumbfounded, besotted smile upon his return from America. “She is so good, I believe she must be a saint. She is polite and obedient with her parents. She is agreeable and genuine. I don’t believe she is even capable of having a bad thought. She is purity and goodness and perfection personified, and her favorite thing in the world is books. Do you hear that, Damien? Books. What were the odds that I would find such a woman?”

  For some reason, Damien had imagined Miss Wilson would be plain. She was many things, but not that.

  Regarding the other qualities Harold had described, Damien couldn’t argue. Harold was right. There was something sweet and angelic in her nature. Damien knew it now, even after meeting her only hours ago in the most disturbing and extraordinary circumstances. The woman exuded virtue.

  He disregarded the virtue for a brief moment, however, to let his experienced gaze roam over her beguiling physical attributes. She had long, graceful legs and a curvaceous figure. With freckles and full lips and honey-gold hair, she was the sort of woman who could make a man dream of things that were—in a polite manner of speaking—quite the opposite of pure and saintly. Which was ironic, he thought, feeling slightly amused as he imagined the men who must have salivated over her in the past—and gone to confession straight afterward, whether they were Catholic or not.

  Damien took another sip of his coffee. Truth be told, if she were any other woman than his cousin’s virginal fiancée, he would likely be sharing the chair with her right now…holding her on his lap, offering comfort in the form of gentle caresses and softly spoken words. They were stranded alone in a remote cottage, after all, and she had suffered a terrible ordeal. Surely she was in need of solace.

  As he continued to watch her, however, he came to the opinion that she was made of sterner stuff than that. There had been no tears today. No hysterics. She’d remained calm and clearheaded through all of it. In fact, she’d earned his respect the instant she’d announced her name, while holding a chair up over her head.

  A gust of wind whistled down the chimney and shook the flames. Miss Wilson sighed. Damien looked at the tattered dress she wore and imagined what she might look like in her opulent Newport mansion, wrapped in silks and jewels. She was probably desperate for her maid.

  “I suppose this is not the sort of lodgings to which you are accustomed,” he said as he raised his coffee cup to his lips. “Let me guess. You are dreaming of your gold-plated bathtub back in New York.”

  She tilted her head at him. “I beg your pardon, Lord Alcester. You are mistaken if you presume I am overindulged and have never known hardship.”

  Enticed by her unexpected response, Damien rested an elbow on his knee. “You’re not?”

  “No,” she replied somewhat tentatively.

  How damnably charming she looked. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.

  “I don’t mean to sound defensive,” she said, “but I wouldn’t wish you to be misinformed about your cousin’s future wife. Or to entertain prejudices about Americans in general.”

  He narrowed his eyes, suddenly in the mood to goad her a little. “But I thought all American heiresses were overindulged.”

  She paused, as if taken aback. “No. That is not so, my lord. Not so at all. In fact, I’ll wager that I’ve survived worse circumstances than you have. I can’t imagine you’ve ever gone hungry or went around without shoes on a regular basis each summer—indoors and out.”

  “Without shoes?” He had to concede. She had him with that. She also surprised him with her “wager.” Perhaps there was a touch of an adventurous spirit lurking somewhere in the depths of this perfect angelic creature after all.

  She seemed to suddenly comprehend the implications of her argument, and squeezed her eyes shut. “I shouldn’t have said that. You English already think we are beneath you as it is.”

  “You English?” he repeated, drawing his dark brows together, feeling very pleasantly intrigued by their conversation. “Clearly we English are not the only ones with prejudices. Tsk tsk, Miss Wilson. What is the world coming to when people of different nationalities cannot get along, I ask you?”

  She stared at him for a few seconds, looking surprised until she realized he was teasing her. Then she smiled. It was a dazzling smile—sweet and scintillating at the same time, and so very genuine.

  It was the first time Damien had seen her smile. She’d been nervous and uncomfortable until this moment, looking at him as if he were something to be feared. Perhaps now she might relax
.

  He, on the other hand, felt his own sense of ease slip.

  Damien dropped his gaze to his coffee, suddenly understanding very well why Harold had been so taken with her. Not only was she splendid in every way a woman could be in the physical sense, but there was something elusive and indefinable about her as well—a sensual, earthy nature that seemed to glow with warmth. A man like Harold, who was shy around women, would be seduced by such natural charisma.

  When their smiles died away, she returned to the thread of their conversation. “I suppose Harold described my summer home in Newport to you,” she explained, “and it didn’t sound at all like I had to go without shoes.”

  “He told me about your diamond-studded champagne glasses.”

  She was suitably embarrassed and lowered her gaze, shrugging as if to apologize for the glasses.

  Damien seized the opportunity to glance down at the lovely fullness of her bosom beneath her thick, wool bodice. He experienced a pang of guilt, because she belonged to his cousin, but that was quickly overcome when he returned his gaze to her face and made a solemn vow to keep it there.

  “We didn’t always have money,” she said innocently, which charmed him, because she was not even remotely aware of his interest in her bosom. “Papa earned his first fortune on Wall Street when I was ten.” She stared pensively into the fire. “Sometimes when I look at my life, it seems like it’s divided into two. Before the money, and after. So you see, I am not quite as overindulged as you think. At least, I wasn’t always.” She inhaled and let the breath out slowly, as if reminiscing.

  “I miss those old days,” she said. “I used to enjoy running about barefoot. I still do on occasion, when I’m alone in the woods, which unfortunately is very rare. But please,” she said, her bright smile returning, “keep the part about my running about barefoot to yourself.”

  He inclined his head, trying not to become too diverted by the enticing image of her doing anything barefoot.