From the Viscount With Love

by Bethany M. Sefchick

  From far below, Frost heard Lavinia's distinctive laugh, the sound light and musical and it drew his eye like a moth to a flame. She was dancing with the Comte de la Croix, another landless ex-French comte, and notorious womanizer. And he did not like it one bit.

  Without thinking, Frost tromped down the steps with likely far more anger than he intended. For a brief moment, he stood at the edge of the ballroom, glaring at the couple. The room was hot and he could see a thin sheen of sweat on De La Croix's forehead. He watched the man's greedy eyes as they perused the diamonds around Lavinia's throat, likely calculating their cost, for the man was rumored to be even poorer than Lord Hunt. A waltz was being played and the comte was much too close to Lavinia than propriety normally allowed. In fact, they bordered on scandal, they were so bloody close. Then Frost saw the man's gaze dip lower to the shadowed valley of Lavinia's lush breasts, which were on perfect display in that damnable gown of hers. It might be the first stare of fashion, but it was causing her partner to slobber all over her as if she was a tasty piece of meat and he a starving man.

  Well Frost would not stand for it. Not a moment longer.

  With a grace he had not known he possessed, Frost wove his way through the myriad couples that were tightly packed on the floor. How any of them could even move was beyond Frost but he did not see them, not even when he bumped into them as they moved, the music not stopping just because one furious viscount had dared to enter the dance floor without a partner. He only had eyes for one particular lady.

  "Comte," Frost said with icy tones when he finally reached the Frenchman and Lavinia, "I am afraid that I must cut in."

  With lazy grace, the man managed to tear his gaze away from Lavinia's breasts long enough to look up at Frost in annoyance. When the viscount stood a good six-foot-three, that was not always so easy to do. "You are being rude, my good man," De La Croix drawled. "And the lady and I are enjoying ourselves immensely."

  "The lady promised this dance to me," Frost growled right back. "Now go." He was well aware that he was making a scene, but he did not care.

  For a moment, Frost thought the other man might protest. Instead, De La Croix gave another lazy shrug and gently handed Lavinia over to Frost's waiting embrace. "My lady. The pleasure was all mine." He gave a small bow. "But despite what is said of me, I do not tread on what another man has already claimed."

  Then the comte was gone, wending his way back through the crowd and disappearing into the far corners of the ballroom. Without hesitation, Frost took Lavinia in his arms and moved them seamlessly into the steps of the dance. She was his. There would be no other.

  For a few moments, they danced together in silence. Frost relished the feel of the woman in his arms and did his best to pretend that the sensation meant little. In truth, however, her presence meant everything to him. She felt good and right beside him, as if fate had created her specifically for him to enjoy. But that was a dangerous path to tread and one he refused to contemplate any longer.

  He craved Lavinia simply because she was a bit of a puzzle and a challenge even now. That was all. Nothing more. That was what piqued his curiosity and not her beauty or her kindness or her intellect or even her charming smile. It was physical, pure and simple. Nothing more and nothing less. It was not love, at least not as Oliver Saintwood had implied. For Frost did not love. Though if he could? Then he might well love Lavinia. But he did not, so the point was rather moot.

  "Was that really necessary?" she finally whispered as Frost pulled her closer than even De la Croix had dared, forcing yet more eyes to them. He did not care. He needed her closeness. "Everyone is starting."

  "Let them," he snapped. "He was mauling you."

  "We were waltzing," she snapped just as frostily in return. "Everyone here is. Or was until you plowed through the dance floor like some country-born clod with no manners!"

  Had he done that? Frost supposed that he had, but he could not bring himself to care. "Well when the dance is done, we can tell them all that we are leaving. Family crisis to attend to, you see."

  Lavinia's eyes flew to his, wide with fear. "Is it your mother?" she asked and something inside of Frost broke a little at the concern he saw plainly written on her face.

  "My mother is fine," he gritted out from between clenched teeth. Holding Lavinia this closely without kissing her was far more difficult than he had imagined it would be. It was actually nothing short of sheer torture. "It is you."

  "Me?" The word came out as a mere squeak. "I do not understand."

  His eyes flashed fire and passion. Mixed together, they were quite heady indeed. "I need you, Lavinia. You said that you were ready. And I find that I am truly the rake I am so often accused of being, for I cannot wait any longer. I promised you tonight, did I not?"

  Lavinia's eyes grew wider still. "I did not think that you meant it!" she hissed as quietly as she could.

  "Have you changed your mind?" Gads, it would kill him if she had, but forcing her was not something Frost would do. He might be a rake, but he was not that sort of man. Not in the least.

  She bit her lip. "Well...no." Then she straightened like the granddaughter of a duke that he knew she was. "But..."

  "But what?" he challenged, his gaze raking over her body hungrily, wondering how much longer she would continue to torture them both with this chattering. "I am ready. You are ready. What more is there to wait for if this is what we both desire? Hmm?"

  Lavinia felt the breath whoosh out of her. "Here? We are in the middle of the ball." And she still felt as if she was being watched. In fact, she had felt that way all night.

  The sensation was concerning to her only because it was different from the way she had felt on the street outside of Mr. Roarke's shop. That was the public watching. This time, it was one person. After years of living in fear, she could tell the difference. However Lavinia pushed the matter from her mind, for there was a more pressing issue to deal with at the moment.

  "Then we shall leave." Frost said the words as if it was the most logical solution in the world when indeed it was not. Yet before she could say anything else, he was maneuvering her to the edge of the ballroom and whispering in a passing footman's ear.

  "What about your mother? And your sisters?" Lavinia asked as he propelled her towards the stairs as quickly as possible without making too much of a scene. "They are sure to notice we have departed."

  He shrugged as he signaled for their wraps to be brought. "They believe you have a megrim and an upset stomach. Too much rich food here tonight that you are unused to consuming. Yet you felt compelled to partake of something offered this evening, for nuncheon was a very long time ago."

  That, Lavinia decided, might be plausible. For years, she had existed solely on the bland, plain food of the country. Lord Burfield was elderly and ate lightly, so she had as well out of deference to him and his tastes. Then, at the brothel, it had been necessary for her to maintain her pleasing figure, at least until she had been bedded. She was often denied food and what she was given would likely not have kept a child alive for very long.

  So when Lavinia had entered Frost's home, the meals his French-born cook served were often too rich for her. Heavy sauces and dishes made with excess amounts of both cream and butter had never sat well in her stomach. Though they had yet to sit down for the dinner courses at the ball this evening, there had been plenty of refreshments offered in a separate room the Marchands had provided for those who wished to nibble on lighter items. Lavinia had visited it earlier but ended up selecting only a small biscuit - and one that had not been slathered in jam, at that - and a warm cup of lemonade.

  None of the offerings had appealed to her but then, she also knew that she was unlikely to eat the dinner being served either. So it was either partake of the light refreshments or go hungry. As her stomach was already rumbling, Lavinia had feared that if she did not eat something, she might well fall into a faint. And that was something which would never do.

  "Very well." She allowed
Frost to help her into her wrap, even though the evening was rather warm. "Shall we?"

  He paused for a moment and she could see the branch of candles in the entryway flicker in the late spring breeze. A single lock of hair fell down over his forehead and he pushed it back impatiently. Lavinia wished she had the right to do that for him.

  "I am behaving like a great clod, aren't I?" he asked, his face softening a bit. For the first time since he had stormed the dance floor, he looked a bit more like the Frost she had come to know and love, rather than the hard and angry man who had all but yanked her out of the ball.

  Lavinia smiled, relieved to see a bit of the man she loved beneath the rough facade. "To a degree, yes."

  He bowed then. "My apologies. I am just...at loose ends, I suppose. And rather anxious." Just then an older couple passed by, likely looking for a less crowded place to rest than the overflowing and stuffy ballroom. "I do hope that this illness is not serious, my dear. I should hate for the rest of the family to become ill this close to our departure for the country." Frost said that part so loudly that the other couple was certain to overhear, no matter how poor their hearing.

  Lavinia thankfully followed his lead. "I am certain it is simply the food. Having resided in the country for so long, I am simply unused to the heavy foods, I fear. It is my own fault. Nothing more." This time, the wife, who had slowed her pace so considerably that she might have been standing still, did turn and look at both Lavinia and Frost, giving them both sympathetic glances. Frost could have sworn that he heard the other woman murmur "poor dear thing, she does look ill," just as the butler opened the door so they could depart as soon as their carriage arrived.

  Frost had also thought to leave word for both Rayne and Harry that they would need to see the rest of the Tillsbury women safely home from the ball. Frost did not wish for his mother or his sisters to be stranded at the Marchand's and knew they would be in good hands with his friends. In the cases of Sarah and Dory, perhaps too good.

  For a moment, a voice whispered in Frost's mind that he was choosing a woman over his family but he firmly ignored it. This was not some lightskirt he had picked up at a brothel or a mistress he intended to dally with for only a week. This was Lavinia. She was...more. She was a part of this family, even if it was only on the surface. So in that respect, he was still putting family first. He hoped.

  Then the carriage appeared and with a firm hand at the small of her back, Frost guided Lavinia into the waiting carriage. He barely closed the door before he was already rapping on the ceiling, indicating that his driver should take off. His skin felt tight over his muscles and he seemed that he no longer knew what to do with his arms or legs. They did not seem to be a natural part of his body but rather extremities that he did not quite know how to control.

  Then the source of his discomfort dawned on him. He was nervous. Nervous about bedding Lavinia.

  As the coach rolled off into the night, once more, Frost was struck with a moment of conscience. He should not be doing this. Lavinia was a lady. Not a prostitute. He would not do this with another woman of his social standing. Would he? As he had never desired a woman of his own social class this much, he did not know how to answer that question. So he simply ignored the twinge in his soul and instead, turned to Lavinia, seeking her hand in the darkness. When she slipped her cool fingers into his, all of his doubts vanished into nothingness. This was right. Because how could something that felt so wonderful, so right, be wrong?

  Chapter Fourteen

  The coach ride back to Frost's town home seemed endless to Lavinia. The streets were clogged with heavy traffic from the theater district as well as the incredibly numerous balls, fetes and routes occurring all over town that night. The Season would end in a few weeks and all of London seemed determined to use the recent warm spell as an excuse to celebrate into the wee hours of the morning.

  Her gown felt tight and constricting, more so than it had even when Mary had laced her into the extremely tight corset and stays that were required for the gown to look its best. She wished to be rid of the confining fabric, and if that made her a wanton, then so be it. She no longer cared. Well, at least not if Frost was to be the one stripping her out of the offending garment, anyway.

  Finally, they arrived and allowed Claxton to show them inside, the house hushed and quiet with the rest of the family still out at the ball. Frost fumbled with his words as he made some inane excuse to the butler about how ill Lavinia was and how she didn't wish to be disturbed for the rest of the night. Even though the butler had protested that a cup of tea and some biscuits might be just the thing she needed to settle her stomach. In the end, however, Frost prevailed and Claxton hurried off to make certain that the rest of the servants left Lavinia in peace for the remainder of the evening. Though as he departed, the butler also threatened to have Dr. Hastings brought to the house immediately if her condition worsened in the slightest.

  The entire series of events all happened so fast that Lavinia wasn't even aware of following Frost up the stairs and towards the family wing unescorted until he stopped directly outside of her door. Then he opened the door, said a rather loud good night that could likely be heard throughout the entire house, and then closed it hard, nearly slamming it shut, before placing a finger to his lips. When Lavinia turned back to the stairs, she could see a long shadow play along the wall and then eventually disappear, likely a maid - or perhaps even Claxton himself - checking on the propriety of the situation. Even the staff here seemed to know that she was not what she pretended to be.

  Just then, Lavinia knew a moment of shame, but she quickly brushed the feelings aside and silently padded after Frost as he continued down the hall and then made the turn to the partial wing that held his chambers. She wanted this. She wanted him. Desperately. If that made her a wanton or a whore, then so be it. She would lie with Frost or she would lie with no man ever. For her, it was truly that simple.

  "Last chance," Frost whispered as he placed his hand on the doorknob to his chambers before stilling for a moment. "If you do not wish this, then speak now. Else I am afraid that once I get you inside, I will not be able to stop. I want you so damnably much."

  In response, Lavinia leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him softly. "I desire you as well, Robert," she whispered against his lips, allowing her fingers to trace the firm line of his jaw. "I believe you promised me tonight. And I shall hold you to that promise." She was not in the least shocked when, with a growl, Frost pulled her to him and then opened the door to his chambers, tugging her inside quickly.

  The staff must have been anticipating his arrival home for a fire burned brightly in the grate despite the heat outside, and the curtains were flung open to reveal the night sky high above. Not that Lavinia would have noticed. All she could see was Frost, the way his gaze softened when he looked at her and the way his hands shook when he reached out to take her hand in his. He might not love her, but there was a part of him that cared for her. He was the first man to ever truly care for her. And that singular emotion was what had made all of the difference in her decision. That, along with the love she held in her heart for this man, were the reasons she was willing to give herself to him. And no other.

  As if he could see into her soul, Frost reached out and pulled one of her gloves from her hands. "Ah, Lavinia. You undo me. Truly. I had not thought that such...emotion was possible." She could see that he didn't know how to define what he was feeling and she would not force him to do so. After all, she was leaving soon and Sarah's words from earlier that night came back to her. She did not want to break this man's heart or hurt him in any way. In truth, she did not believe that she could. But on the off chance that it was possible? Then she would tread carefully.

  "Nor did I," Lavinia whispered softly. "But enough of that. Tonight is for passion. For desire. For us. I want to feel your skin beneath mine. I want to give to you freely what others took from me by force." She knew her words were bold, perhaps even shocking, but she did not care
. For she needed Frost to understand. "I do this with you because I want to. Not because I believe that I have to. As I said, I am ready. I want this. With you. And only you."

  More than anything, Lavinia did not want Frost to view her as a wanton or a prostitute or any of those other ugly names that she had been called over the last few years. In his eyes, she wanted to be viewed as a lady, so it was important that he understood why she was doing this. She was not giving herself to him to pay him back for freeing her from Desponia, or because she believed he expected their relationship would eventually come to this. She was about to offer herself to him because she wished to. Because she desired him. Because she loved him. And for no reasons other than those.

  "Then you shall have me," he whispered as he reached for her other glove. When her hands were bare, he yanked his own gloves off as well.

  For a moment, all she did was stare at his hands, even though she had seen them before. They were strong and well formed. There was a slashing, thin scar on the back of his left hand that curved from his last finger to his thumb in a clumsy arc that she had missed the other day in the park. She could also see that at least one finger on his right had had been broken at some point, the crooked kink at the end rather endearing in some absurd way. Then those same hands reached out and traced the line of her décolletage from the line of her collarbone all the way down to the very tops of her breasts that peeked out from beneath the thin silk of her gown.

  "Stop me now if you do not want this." Frost was uncertain how long he could keep his raging need for this woman under control. Not for long he feared, especially when Lavinia spoke such scandalous words that made him want to simply toss her on the bed and have his way with her.