Falling for the Mysterious Viscount: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  Samuel frowned. “It is strange, that she would entertain such a man seriously, given her passionate views on the subject.”

  It was something that he had pondered often while he lay in his sickbed. The seeming contradiction that she would take a man like Livingston seriously when she was such an advocate for the common man. Had she changed her views overnight? None of it made any sense.

  Meanwhile, the previously snobby elder Miss Beaumont, who had deigned to ever entertain a commoner, was softening towards his friend. It was almost as if the sisters had swapped roles.

  On the day of that fateful picnic, when it had all gone so wrong, it had been Sophie entertaining Livingston. But something had happened in the meantime, to make the lord switch his interest from one sister to the other.

  And now, he was in danger of losing Lavinia completely.

  Time was not on his side. He had been thwarted in his pursuit, because of illness, and she was in danger of being snapped up, under his very nose.

  He took a deep breath. He still wasn’t completely well but must forge ahead.

  “What is on the agenda today?” he asked, turning to Walter. “Hopefully, we shall choose the event well, and I shall encounter Lavinia and speak to her, before it is too late.”

  ***

  Lavinia gazed out the carriage window excitedly. They were just entering the seaside town of Brighton. Very soon, they would be stepping out of the carriage to walk along the promenade. Lord Livingston had even promised that they could have afternoon tea at one of the fashionable teahouses before returning to London.

  The invitation had come the previous morning. Lord Livingston was inviting both Beaumont sisters, and their mother, to Brighton for the day. He would pick them up in his personal carriage. He had also invited Lord Merrifield.

  “Oh, it is well done!” her mother had said, her eyes shining with excitement. “I think that he is eager to court you, Lavinia! You must have made a superlative impression at the opera!”

  The baron had picked them up at eleven in the morning precisely, exactly as planned. Despite herself, she was excited. It would be the first time that she was leaving London since they had arrived for the season, and she was eager to see Brighton. They rarely visited the seaside when they were ensconced in the country; it was a very rare pleasure that she had always loved since she was a child.

  Sophie had been less enthusiastic. “I shall be paired off with the shallow Lord Merrifield again,” she said glumly. “His conversation is painful in the extreme. He prattles on about people, indulging in the lowest form of gossip …”

  Lavinia had wisely not answered. She did not want to keep pressing the point, that Sophie had changed, and that Walter St Clair was the reason. Her sister had to come to the realisation herself, that the choice to give Mr St Clair another chance was possible. That she could choose love if she so desired.

  She thought of an expression her old nursemaid had sometimes used. You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink.

  She turned to her sister, in the carriage. Sophie was staring out the window, as well, seemingly entranced by the town. Lavinia knew it would do her good to be at the seaside for a while; it was a break for both of them, from what had occurred in London.

  The carriage slowly drew to a halt along the promenade. They all got out, putting on their heavier coats to fend off the biting wind. Within minutes, they were strolling along. Lord Merrifield had taken Sophie’s arm, of course, and they were already surging ahead.

  Lord Livingston took Lavinia’s arm, smiling broadly. Lady Beaumont walked just behind them, at a discreet distance. Lavinia knew that she would not disturb either of her daughters for love or money.

  She turned her head slightly, gazing at the sea. It was a muted blue colour today, reflecting the sky. A flock of seagulls circled overhead, hovering as if they were suspended in the air. The wind dulled down to a gentle breeze. She felt it lifting the curls that framed her face. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation.

  “You like the seaside, Miss Beaumont?” Lord Livingston’s voice reached her from a distance.

  She opened her eyes. “It is magical, My Lord. There is just something about it that lifts my spirits every time that I am lucky enough to visit.”

  “You have not visited often, then?”

  She shook her head. “Our family estate is in the Cotswolds, which is landlocked,” she said. “We have rarely travelled to the coast over the years. But I have enjoyed it immensely, every time that I have.”

  He nodded. “I have a house that I go to from time to time, here. But I am often so busy in London that the frequency of my visits has tapered off.” He paused, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at her. “Perhaps I could rectify that, for your benefit. A house party might be just the ticket. What do you think?”

  She gazed at him, not knowing how to respond. It was one thing to be invited to a house party, as one of many, but quite another for a party to be constructed in her honour. It implied an intimacy with the host.

  She trembled. She should be accepting with alacrity – hadn’t she resolved to turn over a new leaf and let Lord Livingston pursue her? Hadn’t she resolved to marry for duty, as opposed to love?

  If she said yes, she would like such a party, then it would subtly change things between them. It would be a tacit acceptance that she was being courted seriously by him. Her mother would be over the moon about it. And the expectations of where the friendship was leading would rise higher.

  She bit her lip, in an agony of indecision. Why was she hesitating? It should be a simple decision if she was serious about changing and moving on completely from the fiasco that had been the Viscount Pemberton.

  She wanted to be a different person, who was capable of doing this. She wanted to absolve Sophie of the burden of this duty that she had constructed in her mind, so that her sister could choose the one that she loved. But it was proving far more difficult than she had ever anticipated.

  Of course, she knew why it was so difficult. She still had not completely let go of it all. The Viscount Pemberton was still there, hovering just beyond her vision. He was there with her in every waking hour, almost haunting her. She wanted to banish him, but it seemed that she had not succeeded.

  And the worst part of it was that she actually liked Lord Livingston, as a friend. They conversed with ease, on a wide variety of topics. It would not be a hardship to have him as her life companion, even if he did not set her soul on fire. But then, she didn’t want that, did she? If she was in love with the person that she married, then there was the chance of hurt and betrayal.

  It was all so confusing that she could barely keep her thoughts straight, from one moment to the next. One minute, she was convinced that she could marry for duty; the next, she was consumed by love for the man that had broken her heart, and equally sure that she should remain a spinster, rather than have anyone but him.

  She took a deep breath. He was waiting for her response.

  “That would be lovely,” she said slowly. “A house party at your seaside home would surely be a welcome change from London.”

  There. She had done it.

  He didn’t react immediately, nor was he over effusive when he did. He simply nodded, saying that he would arrange it before the season was done, and left it at that. But something had changed between them, and she knew that he was aware of it, as much as she was.

  He had claimed her.

  There was no formal acknowledgement of it. But it was there, now. She was no longer an acquaintance that he was getting to know. She was no longer quite a friend, either, a lady that he simply chatted to from time to time at events. Their friendship had stepped a notch higher, and there was expectation, now.

  They kept walking, arm in arm, down the promenade. But her joy in being at the seaside had dimmed considerably. She barely glanced at the sea. Instead, tears sprang into her eyes. Desperately, she tried to hold them back.

  It was ridiculou
s, but she almost felt as if she had betrayed him. Almost as if she owed something to the Viscount Pemberton. The thread of connection between them was still so strong that even now guilt was starting to eat at her soul. The fact that he had lied to her, from the very start and misrepresented himself didn’t seem to matter in this instance.

  Suddenly, his voice was there, carried on the very wind itself. The impassioned words that he had spoken to her when he had followed her down the path after the revelation of who he really was. The voice was so clear that she stopped walking abruptly, staring into the distance, with wild eyes.

  I love everything about you. I love your intelligence, your clarity of thought, your candour, your beauty … I love you, with all my heart, and all my soul.

  Her mind spun so violently she staggered. Where was it coming from? Why could she hear it so clearly? Desperately, she put her hands over her ears, trying to block it out.

  “Miss Beaumont? Miss Beaumont? Are you quite well?” Lord Livingston’s voice was thready with concern.

  She took a deep, ragged breath. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Slowly, she unblocked her ears, staring around wildly.

  The voice was gone. It had left, as swiftly as it had arrived. The only sound was the wind, howling now along the shore, whipping the sand up into funnels and the waves in the sea to white peaks.

  ***

  Samuel watched the ladies and gentlemen at the genteel afternoon tea without really seeing them. It was as if his mind had emptied completely, and he had forgotten that he was in public. For a moment, Walter’s face, heavy with concern, hovered in his vision, but it was as if it was fading in and out.

  He felt his hands trembling, and he cursed himself. He shouldn’t have come out today; he was obviously still weak from his illness and wasn’t strong enough yet. And it had all been for nothing, anyway.

  Lavinia wasn’t here.

  He had stridden into the parlour eagerly, craning his neck, determined that today he would talk to her. That he would even push her a little to speak to him. He wouldn’t accept it if she turned away and tried to ignore him. There was too little time, and he must put his case to her again before Lord Livingston snatched her away from him forever.

  And then he heard the conversation, just behind him. A mere snatch of it, but it was enough. An older lady, nursing her teacup, speaking to her daughter.

  “Lord Livingston has gone to the seaside today,” she was saying. “John told me. And he has taken the Beaumont ladies with him. Apparently, he is very taken with the younger one. What is her name again? Letitia?”

  “Lavinia,” replied her daughter.

  “That’s right. Lavinia. John said that he believes the baron hopes to announce an engagement before the season is out …”

  He couldn’t bear it. He simply couldn’t bear it. Hastily, he got up, lurching towards the door, desperate for air. Quickly, he found a balcony, leaning against the railing, taking deep gulps of air.

  He was too late. Livingston was seriously courting her, marching her towards an engagement. And all he could do was sit in parlours, sipping tea, while the love of his life was drifting further out of his reach by the day.

  His knuckles whitened on the railing.

  Lavinia. My love. My only love …

  Suddenly, he saw her in his mind. A vision of her, as she had been that day, at the picnic. Wild-eyed with hurt, running away from him. Her face, wide-eyed with shock, when he had told her that he loved her, for the very first time.

  It would not do. It simply could not be. He had to find her, to tell her, all that was in his heart. To beg her forgiveness again and tell her that he had to have her, or he could not live.

  Chapter 23

  Lavinia gazed at herself in the dressing table mirror. It was as if a circle of white was staring back at her. She had never seen herself quite so pale, and even Franny noticed.

  “Are you feeling quite well?” the maid asked, frowning. “You are ever so pale! I could put some rouge on your cheeks if you like.”

  Lavinia nodded, smiling wanly. “Yes, that would be good, Franny. Not too much. I do not want to look like a tart, do I?”

  “Oh, miss,” tittered the maid, putting a hand over her mouth. “You are wicked to say such things! Never fear, I shall not turn you into a tart.”

  Franny had expertly applied the rouge, blending it into her cheekbones, so that it looked like a natural blush. After she was finished, she stood back.

  “There,” she said, smiling. “You are done! The rouge has given you a nice glow, and no one at the ball will be any the wiser that you are so pale this evening.”

  Lavinia nodded again. “Thank you, Franny.”

  The maid curtsied, exiting the room. Slowly, Lavinia stood up. She didn’t feel herself, at all. But she knew that it wasn’t a physical ailment; she wasn’t coming down with an illness. It was a bit more complicated than that.

  She was sick at heart.

  She had been suffering acutely, ever since Brighton, when she had inexplicably heard Samuel’s voice calling to her across the sea. But she had pulled herself together, putting on a brave face. They had finished their stroll along the promenade, then had afternoon tea at a fine shop. She had sipped her tea and eaten scones with jam and cream, as if she did not have a care in the world.

  She had managed to hide it from Sophie and her mother. Neither of them suspected that she was anything less than her usual self. But inside, it was as if something had shrivelled up and died. As if some last hope had finally grown wings and taken flight, never to return.

  There was a soft knock on her door. Sighing deeply, she turned towards it, straightening her shoulders. “Come in.”

  It was Sophie, of course, coming to see her, before they stepped into the carriage for the evening. Another ball, at yet another grand house, with all of the usual fine people. It was on the tip of her tongue to plead a headache, but she knew that her sister would not be fooled for an instant. Not when she knew everything that she was going through.

  Sophie smiled. “You look enchanting, Liv. The pale peach suits your complexion.”

  Lavinia glanced down at her gown, without interest. She didn’t care what she looked like – she just wanted to get the evening over and done with. What did any of it matter, anyway?

  She knew that Lord Livingston would be there. She knew that he would seek her out, as soon as she arrived, and dance exclusively with her. He would chat with her over champagne and make his usual clever, wry commentary.

  Guilt stabbed at her heart. He was a good man, as well as being a charming, clever one. He didn’t hold a candle to Samuel, in conversation and wit, but he was a nice man.

  Didn’t he deserve to have a young lady head over heels in love with him, hanging off his every word? Didn’t everybody? How could people play this bloodless game and not care a whit if anyone they were pursuing cared for them, or not?

  She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She had been doing so well with all of this. She had almost accepted the fact that she would marry for duty. That she could marry for duty. And then the voice of a man had reached out, across the waves, smashing the notion into pieces around her.

  She took another deep breath. She just had to get through this evening. After that … well, she would tackle tomorrow, when it came. But as they walked through the door, her heart was dragging, with a low, painful ache that she had never felt before.

  ***

  As soon as they entered the room, she saw Lord Livingston, through the crowd. He was chatting to a group of people, champagne glass in hand. His eyes lit up when he saw her.

  “He is very taken with you, Liv,” remarked Sophie behind her fan. “And to think, if I had not had such a change of conscience, it could have been me.”