Texas Viscount

by Henke, Shirl

  The earl's silver eyebrows rose as he studied his young nephew. “Then we shall both have to see to it that she changes her mind, shan't we?”

  * * * *

  The ballroom was crowded, filled with ladies in brilliantly colored silks and bedecked with jewels that sparkled in every color of the rainbow, reflecting from the Duke of Chitchester's massive crystal chandelier overhead. Music and laughter wafted gaily on the warm autumn air as Sabrina inspected her charge behind the cover of a large potted fern in one corner of the ballroom.

  “Now remember, Miss Forsythe, you are to dance no more than twice with Mr. Chalmers, no matter how he importunes you,” she instructed firmly as she tucked an errant curl back into place and wiped a trickle of perspiration from one plump cheek. With soft brown hair and wide gray eyes, Esther Forsythe could be a pretty girl...if she would forsake bonbons and clotted cream long enough to shed twenty pounds of baby fat. But all the subtle hints and suggestions about ladylike portions had fallen on deaf ears so far.

  “But I like Mr. Chalmers. His father is a marquess,” Esther replied petulantly, sticking her lower lip out, another thing Sabrina had attempted in vain to change.

  “His father is indeed a marquess, but he is the youngest of four sons and will never inherit. If you wish to enter the peerage, you must cast your sights on a first son.” Heavens above, this child was as dense as iron. But, used to dealing with stupidity as well as spoiled tantrums, Sabrina kept her voice low and smooth as she adjusted the bow on Esther's shoulder.

  “Is it one-two-three for the waltz?” Esther asked nervously.

  Sabrina could see the girl mentally picturing each step in her mind. Esther had an unfortunate tendency to lose count and tromp on her partner's feet with distressing frequency. It was fortunate that her father was one of the wealthiest merchants in England, else she'd have men fleeing from her. All Sabrina had to do was see that she did not fall prey to a fortune hunter who would abuse the poor child.

  “Do not count. Just follow your partner's lead and you shall do splendidly,” she replied, giving Esther a winsome smile. “Now, here's your dance card. I believe Mr. Sheffield has the first dance.” Sabrina pointed her in the right direction and the girl entered the fray, clutching the card like a medieval knight would clutch his shield in battle.

  When the gentleman in question bowed and led her into the waltz, Sabrina stood watching with a pleased smile from her place of concealment. Mrs. Forsythe had fallen victim to one of her migraines tonight and requested that Sabrina see her daughter through the evening. She needed the extra money this night's work would bring, and so far all was going well.

  Until a familiar voice behind her said, “So you really are a teacher. Got your work cut out for you with that one. Hope her daddy's rich.”

  Sabrina stiffened her back and turned to look up into the grinning face of “Viscount Wesley.” She struggled to keep her tone civil. The bounder looked resplendent in black evening attire, the cutaway coat and perfectly creased trousers emphasizing his superb physique. His darkly tanned face contrasted dramatically with the pristine whiteness of his shirt. “I see the earl has set his tailor to work on your wardrobe. A formidable task for the poor fellow.”

  Josh looked down at his evening clothes and asked, “You don't think I could've picked these duds out for myself?”

  She resisted a snort of derision. “Only if they were made of denim and trimmed with beads and bear claws.”

  He grinned. “I am right partial to Levi's and a little more trimming on my jackets,” he said as he shot his cuffs and inspected the small ruby studs, matching those on his shirt front. “But if I had the right teacher, I expect I could learn better taste. You should feel it's your professional duty to help out a poor ignorant fellow like me.”

  “I see your uncle has explained the nature of the assignment he had for me. Has he also informed you that I turned it down?”

  Josh shrugged, studying her simple blue gown. Plainly cut with a straight skirt and primly high neckline, it was unadorned except for a bit of white lace at the cuffs and collar. Her only jewelry was a cameo suspended on a thin silk ribbon at her throat. He wanted to pick it up and feel the warmth of her skin emanating from it.

  “You consider me that hopeless? Or aren't you up to a real challenge? I'd be a lot more interesting than those pouty young girls.” There was a dare in his eyes.

  “I work only with young ladies—and they are not ‘pouty.’ ”

  “You didn't answer my questions. Guess I'll just have to show you how much help I really need,” he said as one long arm swept around her waist and he whirled her from the concealment of the greenery and onto the crowded dance floor where a schottische was now playing.

  “Let me go at once,” she hissed beneath her breath. “I'm not dressed appropriately to dance at a function such as this, and I was not invited in any case. I'm an employee of Mrs. Forsythe.”

  She tried to wriggle away, but he held on to her as he made big clumsy steps around the floor, narrowly avoiding bumping into people. He held her right hand in his left, pointing their hands straight out like the prow of a ship plowing through a stormy sea, dipping low, then high again with each giant step he took. She was dragged along with him, and unless she wanted to create an even more hideous scene, she could do nothing but pray for the music to end.

  And stamp on his feet with her heels at every opportunity. But he was surprisingly clever at avoiding her ploy after the first tromp. “Why is it, Lord Wesley, that I suspect you of being less clumsy than you're attempting to appear?” she whispered furiously. “Please release me at once. I shall lose my position with the Forsythes.”

  “Then you'll have to come work for my uncle,” he replied with a grin.

  “I'll kick your bruised shin,” she threatened.

  “It's healed up, just like my eyes. You threatening to blacken them again, too?”

  “How can I do anything with you holding me so tightly?” she muttered.

  “A Texan learns to defend himself when he's no bigger'n a pup, Miss Edgewater. I underestimated you once and I don't figure on doing it again.”

  “You manhandled me,” she snapped.

  “Funny, but when the whole thing started, it didn't seem to me you disliked kissing me all that much.” Lordy, she smelled like wildflowers—or was it roses? Her scent could go right to a fellow's head.

  “You have a great deal of nerve.”

  “Where I come from, they call that self-confidence.”

  Sabrina could see that they were creating quite a stir. She wanted to vanish into the cracks in the brilliantly polished parquet floor. “Here they call it poor breeding.”

  “All the more reason I need help...teacher,” he said as he swooped into another dizzying dip.

  “I would sooner train an organ grinder's monkey!” Just then the music stopped. Sabrina's cheeks were flushed scarlet hot, not only from the exertion of the dance but her own utter humiliation. Had everyone heard her last words? She'd practically shouted them. Biting her lip, she wrenched herself free of his grip and fled to the sanctuary of the ladies' retiring room. He would not dare to follow her there...would he? With a Texas troglodyte such as Joshua Cantrell, it was difficult to know.

  * * * *

  “I simply can't believe it, Eddy. This is the fourth client to cancel her daughter's appointment in the past week. At this rate of attrition, I'll be out on the streets within a fortnight,” Sabrina said with mounting despair.

  Edmund Whistledown sat across from her, sipping tea and munching on one of her lovely home-baked scones. “There, there, Coz, don't take on so. I'm sure you'll find new pupils. After all, there is no scarcity of boorish young Cits whose papas are rich as Croesus.”

  “Yes, but none of them are applying to me. And the excuses I've been given—why—why they sound almost as if they were rehearsed speeches someone told them to...” Sabrina jumped up so suddenly, her teacup rattled in its saucer sitting on the table beside her. “Cou
ld it possibly be?”

  “Could what possibly be?” Edmund echoed as he stuffed another bite of scone in his mouth. Thin as a sweeper boy, he could eat his weight daily and never gain an ounce.

  “The earl...or that perfidious Texas Neanderthal. I'd put it past neither of them—or both of them!” she said furiously, remembering the Chitchesters' ball last week and that arrogant lout's unconscionable behavior. She knew it had created talk when she danced with him; but given his behavior since arriving in England, she'd hoped people would realize the fault lay with him, not a proper woman such as she. One way or another, the viscount and the earl were conspiring to force her to do what they wanted.

  They didn't know how stubborn Sabrina Edgewater could be.

  Chapter Five

  The Chitchester ball had been a good idea for more than one reason, Josh thought with a grin. Dancing the Texas two-step with Sabrina had been damn fine, but his main reason for attending had not been his fascination with the starchy teacher. Michael Jamison had sent word that one of the dissolute young Russians they'd discussed would be present. Josh had made contact with Alexi Kurznikov, who had enjoyed Josh's show with the prim tutor. One drink at the punchbowl—theirs well spiked with vodka—led to another. Within an hour of the time Miss Edgewater escorted her charge safely home, Josh had dear Alexi drunk as a skunk. The Russian count assured the Texas viscount that he was now his best friend.

  This evening he'd agreed to meet Kurznikov, an amiable young fellow, at the White Satin Club, one of the dissident group's favored pubs. But first, he had to deal with a headache the size of the Tower of London. Seeing as how Russian vodka tasted like water from a horse trough, he couldn't for the life of him figure out how it could pack more wallop than a burro with a burr under its blanket.

  While dunking his head in a basin of cold water, he vowed to introduce Alexi and his friends to the civilized amenity of bourbon. When he stood up and shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it, pain lanced all the way down his spine. The sudden movement also sent drops flying onto the shaving mirror in front of him. The face staring back at him looked grim indeed—black bristly beard, red-rimmed eyes with whites that looked as if they'd been coated with Tabasco sauce, hair standing up in spiky tufts.

  “I say, what price head have you?” the earl inquired cheerfully from the doorway of the dressing room. If he disapproved of his nephew's overindulgence last night, it was not apparent from his mildly amused demeanor.

  “If by that you mean how bad is my hangover, I reckon I've had worse...only I can't rightly recall when,” he added beneath his breath.

  “A good shave might help your appearance,” Hambleton suggested.

  Josh shuddered. “If you want me alive to inherit, I wouldn't suggest letting me anywhere near a razor for at least a week.”

  “One of the things you simply must accustom yourself to is allowing servants to assist you with grooming,” the earl said. “Benton is an excellent valet and would be most happy to shave you. I've instructed him to lay out your clothing for the day...or what's left of it. When you're feeling a bit better, please come to the terrace for a light repast.”

  “That mean food?” Josh asked.

  “You know it does.”

  “And you know I'm bright green. I'll only come if you promise not to eat in front of me.”

  “Agreed,” the old man said and strolled out of Josh's quarters. He paused at the hallway door to say, “A pity you're so unwell. Cook has prepared a marvelous kidney pie.”

  “If I hadn't drunk a drop last night, just thinkin' about eating that coyote bait'd be enough to start me puking.”

  “We really must engage Miss Edgewater's services if you're to be received at court,” the earl said, shaking his head as he turned to depart.

  “The lady doesn't much cotton to me. I tried to make amends for what happened last week in the garden, but she's still madder than a scalded cat.”

  “Why is it you persist in trying to win her over, then?” Hambleton asked, pausing in the doorway.

  Josh grinned. “I reckon she's a challenge. Anyone who thinks I'm that plumb hopeless has a lot to learn about me.”

  “I imagine you could convince her otherwise,” the earl said dryly. He suppressed his chuckles until he was well out of earshot of his nephew. The boy was doing swimmingly. One evening with Kurznikov and he had a foot—no, make that a boot—inside the door of the snobbish Russian clique. Perfect.

  Of course, as soon as matters became dangerous, Michael would take over and Joshua would be safely delivered from possible harm. There was no earthly way that the earl was going to endanger his nephew after waiting so long to find him. Besides, he was growing to really enjoy the young rascal's wild Texas eccentricities. A pity Miss Edgewater would have to eliminate them.

  Ah. yes. Miss Edgewater. A most formidable young woman, who took no nonsense from her pupils. After reading her references, he knew she was the only one who could handle a Texas barbarian such as Joshua. He'd also anticipated that she might resist his rather unorthodox offer. But when the ninth Earl of Hambleton set his mind to a task, no one stood in his way. He considered the maneuvers he'd used to bring her to heel. Unfortunately, they had not worked...yet. But he had another ace to play.

  It was obvious that Joshua would take delight in besting her by becoming a reasonably proper English gentleman. The earl could hardly wait to observe their war of wills. Congratulating himself, he strolled into the front parlor where the worst gossip in London, the Dowager Countess of Wiltshire, awaited him. When their conversation was complete, Miss Edgewater would work for him...or she'd work for no one in the whole of England.

  * * * *

  Sabrina had not one single client left. And she knew who was responsible. Dare she confront the earl in his own home? Sabrina was growing desperate. If only Edmund could manage to pay her back some of the money she'd lent him, she might be able to hold on until the earl's interest in her waned. But her cousin seemed constitutionally incapable of saving halfpence.

  She sighed. The earl would only refuse to see her, or worse yet, grant her an interview and then smile benignly while protesting his innocence regarding her predicament. Her only recourse lay with the viscount. He had an appalling opinion of her morals; and, even worse, he upset her equilibrium in strange ways no other man ever had—a matter she assured herself had to do with his exotic background, nothing else. He was a...curiosity, an uncouth, utterly unsophisticated ruffian.

  If the accounts she'd read in the newspapers were to be believed, he had actually grown up in some small hamlet in western Texas...in a house of ill-repute! Small wonder he could not discern a lady by her demeanor and dress. He was probably accustomed to seeing his women unclothed! She could still remember those coolly amused green eyes sweeping over her disheveled appearance on the gangplank of the ship...that lascivious wink he'd given her in the jailhouse. And the kiss he'd given her in the garden...

  That was what made her hesitate to approach him. For one brief instant—well, perhaps more than just an instant, she was forced by her conscience to confess—she had allowed him to take utterly shocking liberties during that kiss. Closing her eyes, she leaned back in the large chintz-covered chair in her sitting room, imagining that moment when he'd held her and pressed those sculpted lips to her own. They were warm and mobile...and open! He'd actually dared to touch his tongue to hers. Sabrina could scarcely credit that she had even met him partway, allowing it. Enjoying it, an insidious voice taunted.

  What she should have done was bitten it off!

  He'd pressed her body tightly to his, enfolding her in powerful arms, cradling her head with his hand. Her breasts had been flattened against his stone-hard chest. Even now, that peculiar ache filled them, the nipples puckering into tiny hard points. She fought the urge to touch herself there, to examine what a mere memory could do. But, of course, she did nothing of the sort. Horrified, she practically sprang from the chair, small hands fisted into tight little balls as she
began pacing back and forth over the well-worn carpet.

  Perhaps the good ladies of London were well advised to remove their daughters from her charge. Was she morally perverse? An unwholesome influence on young minds? No! She'd devoted her life to teaching upright Christian behavior as well as social graces to her pupils. This whole difficulty was the fault of one man...one dangerous, black-haired, green-eyed devil with a rogue's grin and a seducer's husky, melodic voice.

  “Get past this, Sabrina. Take charge of your life. You've done it before when you were far younger and in more dire straits,” she scolded herself. She strode into her bedroom to change clothes. Mrs. Collingwood went shopping at the arcade off Piccadilly the first Wednesday of every month. That was today, and the wealthy shipping magnate's wife had agreed to meet her for tea at a fashionable restaurant that afternoon to discuss deportment lessons for her daughter Martha.

  “Just one new client,” she repeated like a prayer as she dressed in her last good suit, a light-yellow linen with a frilly white blouse. The yellow straw flowers she'd sewn on the brim of her only remaining hat should match her outfit perfectly. “You can win over Mrs. Collingwood,” she said sternly to her image in the mirror, giving her appearance one last inspection before setting out.

  She arrived nearly an hour early, determined to take no chance that traffic might cause her to keep Mrs. Collingwood waiting. Besides, Edmund's birthday was next week and she needed to buy him a present. Thank goodness her family had sent a small amount to supplement her own meager contribution for the gift. As the youngest in the family, and an orphan, he'd always been everyone's favorite.

  Sabrina browsed through the shops lining the arcade, searching for some item he could use. She was comparing handkerchiefs and trying to decide if her family's combined money was enough to have a pair of them monogrammed when a hatefully familiar voice sent a shiver racing down her spine.