The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife

by J. Jade Jordan

  “Do what?” She wanted to die of mortification! What had happened to her vaunted will power?

  “He always shows up just at the wrong… well, right moment when we’re about to…” He gestured evocatively. “But at the wrong moment to stop.”

  Embarrassed heat washed through her like water gushing through a broken dam. She couldn’t think… couldn’t talk. She pushed harder, trying to move him off of her.

  “No, don’t go.” He refused to budge. “Surely he knows what married couples do?”

  Married! Panicked, she shoved with all her might. Holding her still, Reed stared intently into her eyes for several silent seconds. He must have seen that she was in no state to continue their lovemaking. Releasing a shaky breath, he lifted himself up and off and buttoned his flap, before lying back with his arm over his eyes.

  She quickly rolled off the bed and scrabbled to her feet. She gulped a few unsteady breaths then rushed across the room to the cheval mirror to set herself to rights before Foster came in. Her dress was horribly creased but there wasn’t much she could do about that. She looked anxiously around, grabbed the tray with empty dishes on it, marched across to the door keeping her head averted from Reed’s angry glare, and left the room without a word or glance back.

  * * *

  Hours later, Reed was still fuming and so frustrated after his wife’s precipitous exit from the room, he couldn’t stay in bed. Thwarted, his body continued to thrum with unspent energy.

  He put on his banyan and left his room. The house was quiet, except for Foster’s snores echoing up from the front hall. Next time, he’d wait to hear those snores before seducing his wife!

  He probably should have found out where Mason’s chamber was located before setting out to walk the halls at this time of night. But it wasn’t as if he was out to rob the house, he only wanted to satisfy himself about something. He started up the stairs toward Talia’s studio.

  Curiosity was a powerful motivator. The intensity of the look on her face while she painted, compelled him to find out what she was painting. But it had to be done quickly, because he had only about thirty minutes before, like a sentry, she made her nightly round. She had stopped changing his bandage, but she still watched over him as she would a cherished child.

  Once through the door to the studio, he went across to the fireplace that now held mere embers and lit the candle he’d brought with him. He made his way to the covered canvas by the window, where he set the candlestick down on the windowsill and turned back to the easel, using both hands to lift the cloth from the painting.

  He was trying so hard to be careful and not drag it over the damp canvas that, at first, he didn’t see what he’d unveiled. Putting down the cover, he turned to get a good look at her work.

  Utter shock glued him to the floor.

  She was painting him! But… him… completely… unclothed–… Nude! Stark naked!

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tally wished their carriage would go faster, so they could reach their destination sooner. She was feeling hemmed in, with the three of them, Mr. Mason, Reed and herself, crowded into a small hackney.

  It was all her pseudo-husband’s fault! He was sitting on the seat directly opposite her. She’d have almost preferred him to be sitting next to her. That way, she wouldn’t have to see him every time she looked up or ahead. Wouldn’t have to steal secret glances at him and notice his rugged chin or the way his eyes crinkled against the sun shining through the window.

  Almost preferred, that is, if she’d been certain she could control her hand from sneaking sideways to touch him.

  He seemed so much larger inside the carriage. His shoulders, wider. His legs, longer. And his thighs, well, they defied description.

  Noticing her glance, his mouth lifted in a slow smile causing her insides to jangle.

  Stop it! Stop peering at the man’s body, Tally. Stop drooling over his impressive form. She was rarely thrown off course like this. Too many years of too many dramas played out in her family had inured her to most things. But today, confined in this space, she was behaving — in her mind at least — like a depraved woman.

  Maybe, just as Foster had warned, she’d been spending too much time alone in Reed’s presence. And it was muddling her normal good sense. She had to keep in mind the dreadful yet incontrovertible fact that his intentions for climbing into her bedroom window were, as yet, unknown.

  If only Foster had agreed to sit inside with them, she’d have had a good reason to keep her eyes from straying frontward to glance at Reed. She’d have had to behave herself so her observant butler wouldn’t notice her avid interest in their uninvited house-guest.

  It must be because she was painting him. She had to study and assess his… um… attributes, to get them right on canvas.

  Maledizione! There was little chance she’d persuade her fierce protector of that trumpery, when she couldn’t even convince herself. When the mere brush of Reed’s fingers against her gloved hand, upon helping her into this vehicle, had caused her nerves to tingle!

  “Before going to the Academy, I want to stop at Monsieur Moreau’s,” Talia told him, as the carriage they’d hailed set off along the street. “It won’t take long.”

  He was certain a new definition of torture was to be sitting across from his wife in this hired hackney. Across but not alone, preventing him from hauling her onto his lap to entice her to join him in memorable moments of carnal delight.

  His eyes fell to her full lower lip that, even now, was being tortured between small perfect white teeth. He’d already noted that habit of hers. It fixed his attention on her equally perfect lips. Lips meant to be passionately kissed.

  Surely she must miss the intimacies of their marriage bed! He did. He must! Even if he couldn’t recall them! His body routinely made him aware of that lack — in no uncertain terms.

  He turned his head away so he wouldn’t act on his inclinations. He wanted to lean over and halt her lips’ nervous actions. Offer her comfort from whatever was worrying her.

  Hah! Who was he trying to bamboozle? Himself, clearly. All he really wanted was to lie her down and ravish her!

  Impatient with his one-track mind, he pushed back the curtains still further and gazed unseeing out the window.

  Were they alone, he might have acted on his desires, but Mason sat beside her, his usual impassive self. Luckily, eagle-eyed Foster had insisted on sitting outside, up with the driver, despite Talia’s pleas for him to sit with them.

  Probably wanted to avoid the tense atmosphere inside, the wily old coot.

  Reed had been appalled to learn they had no carriage of their own. Talia said there hadn’t been much point because she wasn’t going about much yet. She didn’t think they needed one at the moment, not until she had a companion and he… She’d left that hanging, but he knew she meant once he recovered his memory. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Damn. His whole life was suspended, perched on the brink… waiting for his memory to return. Waiting for something to happen.

  And hers was too, it appeared.

  He wished it didn’t feel so much like some unknown disaster was looming.

  “Have I met him?”

  “Met Monsieur?”

  “Yes, Moreau.” He knew he sounded irritable, but this was the second time she was visiting the man. That he knew about! Surely a husband had a right to be annoyed.

  “No, no you haven’t.” She threw him a sharp glance.

  Was he a jealous man, then? Was she worried he might cause a fuss?

  As they approached the man’s home, he noted it wasn’t in the best part of Town. Nor the worst.

  Another memory. He treasured each grain of past knowledge. It felt like he was collecting pearls to string into a priceless necklace of memories.

  Talk about fanciful! Not a very masculine image either. He supposed, if he was going to be whimsical, he should present it to his wife, in gratitude for her devoted care since his mishap.

  “Who is he?” h
e blurted out.

  She gave him a veiled look and didn’t rush to respond.

  He wanted to shake her and demand an answer.

  “He’s my teacher.” She paused again then, as if she couldn’t hold them back, words came tumbling out. “He said he’d be here when I got to London. But that was over two weeks ago and he’s been away ever since. I’m becoming quite concerned about him.”

  So, the other day, she hadn’t met Monsieur, as she called him. He was ashamed of the relief that swept through him. That he lacked such confidence in himself, or had so little trust in her, bothered him.

  Her teacher, she said. Teacher of what?

  Just then the carriage stopped and he peered out at the building that looked more like a shop than a home. The place was shut tight. His wife’s shoulders drooped. Her face fell.

  Why was this visit so important to her?

  “Does he travel much?”

  “Yes, he travels frequently for his work, but not usually far away and he never makes empty promises. He knows how important this is to me–” she cut herself off. Her anxious glance told him she worried she might have revealed too much.

  “What does he teach you?”

  “Art.” Her tone did not encourage further questions.

  Ah, a studio, not a shop.

  Having seen her portrait of him last night, he knew she took her art seriously, but it was clear to him she no longer needed lessons, so why was seeing her teacher so important? Maybe this Moreau had promised to escort her about the city. And if, as Mrs. P had confided, her cousin had not arrived to be her companion, as expected, she must be weary of being trapped in the house.

  But it sounded a lot more important than a mere matter of getting out and about. His wife, he was discovering, was not a frivolous female. She cared little for the usual frills and furbelows many women thought important.

  “I see.” He really did see. He recognized she had a rare gift. It was natural for her to want... need… to push it ever further. That, he understood.

  “Shall we go on to the Exhibit, then?” he suggested.

  “No!” she sounded quite vehement. “Not yet.” She softened her tone, almost pleading. “I want to get out, to see if there is any sign of his having been home recently.”

  He wanted to advise against it, didn’t see the point, but the determination in her face kept him quiet. Foster had already opened the door and was waiting for them to alight, showing he knew his mistress better than Reed did. Making a what-can-you-do face at Mason, Reed stepped down first and held his hand out to assist Talia’s descent. Mason followed. The hackney moved on, to stop further along the road where it would not be in the way of other vehicles.

  “Thank you.” She released his hand quickly.

  He swallowed his hurt. Obviously, it was going to take time to win back her trust. Again, he wished he knew what crime he’d committed to cause such wariness in her.

  Mason walked close beside her as she approached the house, his head slowly turning to take in all directions, keeping a vigilant eye on their surroundings.

  Foster ambled along behind the two. Reed followed at the back, not wishing to be left behind. He also admitted to himself he was curious about this Moreau, she so keenly sought.

  As expected, no one responded to her knock. She went to the window and used her hands to cup her eyes as she bent to peer inside. He didn’t think she’d see much. It was encrusted with grime from the road spatter of continuous traffic on a small city street.

  “Missy!” Foster called. “Look, here.”

  Reed suddenly became aware of Foster’s continued use of Talia’s maiden title. Perhaps the old man was unable to make that change after taking care of her, almost like his own child, for many years. Or did the butler disapprove of Reed so much he refused to acknowledge his mistress’ new status?

  Talia went back to the door and took the paper Foster handed her. It had been jammed behind the knocker.

  “Another one?” She looked at her faithful servant in puzzlement. “That’s odd.” She unfolded it to read.

  If Reed thought her crestfallen before, it was nothing to her reaction now. Her eyes welled with tears and she quickly lifted a shaking hand to cover them.

  “What does it say?” He wanted to hit anybody who hurt her like this!

  Straightening her shoulders, she adopted a spurious, cheerful tone “Well, that’s that. Looks like Monsieur is still away. Today, the note says he had to go to France for a funeral.” There was utter disbelief in her tone.

  “But, surely he would have–” he stopped abruptly. Shut up, man, what do you know about this teacher? At the moment, you don’t even know who your own parents are! He put his hand beneath her elbow to lend her his support, wishing he could remove the pain of betrayal she must be feeling.

  She turned her head to look at him, a cynical gleam in her gaze. “The other day, there was another note that said he went to help a sick friend. But the writing was different. Neither note is in Monsieur’s handwriting.” She looked at Mason. “Please. Something must be done.”

  The Scot nodded reassuringly. “It will.”

  Reed wanted to insist he’d be the one doing the reassuring, doing the something to find the missing Moreau. He turned away sharply to conceal his expression. He didn’t want to worry her more at the moment. Didn’t want her to see his despair. How could he help her, when he didn’t even know the first thing about himself? How could he resolve his wife’s problem when his own blank mind loomed so large?

  “Good.” Pasting a patently false smile on her face, she said, “Right then, shall we continue on to the Exhibition?”

  The bleak look that settled in her fine eyes, made clear how important Moreau was to her.

  Reed gestured to Foster and Mason indicating they were ready to go, and the two men began to move toward the carriage.

  If he hadn’t already realized that Mason was a hired bodyguard, he’d have known at that moment. The man crowded past him and Talia to lead the walk back to the vehicle and he was again looking from side to side, clearly on the watch for trouble around them. And if his obvious vigilance hadn’t revealed it, the lump in his coat pocket made it clear that the Scot was carrying a gun. He started up the street toward their carriage.

  A sudden, low rumble from above the little incline at the top of the street, where the road narrowed, raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Alarm bells went off in his head. The sound was moving fast and getting louder. Suddenly, charging around the corner, a large, covered cart came hurtling toward them, directly in line for his wife.

  He turned swiftly to her. She stood stock still, frozen in place, eyes huge in her horrified face. Praying he wasn’t too late, he leapt across the space between them, seizing her and carrying her forward across the narrow street, to land with her body squashed against the wall opposite, with him crammed tightly against her back. He felt the whistle of the cart brush past behind him, narrowly avoiding skinning his calves and the heels of his boots.

  They stood immobile, both breathing deeply, shocked by their near miss. He was glued to her back, supporting himself with a forearm against the wall, unable to budge. He remained this way for several stunned seconds more before alarm gave way to a different threat.

  Her shapely little body fit snugly against his, increasing his need to capture more air into his lungs. Despite the danger having passed, his heartbeat hadn’t slowed down an iota. Just being this close to her was cause enough. Although he’d lost his memory, he knew with certainty that he’d never before reacted like this to any other woman.

  She stirred in his protective embrace, jolting him back to awareness of their surroundings. Though time had slowed, surely only seconds had passed. He heard Mason and Foster yelling, warning everyone along the street to get out of the way. All were in danger of being flattened by that wildly lurching, run-away cart!

  Damn it to hell! He should be helping, not standing here befuddled by lust for his wife. He backed away f
rom her.

  Blast! His hand went to his wounded shoulder. His stitches had probably opened. It hurt like the devil, but there was no time to think about that. He retreated a few more steps, keeping a steadying hand at her waist. “Are you all right?’’

  He heard her take a shaky breath. She nodded wordlessly, her face still tucked up against the wall, as if she needed it for support.

  He cast a quick glance up the road from where the cart had come. He didn’t want any more unpleasant surprises to catch them off guard. He was torn between staying to keep her safe from any other danger, and hastening after the cart to ensure others weren’t hurt. “Stay here. I’ll go–”

  He’d thought her too shocked to speak, but suddenly, letting out a startled, “Oh!” She turned and began to run in the direction the cart had taken.

  His hand reached to stop her, but she shrugged it off. Over her shoulder, she cried, “Quick. We have to catch up to that wagon. There might be something in it that tells us who sent it careering toward us.”

  Ah… His wife was not the timid miss he might have expected of a reserved young lady. The shock of almost being run over hadn’t dulled her brain. He picked up the pace without bothering to respond.

  She was some woman!

  Together they ran down the street, following the path Foster, Mason and the cart had taken. Reed made it round the next bend moments before she did and immediately came to a stop. He had no time to warn her, so she ran into his back. He reached behind to prevent her from bouncing off him and falling backwards.

  Undeterred, Tally darted a look around him. “Heavens!” She stared at the cart, now turned over on its side, smashed against a building, the entire front of it in splinters. The huge pitchfork in Mason’s hand was explanation enough. He’d headed it off. He must be a fast runner to have outpaced it!

  Loud squabbling voices resounded around them, as irate and frightened men shouted at each other. Alerting Foster, who was standing watching the mayhem, Reed put a warning finger to his lips. He took her hand and led her to the back of the wagon wreck. He stationed her beside the wall and with a quick, “Warn me if someone comes,” he ducked into the back of what was left of the cart.