Walter slowly lowered the rifle, staring at him. “Please?”
Samuel laughed softly. “It seems a shame to kill such a glorious bird, doesn’t it?”
Walter nodded reluctantly, sighing. He slung the rifle back on his shoulder, and they continued, deeper into the woods.
Samuel felt his heart start to expand. It was always the same, when he came into these woods, which formed a vast part of his estate. It was as if he could let out a breath that he hadn’t even been aware that he was holding. The sheer vastness of it, and the beauty, was deeply soothing to his soul.
It had always been this way, ever since he was a boy. It was why he had decided to take up permanent residence here, leaving his parents in the city, over the past five years. He had never been overly enamoured with London, and it wasn’t a trial to stay away from it. He found the society there so false and superficial. And he would have happily stayed away forever.
But now, he was suddenly the new viscount, since his father’s passing six months ago. His quiet country idyll had been invaded by his mother, who had found it impossible to stay in their London mansion by herself. She had begged and pleaded with him to take up permanent residence there, but he had stood his ground.
She had eventually come here, to Hillgate Manor, where she had remained since, like a restless spirit, haunting its halls, desperate for distraction.
She is still grieving, he thought sadly. She has lost her beloved husband, as well as the home she preferred. Perhaps he had been cruel. Perhaps he should have taken up residence in London, to appease her.
And now, she was haranguing him, day and night, to marry. She wanted her only child settled. She wanted grandchildren. She never let up on it.
Determinedly, he pushed the thought of it aside. His best friend had come all the way from his country home near Glastonbury, many miles away on the other side of London, to see him. He knew that Walter probably couldn’t really afford the trip, but he had done it, regardless.
He glanced at his friend, Walter St Clair. They had been the very best of friends since they had been boys, despite the vast difference in their social status. Walter was the son of an impoverished pastor, who had been assigned the local parish church near Hillgate Manor, over twenty years ago.
His own father had admired the Reverend James St Clair greatly, often inviting him to Sunday lunch, along with his family. He and Walter had hit it off immediately and stayed in touch over the years, even after he had moved to Glastonbury to work as a solicitor’s assistant after his parents had died.
Samuel knew that life was tough for his friend. He worked hard, rarely having a day off, and had managed to lease a small country home. But his lack of status and wealth greatly affected his marriage prospects. It was a shame, because Walter was one of nature’s true gentlemen, with a fine mind. He knew many wealthy, titled men who couldn’t hold a candle to his friend.
“Are you looking forward to the upcoming London season, old chap?” asked Walter now, not missing a stride.
Samuel grimaced. He had forgotten all about it. Or, at least he had distracted himself enough to convince himself he had forgotten all about it. But really, it was always there, in the back of his mind, like a niggling headache that simply would not go away. And it was why Walter had journeyed all this way, after all. A few days together at Hillgate Manor, before hitting the city. Or at least, that was the plan.
He took a deep breath. He had only agreed to it to stop his mother’s constant nagging to find a wife, and to help Walter. His best friend was desperate to find a wife, and without him at his side, what hope did he have?
“Like a hole in the head,” he said slowly. “It will just be the same old crowd, Walter. The simpering fools, and the grasping young ladies, who cannot see beyond my title, as always. It becomes so very tiresome.”
Walter stopped abruptly, gazing at his friend. “You sound very glum, old chap. That is not like you at all, to be so down about such a thing.” He took a deep breath. “I declare that we should terrorise the town and woo young ladies by the bucketful!”
Samuel laughed. If he wasn’t aware that he was no such thing, he would think that Walter was a hopeless cad and womaniser. But it was just a front to cover up his insecurity over his lack of status and wealth.
“I cannot stand how society falls all over me because of who I am,” he said slowly. “They all try to dazzle and impress me, seeking my favour. I find it embarrassing and uncomfortable …”
“It is not that bad, surely?” asked Walter. “Everyone is not like that, are they?”
Samuel sighed. “Just about everyone, my friend. It is the reason I avoid London and have done consistently over the last few years. And when I am there, I only associate with a select crowd, if I can help it.” He paused. “I feel so undeserving of such sycophantic attention. They do not even listen to me. I could be dull or depraved, and they would still all fawn over me …”
Walter sighed too. “I suppose we all have our crosses to bear, don’t we? And here is me, thinking your life is so charmed.” He frowned momentarily, but then his face cleared. “You are the Viscount Pemberton, after all. I suppose it is to be expected that they will do that. If I were you, I would take full advantage of it, and sample all the lovely ladies!”
“Walter, the role of the Lothario does not suit you,” said Samuel dryly. “I have never seen you play such a role. If anything, you are too intent about finding your one true love.”
Walter grinned slightly. “Yes, you are right. But can we not try on the role, just this once?”
Samuel laughed. “I suppose we shall have to, since it has been announced that I will be attending this season …”
“Your good lady mother?”
“Just so.” Samuel grimaced. “She has let the cat out of the bag, writing letters to all her friends to tell them I shall be partaking.” He paused, his face turning wistful. “What I wouldn’t give, just to melt into the crowd. If only I could attend as myself, rather than the Viscount Pemberton. Then at least I would know that the ladies like me, rather than the title. You are very lucky to be a commoner, old chap. At least you know that a woman is truly interested in you.”
Walter jumped. He turned to Samuel, his eyes wide.
“Why can’t you?” he breathed. “You haven’t been to a London season in years. Most of the ton probably wouldn’t know you if they fell over you.” His face split into a grin. “If you dressed in plainer clothes and changed your hair a little … well, I think that you could fool everyone that you are not the Viscount Pemberton!”
Samuel gaped at him in astonishment. What exactly was Walter suggesting? That he lie about who he was, to the whole of London society?
But then, his mind started to come around to the astonishing idea. His friend had a point. It would certainly be interesting to see life from a whole different perspective, especially if it meant meeting people, especially a potential bride, on a more authentic level.
“I think it is a wonderful idea,” he said slowly. “But I will need your help, old friend.”
Walter gasped. “I don’t believe it! You are really going to do it?”
Samuel slowly smiled. “I do believe that I will. It will be refreshing, at the very least, to observe the ton as a commoner, rather than part of the inner circle. And I will still be attending the season, after all. Mother cannot complain.” His smile widened. “St Clair, you are a genius!”
Walter laughed aloud. “Well, I must admit that is the first time I have ever had the honour of being called a genius!”
“You are, old chap,” said Samuel. “You have a mind deserving of Machiavelli.”
Walter laughed harder. “We are going to have the best London season … ever!”
Samuel nodded, his mind already racing ahead, as to how he could accomplish it properly. As to how he could convince the ton that he really was a commoner, rather than the Viscount Pemberton.
It would require concocting a whole other identity – r
ather like putting on a costume at a Masquerade Ball. He would have to think of a name, a background … everything. The Viscount Pemberton must cease to exist – for a little while, at least. He sighed in relief. It would be like shedding a coat that had gradually become too heavy.
He glanced over his shoulder. He could just see Hillgate Manor, looming through the trees. His ancestral home. It had been in his family for countless generations. Every Viscount Pemberton had resided here when in the country since time immemorial. It was his heritage and his lineage. It was his very life.
For a moment, he felt guilty. His father, so recently departed, would turn over in his grave. The title had been everything to him.
But he shook the pang aside. It would be nice to leave the Viscount Pemberton behind, just for a little while. It would be nice to be simply Samuel, judged for who he actually was, rather than his status.
And he would know, that if any young lady warmed to him, that she really did like him. How refreshing would that be?
Chapter 3
Lavinia gazed at her reflection in the dressing table mirror, as Franny, the new maid who looked like a duck, swept her hair up into a high chignon at the top of her head. The maid was pulling tightly, making tears smart behind her eyes. But she was so distracted she simply sat passively, like a doll.
Tonight is the night, she thought, her heartbeat quickening. Tonight is the Duke of Hamilton’s Ball.
The anticipation had been building all day for it. Mama had been running around like a headless chicken, making sure that their gowns and accessories were all in order. Sophie was nervous, too; she had tried on and discarded so many necklaces and earrings that Lavinia still wasn’t sure what she would be wearing.
It’s just a ball, she thought, staring at herself, trying to stay calm. But her fingers were gripping the edge of the dressing table tightly, and she knew it wasn’t just because of the maid’s rough hands on her hair.
Sighing, she gazed down at her new gown, purchased especially for the occasion. It was gold and green silk and brocade, with a tightly lined bodice of dark green ribbon, secured beneath her bust line.
The short sleeves were puffed slightly, and there were tiny diamantes scattered like stars across it. It was beautiful; far more beautiful than any other gown that she had ever worn. It was also tight and uncomfortable. She felt more trussed up than a turkey at Christmas luncheon.
She flinched as Franny stabbed a hairpin into her scalp.
“Sorry, miss,” muttered the maid.
Lavinia smiled wanly. “Are you almost finished?”
The maid stepped back, flourishing her hands in the air like a magician. “All done,” she said, with a satisfied air. “What do you think?”
Lavinia gazed at herself, still not quite believing that it was she in the reflection. It seemed Franny’s rough ministrations had been worth it, after all. Who was the sophisticated young lady gazing back at her?
The maid had done an excellent job, letting tiny tendrils of her dark hair escape the confines of the chignon, framing her face. And she had expertly secured a bandeau of dark green velvet on the top of her head, weaving it through the hair.
At that very moment, there was a knock on the door, and Sophie quickly entered. Lavinia turned around, gazing in stunned disbelief at her older sister.
She looked simply exquisite. The primrose silk gown that Mama had chosen for her suited her pale complexion, and besides that, it was beautifully cut, seeming to follow the lines of her sister’s figure. Sophie’s nut-brown hair was a mass of cascading ringlets, falling seemingly at random from her high chignon. A bandeau of yellow silk contrasted vividly with the darkness of her hair.
Lavinia stood up slowly. “Oh, my! You are simply divine!”
Sophie laughed, twirling around. “I feel like a princess,” she said, her brown eyes glittering. Suddenly, she stopped. “Stand up, Liv, and show me your own gown.”
Lavinia did as she was instructed, standing awkwardly in front of her sister.
“Is that my little sister?” breathed Sophie, smiling widely. “I almost do not recognise you! You look at least one and twenty, rather than the tender eighteen that I know that you are!”
Lavinia blushed faintly. It was true, she didn’t feel or look like herself, at all. How on earth was she going to walk, breathe, and dance in the tight confines of this gown?
Sophie approached her, taking her hands. She stared tenderly into her sister’s face.
“You look beautiful, little swan,” she whispered. “I think you shall be the belle of the ball.”
Lavinia felt tears spring behind her eyes at her sister’s use of her childhood nickname. Sophie only used it when she was feeling particularly affectionate.
“I think that title will go to you, my dearest,” she whispered back. “That colour becomes you so well! I feel like a stiff matron in my old lady’s green and gold …”
“Nonsense,” said Sophie quickly. “You are simply feeling a little nervous and overwhelmed, that’s all. Do not be self-conscious, dearest. You do look lovely, and you need to go into that crowd believing it, or else they will eat you alive.”
Lavinia felt her heartbeat quicken again. This was going to be her first London ball, and she simply did not know what to expect. The thought of going into such a fashionable crowd gave her tremors.
“You will stay by my side, will you not?” she whispered suddenly.
Sophie pressed her hands tighter. “I will not desert you, sister, and I will guide you when I can, but you must realise we are there to socialise, after all.” She paused. “We have to take opportunities as they come. If suitable young men ask me to dance, then I must. Some of our cousins will be there, so you will know some other people, at least.”
Lavinia nodded, still unconvinced. She had not seen her cousins Freddie, Beatrice, and India in such a long time, it would almost be like conversing with acquaintances. She took a deep breath. She just had to face it, that was all.
The door opened again, and their mother entered. Lavinia suppressed a smile. Lady Beaumont looked swamped by a cacophony of white lace and frills, and her frilly white mob cap seemed to swallow her greying dark hair entirely. But then, Lavinia supposed her outfit was totally suitable for a matron of eight and forty. Mama wasn’t going to the Duke of Hamilton’s ball to vie for an eligible bachelor, after all, like she and her sister were.
I feel like a horse going to auction, she thought darkly.
“You look beautiful, girls,” beamed Mama, gazing at them with shining eyes. “I do declare that Mrs Bolton is a genius! I have never known a dressmaker to work such magic with cloth.” She paused briefly. “The carriage is ready! Let us depart.”
Lavinia took a deep breath. She just had to grit her teeth and endure it. The nerves were definitely swamping any excitement she had been feeling. She just had to get on with it. The night wouldn’t last forever, after all.
***
The lights were ablaze in the Duke’s grand ballroom as the three women entered. Lavinia gazed around, trying to suppress the trembling that had started as soon as they had descended from the carriage and made their way into the assembly.
Sophie was beaming, gazing around avidly, as they pushed their way through the crowd. Suddenly, she stopped.
“Is that Freddie and Beatrice over there, near the food table?” she asked. “They look so much more sophisticated than I remember them!”
“Indeed it is,” smiled their mother. “Let us join them.”
Lavinia trailed them as they pushed further through the crowd, staring at the man and woman who were sipping flutes of champagne. They had indeed changed; it had been over five years since she had set eyes on these cousins. Freddie had shot up, standing at least a head taller than most of those around him. And Beatrice had grown up, too. She barely recognised the slender girl that she had been. There was no sign of their other sibling, India.
Falling for the Mysterious Viscount: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 2