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

by Julianne MacLean

  Clara squeezed Adele’s hand.

  “Harold is obviously the better man,” Adele said. “He’s decent and honorable, but I’m not sure that we are very compatible. I need to find out. I need to see if we can catch up to the level of intimacy that I had with Damien.”

  “Maybe you will never catch up,” Clara suggested.

  Adele sighed hopelessly. “Please don’t say that. I don’t want everything to fall apart. Everyone would be so hurt and disappointed. I’ve promised myself to Harold, who is a good man. I’ve made a commitment, and I take my promises seriously. I can’t break his heart, and certainly not for a man I could never trust.”

  “Because of his reputation?”

  “Yes, and the things he said to me in the library. I’m not sure he’s capable of being a good husband. He had a difficult childhood with tragic circumstances surrounding the deaths of his parents. He doesn’t know what a happy marriage is. He has never been able to commit to one woman. He’s jaded.”

  “You should listen to your heart, Adele—the organ that sees better than the eye. That’s an old Yiddish proverb,” she added. “You say you don’t want to give up on Harold, but maybe you shouldn’t give up on Damien, either.”

  Adele sighed heavily. “I would rather forget him. I believe he’s with his mistress now—the actress. I know it shouldn’t bother me, but to think of them together is like a knife in my heart. I want to get over this foolish infatuation. If you can help me with that, I will be eternally grateful.”

  Clara thought about it. “All right, here’s what I suggest. Give yourself some time. Even a week can make a difference. I know I said that I wanted you to have a great romance, but I also know from experience that these things can indeed be fleeting, especially where an unsuitable man is concerned.

  “Now that Damien is gone, what you feel for him might simply pass, and you might realize you prefer Harold after all. If it does, everything will be very easy. If it doesn’t, you can deal with it then. You’ll be coming to London soon, and you can take the opportunity to see how Damien behaves. If he does something to earn your respect, you might discover that there could be more between you. Promise me you’ll come to me if you still want him after a week away from him. I’ve been through this, Adele. I know what you’re feeling.”

  Adele hugged her sister. “Thank you. I will follow your advice.”

  The London balls and assemblies that were held over the next few days did not find Damien in attendance, as a black eye on account of an angry mistress was not becoming of a gentleman in search of a wife. Nor was he inclined to flirt when he was irritable most of the time because of his creditors and his London house tenants, who had taken it upon themselves to upgrade the stove in the kitchen and send him the bill.

  He was irritable for other reasons, too. He was ashamed of the way he had lost all control in the teahouse with Adele, who, before she’d met him, had never done anything she needed to regret. He was ashamed of the way he had treated her in the library afterward, questioning her integrity, when Damien was the one at fault. He was the one who had kissed her. He had been the one to suggest they ride alone to the teahouse, even after she said she would prefer to return with Harold another day. He had indeed dragged her down.

  She must despise him now. She had every right to. Perhaps it was best.

  He was also ashamed of betraying Harold’s unwavering trust—Harold, his closest friend since childhood. He was ashamed for treating Frances badly as well. All in all, he was not proud of himself on any count.

  He spent many hours thinking about his future. He did not wish to continue along this low and sordid path. If he was ever going to return to Osulton Manor and remain a part of the only family he had, he would need a wife of his own to prevent him from coveting Harold’s. He needed to live a respectable life. But this was not a new wish. He had always wanted to rise above the disgrace that was part of his childhood, and therefore a part of him. He wanted a proper marriage—a marriage different from what his parents had—and it had become more than clear lately that he could no longer put it off. Essence House needed funds. It needed its lord and master, and for other more heartfelt reasons, he needed a woman in his life. A woman he could love and trust.

  The following week proved slightly less trying. Damien’s eye had begun to heal, his tenants paid their rent, and he was able to pay his creditors something to at least keep them from knocking on his door every other hour.

  Regarding his regrets, he was still trying to forgive himself, which was not something he was particularly good at, but at least he was making an effort.

  Consequently, he danced, he chatted, he flattered, and he charmed. He met many young women of good breeding, and many wealthy ones on a desperate social climb in an upward direction into the aristocracy. Some were American. Others were English, daughters of businessmen who had recently earned a substantial income, and looked upon an eligible viscount as a most beneficial stepping stone.

  So, he kept busy and appreciated the many pretty faces that were new to the London Season. He had a goal, after all—to find a bride and bring her home to Essence House. And for Damien, a goal was always effective to keep his mind and body focused and disciplined. He thought very little about Adele.

  Except on the rare occasions when he let down his guard, often when he was drifting into sleep. It was during those moments he thought of her and felt a very deep and mournful longing.

  Chapter 17

  For eight days straight, Adele did as Clara suggested. She went on with her life as a guest at Osulton, and she waited. She waited for Damien to fade from her memory. She waited for Harold to do something wonderful and stir her passions. And she waited for the guilt over her intimacies with Damien to subside.

  The guilt never did subside. Neither did the two other things happen. She’d said good-bye to Damien eight days earlier and she was still missing him and longing for him, despite all the hurtful things they’d said to each other. She watched the end of the road and fantasized about a black horse galloping up the hill with a dark knight on his back—a handsome, dark knight with wind in his hair, coming to rescue her again, from all her doubts and questions.

  That didn’t happen either.

  On the ninth day when she woke up in the morning and gazed longingly out the window, she realized she had become utterly pathetic. Surely Damien wasn’t pining away over her. He was the kind of man who could sweep one woman from his heart quite effortlessly—not that any one woman had ever truly occupied his heart for any significant length of time—and move on to the next. He was probably with his mistress at that very moment, in her bed, kissing her and holding her and laughing with her. Adele had pictured him with the beautiful actress more than once that past week, and each time, she’d been overcome with jealousy, even though she didn’t even know what the woman looked like.

  Adele needed to get over this foolish heartsickness. She sat up and told herself that she didn’t need to be rescued, especially by a man like Damien Renshaw. She was in control of her emotions, and her life at the current moment was as close to perfect as it could be. She was engaged to a respectable and decent English nobleman, her family was proud of her, and she was surely the envy of most women in America, and probably England, too. She had been welcomed with open arms into her fiancé’s family, and she would one day give birth to the next Earl of Osulton. Everything about her life was a dream come true. She must absolutely forget Damien.

  Adele promptly rang for her maid because this was a new day. She was ready to get dressed.

  That very afternoon, however, in the closed coach on the way to a neighbor’s house for tea, Damien’s name came up in conversation, and Adele felt her resolve flying out the window.

  “Did you know that Damien had a black eye?” Violet said quietly, when Eustacia’s head tipped to the side and she began to snore over the rumble of the rattling coach.

&nb
sp; Adele’s stomach lurched as the coach went over a bump.

  “Supposedly,” Violet said, “it was his mistress who gave it to him. That actress—the Fairbanks woman.” She shook her head at the sordidness of it all.

  “What happened?” Adele asked, quite unable to resist asking.

  Violet leaned in closer, seeming to enjoy the juicy details. “She cut him with a glass. Or threw it at him more likely. I’m not sure why, but I do know that they have a very turbulent relationship. It’s not the first black eye Damien’s received, I assure you, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It doesn’t stop him from seeing her, and others like her.” She looked intently into Adele’s eyes. “What do you think it is about women like her? Why are they so good at luring men like Damien into their beds? Maybe it’s the risk and the danger. Or maybe if they’re passionate in one way, they’re passionate in others, if you understand my meaning. It’s all a great mystery, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The coach leaped over another bump, tossing Violet and Adele almost up off the seat cushion. Adele considered her relationship with Damien.

  Was that what she had been to him? Something risky and dangerous because she belonged to his cousin?

  “I suppose Damien is ripe for the picking for a woman who craves sin,” Violet continued. “Have you heard the story about his parents?”

  “Some of it,” Adele said. “I know his mother had an affair.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but there’s more to it than that.” Violet leaned closer and whispered. “Damien’s father was so brokenhearted, he killed himself over her betrayal.”

  Adele stiffened in shock. “Damien’s father?”

  “Yes. Witnesses say he went looking for a fight in the worst part of London and provoked the other man. It was the very day they buried Damien’s mother.” Violet sighed. “Poor man. He was kind and decent like Harold. He even looked like him. He gave his heart to his wife, and she crushed it. She married him for his title and his money, then right away went out and spent as much of it as she could, mostly on her lovers.”

  “I had no idea,” Adele replied.

  “Well, from what I’ve heard, Damien is following in his mother’s footsteps and hunting the streets of London as we speak, looking for a rich wife. He needs money quite desperately. Perhaps that’s why Frances threw the glass at him.”

  He’s looking for a rich wife? Adele had not known about that. She had told Clara that Damien knew her in a way that Harold did not, and she had felt as if she knew him, too. Intimately. But she had not known this.

  She felt very naive all of a sudden. Then her mind darted about at the ramifications. Was that why he kissed her in the teahouse? Did he think he could steal her away from Harold and get his hands on her marriage settlement? Had he hoped to make her believe that they shared a special bond, only to seduce her into leaving Harold?

  No, she didn’t want to believe that. Yet the doubts and suspicions were coming at her from all angles. Where Damien was concerned, nothing was ever straightforward. Everything about him—the things she’d heard, the way he treated her—made her feel wary. He constantly said he was loyal to Harold, yet he had kissed her. Obviously, he was not as loyal as he claimed.

  But neither was she.

  “Well, none of it is any great secret,” Violet continued. “I’m sure you would have heard all the scandalous talk eventually.” She leaned closer to Adele—who was now feeling sick from thinking about all this—and touched her knee. “I beg your pardon for revealing so many horrid things, but I thought it would be best if you heard it from one of us, and I hope you will not judge Harold by the way Damien lives and treats women. Damien and Harold couldn’t be more different. You chose the right man, Adele, I assure you, and I am so glad that you are as decent as Harold. You would never do to him what Damien’s mother did to his father.” She gazed out the window.

  The coach hit another bump, and Eustacia stirred in her seat. “Have we arrived?” she asked, looking around in a daze.

  Violet patted her mother’s knee. “No, Mother, we have quite a distance to go yet.”

  London

  One week later

  Adele peered out of the coach window and saw her sister Sophia, standing on the steps of her grand Mayfair mansion. Beside Sophia was her husband, James, the ninth Duke of Wentworth, widely known as one of the wealthiest men in London. With them were James’s sister, Lady Lily, and his younger brother, Lord Martin.

  Adele and her mother stepped out of the coach, and Sophia came dashing down to greet them. “You’re here! Finally!” she shouted, throwing her arms around both their necks.

  James smiled and descended the steps. “Madam,” he said, bowing over Beatrice’s plump, gloved hand and gazing with amusement at the absurdity of her purple hat. “A pleasure, as always. And Adele, how good of you to come. Sophia has spoken of nothing else these past few days.”

  Adele smiled, while Beatrice blushed and giggled. “Oh, James, you are too charming for words.”

  He gestured toward Martin and Lily on the stairs. “Do you remember my brother and sister?”

  “Of course,” Beatrice replied. She gathered her skirts in both hands and hurried up to meet them halfway. She threw her arms around Lily’s shoulders and hugged her tightly. “My darling girl, it’s such a delight to see you again. You look beautiful. And you, Martin, grow more handsome with every passing day.”

  Sophia grinned flirtatiously at her husband. To Adele, the passion they shared was clear as day.

  Adele wanted desperately to share a similar bond with Harold. That was what would save her, she was certain of it. Thankfully, he was on his way to London with Eustacia and Violet, and they would spend time together at a few balls for which they had already received invitations.

  Adele looked into her sister’s eyes—the eyes of a happily married woman and the proud mother of two beautiful boys—and decided firmly that she, too, wanted a close, happy marriage. She did not wish to spoil her chances for that by losing sight of the secure future that was within her reach.

  Perhaps, she thought at last, it was time to flirt with her fiancé, and try a little harder to fall in love with him.

  Chapter 18

  “I believe there must be at least two hundred people here,” Harold said, resting his hand on Adele’s waist to step into a waltz, and glancing around the brightly lit ballroom. “You know I have a knack for estimating numbers of things? Go ahead, Adele. Start counting the people. I’ll wager an error of no more than ten.”

  Adele glanced around also, realizing it had not even occurred to her to estimate the number of people in the room, nor did she feel like counting them. She was more interested in appreciating the music and the magnificent movement of some of the more skillful dancers. There were also the musicians to watch. They were exceedingly talented, especially the violinists, who controlled their bows with such precision.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she replied, determined to avoid the chore of actually counting them. “Two hundred to be sure.”

  Harold smiled. “Yes, two hundred. I wonder how many hors d’oeuvres they prepared? They would need at least five per person.”

  He proceeded to calculate the total.

  “You are a wonderful dancer, Harold,” Adele said, attempting to distract him with what she hoped was a suggestive grin. “I like being close to you like this.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Really? Even when it’s so warm? It’s rather stuffy, don’t you think? All these people dancing.... It creates an uncomfortable degree of heat. But the warm air rises. We should be thankful for that.” He looked up at the high ceiling. “Imagine how hot it is up there. I wish I could send up a thermometer. I could hoist it up by throwing a wire over that chandelier.”

  Adele looked up, too, then tried to tempt his attention back to her. “Perhaps after this,” she said with a teasi
ng lilt to her voice, “we could go for a walk in the garden. In the moonlight.”

  “I doubt we’d be able to see the moon through the fog, but it will be cooler out there away from this heat, so, yes, it is a splendid idea. I’ll ask my mother to join us.”

  Adele blinked up at him. “I was hoping...perhaps...that we could go alone.”

  Who would have thought that flirting would make her feel like such a dunderhead? Was she truly that inept? Or was Harold not attracted to her?

  “Alone?” he said. “Well, I suppose we could, but Mother looks rather lonely over there. Look.”

  Adele glanced to where Eustacia stood by a table of tarts. True, she did look as if she were waiting for someone to come and strike up a conversation with her, but one would think that when a gentleman was invited for a private walk in a moonlit garden with a lady—his fiancée!—he would somehow arrange for some other person to entertain his mother.

  The waltz ended, and Harold stopped abruptly, waving for Adele to follow him to the tart table.

  “Come, my dear!” he said cheerfully. “Those are raspberry tarts, and Mother is about to finish them off.”

  Adele followed him off the floor. It appeared that flirting with her fiancé was going to prove more difficult than she had initially imagined.

  Later in the evening, Adele and her mother joined Eustacia and Violet near the entrance to the ballroom, where they met Sophia and Lily.

  “What a delightful gathering,” Beatrice said. “But you haven’t been dancing nearly enough, Lily. Why aren’t you out on the floor? You are young and full of energy. Unlike Eustacia and me.”

  The two older women exchanged complaints about their sore feet, while Lily looked about uncomfortably. The fact was, she had danced very little. She could not have enjoyed having it pointed out.

  Just then, Lord Whitby approached, looking handsome in his black and white formal attire. “Ladies,” he said with a bow. “You all look radiant this evening.”