Falling for the Mysterious Viscount: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  He really should get up and walk away, right this minute. Before it went any further. While there was still time to extract himself, before any hearts would be broken. It would be a kindness to her, as well as to himself. He would fade in her memory after a while. He would just be one of many young gentlemen who had pursued her in London, during the season.

  But still, he could not do it.

  He took a deep breath, gazing at her. She was so bewitchingly beautiful. He couldn’t imagine never speaking to her again, or dancing with her, or laughing with her.

  All of his life, he had been waiting to find such a woman as her. He was eight and twenty, now. He had been to many London seasons and met many beautiful and accomplished young ladies. He could have married a thousand times over. He had grown so cynical about it all that he barely recognised himself anymore.

  And then, he had met her. Out of the blue. She was like a breath of refreshing air.

  At that moment, he knew that he was going to keep pursuing her. That he had given himself permission to be selfish, just for a little bit longer. He would eventually pull back, as he must, but for now, all he wanted to be was the man he was pretending to be. He just wanted to be Samuel Hunter. Honest, humble, warm Samuel Hunter.

  He wanted to be the man that she so admired, for just a little bit longer. The image of himself, as seen through her eyes, was irresistible.

  ***

  The night had turned slightly chilly by the time the guests finally departed for the evening, spilling out of Lord Egerton’s fashionable townhouse to find their carriages and go home to their warm beds.

  Samuel knew that Walter was waiting for him, just beyond the wide, tree-lined street. They had rented a modest carriage and driver, as befitted his new station in life, to take them to and from the Peacock Tavern. His friend would be sitting in it, yawning, wanting to end the night.

  Samuel grinned. Or maybe not. Perhaps Walter would want to talk about the other beautiful Miss Beaumont. Even though he had been preoccupied with Lavinia, he hadn’t failed to notice the admiration in his friend’s eyes as he had gazed at Sophie, the older sister, nor how he had tried to monopolise her in conversation.

  He gazed down at Lavinia, now, as he walked her to her carriage. Sophie and her parents were already ensconced within it, waiting for her. He didn’t have much time.

  “Miss Beaumont,” he said urgently, pulling her quickly to the side. “I have so enjoyed this evening. I very much hope that I will have the chance to see you again …”

  She nodded encouragingly, her blue eyes aglow.

  “Mr St Clair and I are attending the Royal Academy of the Arts in two days’ time,” he said, impulsively. “We would very much enjoy if you and your charming sister could attend as well … if you desire to, of course.” He waited, feeling as if his heart had stopped entirely.

  Her eyes shone with joy. “I would very much enjoy that, Mr Hunter,” she said slowly, blushing. “I have never been to the Royal Academy of the Arts before …”

  “Perfect,” he said quickly, grinning. “I shall see you there, then.”

  Suddenly, he took her hand, kissing it, pressing it against his lips.

  She gasped, in shock. Without saying anything, he bowed low, then took off down the street, towards his own carriage, restraining himself from breaking into a joyous run with difficulty.

  He simply felt like he was walking on air. As if he could suddenly grow wings and fly.

  ***

  That night, in her room, after everyone was asleep, Lavinia climbed out of her bed, padding slowly towards the window, to stare down at the street below.

  She couldn’t sleep. She felt like she was on fire, somehow. The evening had been simply wonderful, and then … he had kissed her hand.

  She stared down at it, tracing her fingers over the spot where his lips had pressed against her flesh. It was as if she could still see the imprint on her skin; as if he had branded her, or scalded her, with it.

  She sighed, lost in dreamy contemplation. Sophie hadn’t even hassled her, in the carriage ride home, about how much time she had spent in Samuel Hunter’s company. Her sister had been in a strange mood, herself, simply staring out of the carriage window, saying little. Lavinia had instinctively known it was because of Walter St Clair, but her sister wasn’t going to talk about it. At least not yet.

  He has invited me out, she thought, dreamily. In two days’ time, he wants us to meet at the Royal Academy of the Arts.

  It was simply astonishing, how fast things were progressing between them. Two days ago, she hadn’t even known that Samuel Hunter existed. She had been ignorant that he even walked the earth. And now, it was as if she had discovered someone – a very close friend – who she just hadn’t met before.

  And she knew that it was because he wasn’t a nobleman. She knew that his honesty, and openness, were because of how he was placed in society. He didn’t have an arrogant bone in his body.

  She had meant every word that she had said to him, tonight, about how noblemen wear false crowns. Maybe she had been overfamiliar in speaking so frankly on so short an acquaintance, but she had known instinctively that he would understand.

  How could he not, being the man that he was?

  Chapter 10

  It was mid-morning, and busy. Stalls were crowding the pavements, a motley collection of wares on display. Lavinia saw flower sellers, their stalls overflowing with every bloom of the season, calling out to passers-by.

  Boys lugged bags of coal, almost struggling beneath the weight, to the fine houses. It was a cacophony of colour and movement. If she hadn’t been so distracted with where they were going, she would have been fully absorbed in the spectacle.

  Lady Beaumont fanned herself vigorously. “It is rather hot for a visit to the Academy,” she said, a little crossly. “I do not know why you insisted we had to go today, Lavinia.”

  “Today is as good a day as any,” she replied slowly, biting her lip.

  She gazed at her mother and sister, sitting opposite her in the carriage. She hadn’t told either of them why she so wanted to go to the Royal Academy of Arts today. She simply didn’t know how either of them would react to Samuel Hunter’s invitation.

  She bit her lip harder. It seemed a little dishonest – it went against her nature, not to mention it. But the guilt she felt at not telling them was outweighed by the desire to see him again. And she simply did not know if Sophie would have objected to it if she knew that Lavinia had only suggested it because she wanted to see Mr Hunter again. She knew how her sister felt about her encouraging a commoner, after all. Sophie had made her feelings on the subject plain.

  Sophie smiled slightly. “Even though it is rather hot, I think it shall be a perfectly lovely day,” she said. “I have so wanted to see this Exhibition.” She turned to her mother. “Are our cousins attending as well, Mama?”

  Lady. Beaumont nodded. “Beatrice sent a note this morning to say that they would meet us there,” she replied. “My dear sister is also thinking of attending. Wonders will never cease!”

  “Aunt Catherine is feeling a little better, then?” asked Sophie.

  Lady. Beaumont shrugged. “I hardly know. My sister is like the weather – she changes from day to day. I think that half of what she suffers is in her mind.”

  Lavinia tuned out, as her mother and sister kept chatting about her aunt. It was as if her mind was drawn irresistibly back to Samuel Hunter; as if it was like a faulty compass that could only point in one direction.

  She trembled inwardly at even the thought of beholding him again.

  Taking another deep breath, she gazed out the window, trying to distract herself from these new and bewildering feelings that were fluttering like butterflies in her stomach.

  ***

  Lavinia gazed up at the tall building, her heart hammering violently, as she stepped out of the carriage, following her mother and sister along the pavement towards it.

  For a brief moment, she was distracted
by the flag at the very top, fluttering madly with a sudden gust of wind.

  Sophie gripped her arm. “Come on. I see our aunt and cousins. They are waiting for us at the entrance.”

  Lavinia stared at her relatives. Aunt Catherine looked flushed and pinched, her cheeks as pink as a peony, leaning heavily on her son Freddie’s arm. Freddie looked slightly peeved, and already bored, as if he couldn’t wait to leave, and hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. India was self-absorbed, adjusting the ribbons on her bonnet. Beatrice was the only one of the group with a bright face as if she were anticipating the visit.

  “There you are!” cried Aunt Catherine. “We thought that you would never arrive!” She stared at her sister. “My daughter told me that you instructed us to meet you at ten sharp, Hester. And it is already fifteen past the hour. I am about to pass out with the heat …”

  “We are only a little late,” rapped Lady Beaumont, frowning. “Really, Catherine, you do carry on! If you are so overheated, why did you not go into the foyer, where it is probably cooler?”

  “Freddie insisted that we must meet you here, as requested,” said Aunt Catherine primly, fanning herself. “I did not wish to make a fuss, dear sister. You know that is not like me, at all.”

  Lady Beaumont harrumphed loudly. “No, indeed, sister!”

  “Shall we go in, then?” piped up India, looking piqued. “I have a tea party this afternoon, and I do not want to be late for it. I will need to change again because of this heat …”

  “A grand idea,” agreed Sophie, smiling widely. “Shall we?”

  Despite the grumbles, they all trailed Sophie into the building, crowding into the foyer.

  Lavinia exhaled. It was cooler in here; already she could feel her internal temperature dropping.

  She gazed around. Despite the heat, there were a lot of people here already, gliding up the stairs, towards the galleries. But she couldn’t see Samuel Hunter, or his friend, Walter St Clair, among them.

  Her heart plummeted abruptly. What if they had missed them? Or what if they had changed their minds about the date that they were attending the Exhibition?

  She took a deep breath, trying to shake off her anxiety. It was silly to get so caught up in useless speculation. He had told her that he would be here, on this day, and invited her specifically. She had no reason to believe he would lie to her, and if they did happen to miss him and his friend, then that was just the way it was.

  “Are you quite alright, Lavinia?” Beatrice was staring at her curiously. “You look like you are about to pass out.”

  She turned to her cousin, plastering a smile onto her face. She really had to get herself together. The nerves were threatening to overtake her.

  “I am well, dear Beatrice,” she replied slowly. She held out her arm to her cousin. “Are you ready to see the Exhibition? I cannot wait to see the works.”

  Beatrice smiled, taking the proffered arm. “Indeed. Let us peruse it at our leisure.”

  ***

  They drifted along, joining the crowd, craning their necks to see the paintings on the walls of the galleries.

  Lavinia felt slightly overwhelmed by the display. The walls were jam-packed with paintings, one almost on top of the other, extending from the bottom of the walls to the top, grazing the edge of the extraordinarily high ceiling. A low-lying chandelier cast dappled light around the windowless room, illuminating the art.

  She took another deep breath. It was airless, in here; almost claustrophobic, with the heat, and so many people crammed so tightly into the space. Some of them were perusing the art, but most were standing huddled in groups, chatting amongst themselves, while fanning themselves avidly.

  They are no lovers of art, she thought sardonically. They are here to be seen, that is all. Just another London season event, to tick off the list.

  A wave of sorrow suddenly overtook her as she watched the crowd.

  The artists, who had laboured over their work, and were probably so proud to have it displayed on these hallowed walls, deserved more. They deserved to have their work viewed by people who actually wanted to see their paintings, rather than this fashionable crowd who were more interested in each other.

  She felt, suddenly, like she was all alone in the room, viewing it from the outside looking in. Watching the crowd flitting about, intent on their chatter, as if they were in a bubble, floating just in front of her vision.

  It didn’t seem fair that these people were able to see these paintings just because they were fashionable and rich, when they had no real interest in them. Whereas she was sure that there were people in London, who were not part of the ton, who truly appreciated art, but could not come here, for various reasons.

  Maybe it was because they had to work to make a living, and did not have time. Maybe it was because they were embarrassed by their dress. It seemed insufferable, that there might be people in London who could not see this, even though they really should, whereas the people who were viewing it did not care a whit about it.

  She glanced at Sophie, who was leaning in towards Aunt Catherine with a pained smile on her face. The older lady had gripped her arm tightly, whispering into her ear. Lavinia didn’t need to eavesdrop to know that her aunt was probably droning on about her various ailments.

  Her eyes swivelled to the others in their party. Her mother was looking into space, fanning herself, with a vexed expression. Freddie had already found an acquaintance and was chatting avidly. India was casting flirtatious glances to a gentleman, standing on the opposite end of the room. The only one who was actually looking at the paintings was Beatrice.

  Another wave of sadness assailed her. It was unfair. But who could she express such feelings to? None of her party would understand; they would all stare at her as if she had lost her mind entirely. Sophie would purse her lips and tell her that she was sounding more and more like a revolutionary every day.

  She stared at Beatrice, who was absorbed in studying a portrait of a lady. Her cousin was an art and literature lover, but she was firmly of her class, as well. She would not understand at all what Lavinia meant.

  She would tell her that it was right and good that only the upper classes had access to such things because the lower ones did not have the sense or the sensibility to appreciate the finer things in life.

  She took a huge gulp of breath. The crowd seemed to be pressing in on her from all directions, and the scent of so many people in a confined space on a hot day suddenly assaulted her senses.

  She swayed a little. She needed to get out of the room before she passed out entirely.

  Without thinking any further, she pressed through the crowd, seeking air, until she came to a small room, adjunct to the first. It was quieter in here, and there was a seat. She would sit down and rest, just for a second, before she went back in to the others.

  She sat down, taking another deep breath, gazing at the painting on the wall in front of her.

  She smiled slightly. She knew what the painting depicted. It was a well-known story, from the Book of Genesis. Rebekah, stopping at the well to fill her pitcher.

  She gazed at it avidly. Abraham’s servant was approaching her, to ask for a drink of water, after his long journey. Lavinia remembered from the story that the servant would take it as a sign that the woman was to be Isaac’s bride if she responded well to him; if she was kind, and let him drink, without even knowing who he was. That a person who would do that would be worthy to become the wife of his master’s son.