Falling for the Mysterious Viscount: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  He gritted his teeth. He just had to, and that was the end of it. Slow and steady wins the race, he told himself.

  He just wished he could believe it.

  ***

  Lord Livingston held her arm tightly, leading her off the dance floor. When they were back near the refreshments table, he turned to her, an intent look on his face.

  “I have secured a private box at the opera next week,” he said slowly. “Pygmalion is playing. Would you and your sister care to join me? I have others attending, as well.” He paused. “The Prince Regent and Princess Charlotte are expected that night, so there shall be a good crowd, I expect.”

  Lavinia paused. She had not been to the opera since they had been in London, and she had heard great things about Pygmalion. But would Lord Livingston think that she was fond of him in that special way if she accepted his invitation?

  She hesitated, biting her lip. She did not find him repulsive, not in the least. He wasn’t a handsome man, to be sure, but he had a refined, cultured air about him, that she had first mistaken for arrogance. And she knew that he was pleasant company; she could converse freely with him, and feel at ease, in a way that she couldn’t with many other gentlemen she had encountered.

  She kept gazing at him. What did it matter if she did go about town with him, from time to time? And what would it matter if he did eventually propose to her and she accepted?

  Her heart flipped over painfully in her breast. She had vowed that she would only marry for love. But look where falling in love had got her.

  Perhaps Sophie had been right, all along, and she had been wrong. Lord Livingston was a baron, just as her own father was. If she married him, she would know what to expect socially. There wouldn’t be any rude surprises. She would probably live her life in exactly the same manner as she had always done.

  Perhaps love was overrated, and marrying for duty and expectation was not the awful thing she had once imagined it to be. Love had turned out to be a huge disappointment for her, after all. She had been betrayed and heartbroken. If she married for duty, she could never be hurt again.

  And it would be a very pleasant life, with this gentleman. He was charming, and civilised, and clever, even if he did not set her soul on fire in quite the same way that Samuel had. She was sure they could be compatible, and there would be no shocks in life. Nothing to disturb her equilibrium ever again.

  Almost against her will, she turned around, seeking him out. The Viscount Pemberton. Was he still here, or had he fled as soon as he had seen her like a dog with a tail between its legs?

  Her breath stilled. He had not fled. He was sitting against the wall, in the distance, an abstracted expression on his face.

  She blinked rapidly, fighting off her instant response to him. It disappointed her greatly that it was still happening. That she could not control it.

  Quickly, she turned away, back to Lord Livingston.

  “Yes,” she said, raising her chin. “Thank you. I would very much enjoy an evening at the opera, My Lord.”

  He inclined his head, looking inordinately pleased.

  The next moment, after taking his leave, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd. Lavinia gazed after him thoughtfully.

  Yes, she would go to the opera, and she would enjoy it. She would talk and laugh with a charming man. She would ignore her heartbreak.

  Surely, it would heal, with time? Surely, she couldn’t feel like this forever? It was just a matter of distracting herself – exactly as Sophie had said.

  Time heals all wounds. It was a cliché, but she was starting to think that it was very true.

  ***

  In the carriage, on the way home that evening, Sophie was distracted, staring out the window with a strange expression on her face.

  “Did you have a good evening, dearest?” Lavinia asked, breaking her reverie.

  Sophie jumped, just a little. She turned to Sophie, looking surprised.

  “I suppose so,” she said slowly, frowning. “Although it was a little confronting, seeing Walter St Clair across the room. I thought that my heart was about to hit the floor …”

  Lavinia hesitated. “Dearest, you still have fine feelings for him, do you not?”

  Sophie nodded slowly. “I do. I have tried to suppress them, and talk myself out of them, but it seems that it is impossible.” She sighed deeply. “Hopefully, they will pass in time …”

  “Why should they?” asked Lavinia, gazing at her sister speculatively. “Why should you want them to pass and suppress them? Walter St Clair did not deceive you, in who he was. He is a genuine man, at least.”

  Sophie’s frown deepened. “Liv, you know my concerns …”

  “Yes, I do,” she interrupted. “What if I were to suggest that I marry for duty, and you marry for love?”

  “What?” Sophie looked utterly confused.

  Lavinia sighed. “You have always said that one of your reasons for wanting to marry a rich, titled man is to maintain our social status,” she continued. “You feel that it is your duty. But what if I took on the burden of that duty, and you were free to marry who your heart desires?”

  “I do not understand,” said Sophie slowly. “You are suggesting that I consider Walter St Clair, and you will marry someone you do not love, but who has wealth and position, to maintain our family’s social status?”

  “You do understand,” said Lavinia. “You understand perfectly. That is exactly what I am suggesting …”

  “It is too much to ask,” said Sophie quickly. “You do not believe in it, and you are so recently heartbroken yourself!”

  “Sophie, please, listen.” Lavinia leaned forward, entreating her sister. “I know that this is hasty, but it is well considered. We are both in love and were disappointed by those we loved. But in your case, it is not irredeemable. Walter St Clair did not deceive you, in who he was …”

  “Liv, please…”

  “No, hear me out,” she said quickly. “It is different, with me. The viscount deceived me utterly, and he was calculating with it. There is simply no way that I could ever trust him again, so there is no chance of anything happening between us in the future.” She hesitated. “I do not wish to ever go through that heartbreak again. I do not want to fall in love with anyone else. Therefore, I could marry for duty gladly, if it gave you the opportunity that you deserve.”

  Sophie looked stunned. “You would do that for me? Willingly?”

  Lavinia nodded. “I know how closely you hold the idea of marrying for duty to your heart,” she said slowly. “This way, if I do it instead, our family’s status is maintained, and you are free to marry someone that you truly love.”

  Sophie had tears in her eyes. “I cannot believe that you would do that for me.” She paused. “Thank you, so much, for the offer, my dear sister. I do not know yet if I will take it up, but even the fact that you asked me touches my heart.” She gazed tenderly at her sister, looking a little overwhelmed.

  “You deserve it,” said Lavinia, tears springing into her own eyes. “My sweet sister.”

  Sophie reached out a hand. Lavinia took it, holding it tightly.

  It was true. She would walk over hot coals for her sister. Sophie had proved her loyalty, that day at the picnic, when it had all gone so horribly wrong. She had defended her fiercely, and she had been tender and caring with her since, in spite of her own heartbreak.

  What did it matter who she married anymore?

  She could no longer trust a man with her heart. She would not go through that again; she could not risk it. Marrying a man like the baron would solve the problem, and free her sister to marry for love, if she chose. It would be a win situation for all of them.

  For a moment, a vision of Samuel leapt into her mind. The Viscount Pemberton. The man that she had loved, when she had known him as Samuel Hunter.

  She knew that she would go on. She knew that she would live, and have a life, without him in it. She knew that she might even enjoy that life.

  She sh
ivered as a bitter wind blew through the carriage window. But she would never feel the way that she had with him again. She simply didn’t think that she was capable of feeling that intensely, ever again. It was as if her feelings had been burnt or singed by his love.

  She knew others, many others, who had married for duty, as opposed to love. In fact, it was more common than anything else in their society. Where money and position were concerned, people were very pragmatic, after all. Her own mother and father’s marriage had been arranged, quite civilly, and they had always gotten along well, even if they were hardly star-crossed lovers.

  And love could change, over the years. She had seen that, too. Sometimes, people fell out of love with each other, and it could be nasty and bitter. As if the love must eventually turn to hate. As if it could never be a moderate thing. That was almost painful to watch.

  Yes, she might have a life, beyond him. But with a stab of sorrow, she knew that it would only ever be half a life. That it would be like living as an invalid or a cripple. She could make adjustments, but it would always be with her, to the very end.

  Chapter 21

  Lavinia walked into the large foyer at Covent Garden, her eyes widening in wonder, as she gazed around the space.

  It was beautiful. She had only been here once before when she had been a little girl. Her father had taken her, as a special eighth birthday treat, to London for the day.

  They had morning tea at a fine ladies’ tearoom, where she had stuffed herself with cream cakes, before he had taken her to Covent Garden to watch the ballet Swan Lake. She could still remember watching the dancers, spellbound, in their stiff white tutus, gliding around the stage.

  Tonight, it was a slightly different crowd. The fashionable set had come out in force, to watch Pygmalion. The foyer was packed to overflowing, and there was a definite sense of expectation in the air.

  “Are you sure that the Prince Regent and Princess are expected tonight?” whispered Sophie, as they pushed through the crowd.

  Lavinia glanced at her sister. She looked so elegant tonight in her pristine snow-white gown, with matching long gloves and feather hair accessory. Her honey brown curls were hanging in ringlets down the side of her face.

  “That is what Lord Livingston told me,” she whispered back. “And I think you can tell that they are expected. Why else would this many people be here, on a Thursday evening? They have come to gawk, or else try to procure an audience …”

  Suddenly, she saw Lord Livingston, through the crowd. He was waving to them both, calling them over.

  It was so hot in the foyer, and so crowded, that they were sweating slightly by the time they got to him. Smiling, he introduced them to his company, Lord Merrifield, and Lord and Lady Gregory.

  Suddenly, a frisson of excitement went through the crowd. Lavinia looked around. Everyone was craning their necks, trying to see, but it was so crowded, it was obviously proving difficult.

  She just glimpsed a gentleman and a lady, sweeping through the crowd, dressed impressively. The gentleman wore black, with military medals on his jacket, and a purple sash across it. The lady’s gown was truly exquisite, made of cream Valenciennes lace. She wore an impressive feather head accessory, studded with diamonds, which she also wore around her neck and in her ears.

  “It is the Prince Regent and the Princess!” hissed Sophie, in her ear.

  The royal couple did not stop to chat to anyone. They pushed through, climbing the staircase, without even a backward glance.

  “Is that it?” asked Lavinia. “Will they not stop to talk?”

  “They do not wish to delay the production,” said Lord Livingston. “They know that it will be a crush, and that everyone will want to talk to them.” He paused. “So, they go straight to their box. They do not leave it at intermission, either. At the end, they will mingle, and talk to the crowd.”

  Lavinia nodded. “I suppose that is wise,” she said. “I could see how they could be overwhelmed with it all.”

  “You look rather lovely this evening, Miss Beaumont,” he said, gazing at her avidly.

  Lavinia smiled. “Thank you, My Lord. My mother had the maid attend me for an hour, so I am grateful that her ministrations are being appreciated!”

  She was barely exaggerating. Lady Beaumont had been in a flap, almost running from Sophie’s room to her own, barely able to contain her excitement that they were attending the opera when there was a chance that the Prince Regent and the Princess would be in attendance.

  She glanced down at her dress. It was violet silk and lace, with a tight bodice and large puffed sleeves. A gold comb had been placed in her tightly curled hair, which was draped over one shoulder. She felt more trussed up than a Christmas turkey, and the bodice was a tad too tight, but at least she felt confident that she could enter a crowd like this and hold her own.

  They chatted easily for the next ten minutes before the production began. Lord Merrifield paired off instantly with Sophie, taking her arm and steering her away from the rest of the group. Lavinia glanced at them from time to time. Her sister was nodding politely, and talking with her usual grace and ease, but she didn’t look like she was particularly enjoying the conversation.

  Lord and Lady Gregory, an older couple in their thirties, talked amongst themselves, leaving Lord Livingston free to monopolise her, which he seemed to relish.

  “I have been thinking about you,” he said slowly, his grey eyes gleaming. “I rather thought that I might have imagined you, Miss Beaumont. But here you are, exactly as I recall, standing in front of me, a vision in violet.”

  “You flatter me, My Lord.” She smiled, waving her fan in front of her face. “A vision in violet, indeed! Are you playacting at being a poet, perchance?”

  He smiled back. “You are teasing me now. I have no talent for poetry, nor any desire to style myself as a poet.” He leant closer to her, whispering. “But I must tell you; I once met the rogue Lord Byron. That is the closest I have come to a true poet.”

  “Did you?” asked Lavinia, genuinely intrigued. “I have heard such stories about him, I hardly think them real, at all! What is he like?’

  “He is mad, of course,” replied Lord Livingston. “But brilliant. I always remember his hair, which he wore slightly longer than the fashion, in unruly black curls, which he kept pushing out of his eyes in an impatient way as he spoke.”

  “What did he talk about?”

  “Oh, social revolution, the role of poetry in society … that kind of thing! He talked quickly, jumping from one topic to the other in an almost random way. But not many people would listen to him. He was too scandalous, even then.”

  Lavinia smiled. She would like to talk with Lord Byron. He was such an innovative thinker, on so many issues, and she knew that he despised privilege for privilege’s sake. She would very much enjoy picking his mind for an afternoon. Perhaps if Lord Livingston knew where he might next be in attendance …

  Abruptly, she pulled herself up. She wasn’t supposed to be thinking like this, anymore. She had sworn that she would change, turn over a new leaf, for Sophie’s sake. She needed to put her old ideas about the world behind her, once and for all.

  She had been born into a world of privilege, which she couldn’t deny. She was part of that world. And it was a comfortable, predictable one. She knew how it worked; it held few surprises. And it was a world which she must now fully embrace.

  “It is time to go into the boxes,” said Lord Livingston. He held out his arm to her. “Shall we?”