The Vision of a Viscountess (The Widowers of the Aristocracy Book 2)

by Linda Rae Sande

  Apparently a person blessed with some fame would have to be seen in public—in London—in order for public perception of spectacles to change in England, he realized.

  Jasper didn’t think it would happen in his lifetime, though.

  “Perhaps you’ll have better luck getting her to wear them then,” Devonville replied with a shrug. He sighed. “Pray tell... when you escorted her to the gardens, you must have had an inkling something like this might happen,” he half-asked.

  “I did,” Jasper admitted with a nod. “I found her company especially pleasant. She took such joy in the gardens. In the flowers. The entire time, I knew it was just a matter of time before you or Lady Devonville would make an appearance—”

  “Then why didn’t you return her to the ballroom?” Devonville countered, obviously miffed at the viscount.

  Jasper gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I was enjoying her company.” Enjoying her kisses, but the marquess didn’t need to know that.

  “Had it just been me, I would have given you an out,” Devonville claimed, appearing rather apologetic just then.

  Jasper frowned. “Why? I knew what I was doing was... unacceptable,” he countered. “But, by then, I had already decided I found your niece quite agreeable.”

  Devonville rolled his eyes. “Let us hope you still feel that way after you’ve had to spend more than a day in her company,” he said as he arched a brow.

  Rather alarmed at the comment, Jasper angled his head. “Is she... a hoyden?” He had been about to say, “Fast,” thinking perhaps this wasn’t the first time she’d been caught with a man in the gardens, but he thought better of it.

  “Oh, no, no, nothing like that,” Devonville replied with a shake of his head. “But she can be a bit... independent. Head-strong, even,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “But I swear, should I learn you’ve raised a hand to do violence upon her—”

  “I will do no such thing,” Jasper interrupted, rather offended by Devonville’s implication. “I’ll have you know I never once touched my Sophie with anything other than a gentle hand.”

  How could he when she shied away from his hold?

  The marquess furrowed his brows and finally nodded. “It’s not that Marianne is spoiled, exactly, but she spends a good deal of time reading, and I fear she’s become a bit of a bluestocking,” he explained, obviously scandalized by the thought that his niece might be an intellectual. “I cannot believe my brother would allow it, but then he hasn’t exactly had the benefit of a wife to help with raising her.”

  As a member of the Royal Society, Jasper found he preferred the company of those who were well-read. Those who were educated. Although Sophie had been taught a bit of arithmetic and how to read and write, she hadn’t known enough of the world to be much of a conversationalist, and although she feigned interest in his archaeological expeditions and the two books he had written on Roman artifacts, he knew she hadn’t read either one.

  “Miss Slater sounds perfect,” Jasper replied with a shrug. “I cannot abide the thought of having a stupid wife. Being headstrong is not necessarily a bad trait if she is merely standing up for her principles,” he added, his chin lifted in defiance.

  Devonville sighed, deciding he wasn’t going to talk the viscount out of the marriage. Not that he wanted to—having Marianne betrothed only a few days into her first Season in London was a coup as far as he was concerned. Cherice would be thrilled, he was sure, which meant she would be especially attentive later that evening.

  And probably for the next few days.

  “When do you plan to marry her?” Devonville queried. “I’ll be sure you receive a suitable settlement, of course. I’m quite sure my brother has a decent dowry set aside for her. Probably growing larger by the day,” he added, sotto voce.

  “If I can obtain a marriage license on the morrow, then we shall be married in six days” Jasper stated, ignoring the man’s remark about the dowry.

  Faith! Had Lord Donald given up all hope of marrying off his daughter? Jasper wondered. How bad can she be? Marianne seemed ever so pleasant. Ever so happy whilst they toured the gardens. Ever so willing as they kissed in full view of Cupid.

  “Cherice will be at once happy and then all atwitter when she learns of your plans,” Devonville replied. “I pity whatever modiste she calls on tomorrow. There are bride clothes to be made, you see, and clothes for the wedding trip.” He sighed. “Are you quite sure you can’t wait a few more days?”

  Jasper blinked. “The Fairweather sails for Italy in just a week, so I can wait until then, I suppose,” the viscount finally agreed. “As long as Miss Slater is in agreement.”

  Devonville frowned. “I will make her be in agreement,” he stated. And with that, he gave a curt nod and took his leave of the study.

  Taking a deep breath, Jasper watched the retreating back of the marquess before letting it out at the same time the door closed.

  What am I getting myself into? he wondered. He had a thought to find Miss Slater to let her know of the plans. He didn’t think it fair she would learn of them from her uncle.

  Well, he would be taking her for a drive in the park tomorrow afternoon. The time on the phaeton would give him an opportunity to converse with the young lady. An opportunity to learn about her likes and dislikes, her faults and her foibles.

  She’ll learn about mine as well, he thought, wondering what she thought of him given they had only spent an hour and ten minutes in each other’s company. Some couples he knew hadn’t even had that much time together before they said their vows—their marriages had been arranged since they were barely able to walk.

  If Marianne Slater decided he was lacking, or that she didn’t like him, or that she had changed her mind about marriage, she would have to be the one to call it off.

  Jasper had every intention of honoring his promise to marry her.

  Chapter 4

  Foresight Proves Fortuitous

  Meanwhile, in Sicily

  “This came for you, Aunt,” Angela Romano said as she handed a frequently franked missive to Chiara Romano. Although the words were said in English, they were stilted and careful in their pronunciation.

  “Grazie,” Chiara replied, turning her attention from her sewing to the note. She blinked as she turned it over, its red wax seal apparently still intact despite the number of hands through which it had passed on its way from England. She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, furrowing her brows as she read the even script. Written in English, the note was embossed at the bottom and included a signature in a flourish of swirls that she supposed were meant to convey importance.

  Dear Mrs. Romano,

  I am writing at the request of my client, Viscount Henley, in regards to securing a villa for this lordship’s use whilst he is engaged in an archeological expedition near Girgenti. Lord Henley, renown in his field of Roman ruins (specifically mosaics), was informed you have such a property and might agree to let it to him for the two months he plans to be in Girgenti beginning in early May. He has secured passage on The Fairweather, and expects to dock in Marina di Girgenti around the fifth of May.

  My client’s needs are minimal. A housemaid, a cook and a laundress, and the occasional services of a valet should be enough to see to his needs. His lordship will of course pay a deposit in local currency upon arrival and the balance before he departs. Please find enclosed a character as well as a cheque that can be converted to piastras in Girgenti. This is meant to convey the importance of my client’s intent.

  May I inform his lordship you are in agreement with his plan? A return note detailing your acceptance and your charges for his lordship’s stay will be appreciated. My address is below.

  Sincerely yours,

  Andrew S. Barton, Esq.

  Chiara re-read the missive three times to be sure she understood every word. It had been a long time since she had read anything written in English, and although she could speak the language and understood it well enough to interact with those who dared t
o visit Sicily since the wars, she struggled with the written language.

  “What does it say?” Angela asked. She had been standing next to where Chiara sat for nearly ten minutes, her brows furrowed as she attempted to make out the strange words.

  “It seems we’re to have an Englishman stay at our guest villa,” Chiara finally replied. “Lord Henley,” she added, an elegant eyebrow arching as she said the name. She opened the character, once again frowning as she struggled to interpret the list of accomplishments—two books and several expeditions—and the associations to which her future guest belonged. An initial thought that the viscount was probably in his sixties was proved wrong when she noted his age listed in the midst of his details.

  Thirty-one. Older than her son, but not nearly as old as she would expect from his credentials. Then she studied the bank draft, and her eyes widened.

  “An aristocrat?” Angela asked.

  “Sì,” Chiara replied absently, shaking her head at the amount written on the cheque. Then she grimaced when she re-read why Lord Henley was coming.

  An archaeological expedition.

  Chiara wondered what the man hoped to cart away when he returned to England. If he only studied the Roman mosaics, perhaps he would leave them—if he found any. Most of the excavations that had taken place in the Valley of the Templi had unearthed Greek artifacts, the work overseen by an Italian duke the decade before. The area had been home to some Romans back in the day, though, and there were the ruins of a Greco-Roman quarter mostly buried closer to Girgenti.

  When her aunt didn’t provide any more details, Angela asked, “May I work for him?”

  Chiara regarded her niece a moment, rather surprised the girl seemed so anxious to work for a pompous English lord. But then, Angela had never been introduced to one. They hadn’t had any visitors from England since the French invaders had been vanquished. “He’ll require a laundress, a cook, and a maid,” she replied as if in warning.

  At fourteen years of age, Angela was too young to be the cook, but she could handle the other duties. Chiara had been seeing to her education in all matters of an Italian household since taking on the care of Angela when Chiara’s brother died during the last battle against France. Thank the gods Ferdinand had been successful in driving out the latest invaders of Sicily. Now part of the Two Kingdoms of the Sicilies, the island fell under Spain’s protection.

  “I can do the laundry,” Angela said with nod. “Aurora can see to the cooking, and Tamara can be the maid.”

  Grinning at her niece’s words, Chiara realized the girl had made the work assignments much as she might. The girl’s other two nieces, older and both seeing to a widow’s household in Girgenti, might welcome the opportunity to earn some money. Neither had landed husbands, although it was just a matter of time before Aurora made a match. Her cooking skills had attracted the attentions of several young men in the city, a surprise since her mother had died giving birth to Angela.

  “Then I shall write back to this...” She re-read the name of the solicitor who had sent the letter. “Signore Barton, and inform him we will have a villa for his lordship.”

  Angela beamed with delight. “Should I begin cleaning the guest villa?” she asked, nearly bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  Chiara allowed a grin. “Sì.”

  She could only hope Angela’s enthusiasm wouldn’t be crushed upon meeting their guest.

  Chapter 5

  Envisioning a Perfect Union

  Later that night

  Despite the glass of brandy he had downed after returning from the ball and the rather boring book he had been attempting to finish on the excavations taking place near Athens—it seemed as if everything ancient Greek was in the process of being dug up or crated for transport to England—Jasper found he couldn’t get to sleep.

  For the second time in his life, he was due to marry a young lady because he had been caught kissing her in Lord Attenborough’s garden. Caught by Cupid as well as the man responsible for the young lady.

  Although he had wanted to marry Sophie Knox—he had even planned to propose with a betrothal ring he had already purchased in Ludgate Hill—he hadn’t wanted them to have to get married. He didn’t want their union tainted by the events of that night.

  As for Miss Marianne Slater, he had to admit he was experiencing a bit of a quandary. From the moment he thought she was watching him in the ballroom, he had been intrigued. Intrigued enough to stop his exit from the crush of the ball so that he might make his way back to the young lady with the arresting blue eyes.

  Love at first sight? he wondered. He knew it was possible. Why, his fellow viscount, George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick, claimed he had fallen in love with his viscountess the very first time he spotted her at a ball. The man later admitted he had been predisposed to the idea of loving Elizabeth Carlington, though, when he learned her charity had helped his best friend. But Jasper knew nothing of Marianne Slater prior to this evening. He barely knew the Marquess of Devonville had a niece.

  So when had he decided a kiss was warranted? Nay, necessary?

  He remembered the way she had touched the roses, and a frisson passed through his entire body.

  That was it then.

  He had fallen in love with her fingers.

  Jasper rolled his eyes. Her fingers had been encased in silk gloves at the time. But there was the way she had sniffed the rose and then lifted her face to smile up at him.

  Oh, Christ. That had to be it.

  How she smiled at him.

  But there had also been the promise of a pleasing figure beneath her gown. A sense she was a bit older than the dozen or so young ladies in attendance at the ball. The unexplainable attraction he was sure they shared.

  Now, every time he thought of Marianne Slater, a part of him reacted in a manner rather unexpected. A manner apparently of lust. A manner that had his bed linens tenting halfway down his body.

  Jasper allowed a sigh of frustration, wondering if he should have made a trip to a brothel before returning to his townhouse in South Audley Street.

  He hadn’t bedded a woman since Sophie. And she had been the only woman he had bedded during their marriage, despite his married friends’ insistence that he didn’t have to remain monogamous. To have spent time in the beds of others whilst attempting to get a child on Sophie didn’t seem right, though.

  Before Sophie, there had been other women.

  Back when his funds were more flush—before he had sunk half his viscountcy’s fortunes into archaeological expeditions—he had at one time enjoyed the weekly company of a mistress at The Elegant Courtesan, a high-end brothel in Westminster. Flame-haired and green-eyed, with rather large breasts that bounced in rhythm to his thrusts, Miss Ann welcomed him with such enthusiasm, Jasper thought she found his lovemaking skills more than adequate.

  Nothing could be further from the truth.

  She admitted after a year of his regular visits that she appreciated his simple tastes. Appreciated that he didn’t expect her to perform “unsavory acts,” she later explained.

  Which had him wondering what her other clients expected of her.

  Miss Ann had started to list some of the positions in which she had to perform sexual intercourse, but then stopped and shook her head, claiming she didn’t want to be giving him any “unsavory ideas.”

  He knew some members of his sex claimed to have insatiable appetites when it came to sexual congress. They spoke of their exploits at his men’s club when they played cards. Described nights filled with too much drink and debauchery. Bemoaned the following days spent with headaches and hangovers.

  Jasper rather preferred a clear head and the ability to remember what he had done the night before. Especially what he had been doing with Ann, even if it was “simple.”

  At least he didn’t suffer aches and strains the way Lord Boomerant did after a night spent with Miss Boo. She was blessed with exotic eyes and upturned breasts, but challenged her clients with position
s straight out of the Kama Sutra.

  Jasper never had to worry about a snake bite, as did those who attempted to share Miss Debra’s bed. The blonde with the dark almond eyes apparently spent her days and nights wrapped in a snake. Lord Everly never found the snake a challenge, but then he was a naturalist and probably had plenty of experience with the reptiles in the wild.

  No, Miss Ann had suited Jasper just fine.

  But will Marianne? he wondered.

  Was she still a virgin?

  Or had her headstrong manner or bluestocking reputation led to poor choices in men?

  As a widower, Jasper found he didn’t much care if she was a virgin as long as she didn’t cuckold him. He couldn’t abide the thought of sharing his wife with another man.

  Wondering if he could bring up the topic during their ride in the park, Jasper rolled his eyes.

  Why was he even concerned?

  The poor girl would probably break off their engagement even before she stepped into whatever conveyance he might manage to borrow for the trip to the park.

  He had a phaeton, but would Lord Devonville allow him to take Marianne on it? He would have to send a footman with a note in the morning and hope the marquess could respond before four o’clock in the afternoon.

  About to drift off to sleep, Jasper suddenly blinked.

  Oh, faith! I haven’t even proposed to Miss Slater! he thought.

  Jasper dared a glance at his Breguet and frowned. He was about to bolt out of bed when he realized he had the chronometer upside down. He flipped it around and stared at the jeweled face.

  Three o’clock in the morning.

  Miss Slater was probably sound asleep by now. To pay a call on Devonville House and request a moment of her time in the mansion’s parlor was probably out of the question at this hour.

  Well, perhaps he could pay a call in the late morning. Or early afternoon.

  What time did young ladies wake up these days?