The Viscount Needs a Wife

by Jo Beverley

  Kitty chuckled. “You hide it well. She’ll improve in time, I think, and be off your hands entirely in a few years. You know that you and the children will be welcome at the town house at any time.”

  “That will be rarely. Country life suits us very well.”

  “All’s well that ends well, indeed.”

  The first dance ended, and Kitty captured her husband as partner for the next.

  First he steered her beneath the mistletoe.

  Kitty put on a frown. “I believe, sir, that a couple’s supposed to kiss only once beneath the mistletoe, and this would be our third.”

  “Fourth. I never forget a kiss, and I know which rules to ignore. Happy Christmas, Mrs. Braydon.”

  Their kiss was light, but special, as always. Then Sillikin gave a little yip.

  “You object?” Braydon said, looking down.

  “Simply agreement, yes?” Kitty said to her dog.

  “Yip!”

  Braydon chuckled. He, too, had fallen into the habit of talking to the spaniel, though perhaps he didn’t understand the responses as well. Yet.

  Author’s Note

  I’ve written most of my Regency historicals along a timeline that began in 1814, so I’ve known that eventually one would have to include the death of Princess Charlotte, and it worried me, because I knew I couldn’t treat the subject lightly.

  The death of the Regent’s daughter and the only legitimate grandchild of the king was as dramatic and traumatic as shown in this book, equally as much as the death of Diana, Princess of Wales. The death of any young woman in childbirth is always a tragedy, but it wasn’t as uncommon as it is today. The death of a princess, however, hit hard enough to throw the whole nation into sincere mourning, and the implications for succession were serious.

  So the event would intersect with my fictional story line, but I didn’t want to dwell on the details of the event itself and couldn’t imagine how it could fit well into a love story. In the magical way that sometimes happens in writing, it slotted into Braydon and Kitty’s story as if it had always been planned that way.

  The Viscount Needs a Wife is about mourning, and the crucial death and widespread mourning fit into Kitty’s life. At the same time, the tragedy had implications for Braydon, because it did have the effect of dampening unrest and deterring the extreme antimonarchists. The calm wouldn’t last long, but over the winter, there was relative order and quiet.

  The plot against the three princes is completely my invention, and to begin with, I didn’t know who was responsible or how it would turn out. I was as surprised as Braydon and Kitty were when all was revealed. However, again in the magical way these things sometimes happen, the Prince Regent did indeed make a flying visit to London at just the right time.

  How do I know?

  When writing a book I read the newspapers of the day online. The Morning Chronicle is good for society comings and goings and lesser matters, such as the demand for mourning clothes of all sorts. I learned some things about the time that I couldn’t fit into the book, such as there being a “black ball.”

  As time passed after the princess’s death, people’s emotions naturally moderated, but the social pressure to keep to mourning black persisted, especially in the ton. Thus one lady had the idea of a ball where everyone would wear black. It seems it was a great success, and a good time was had by all.

  I am putting some of them into the next book, which follows the same timeline, though the characters don’t know one another. There’s an All Black horse race, and a soberly colored ball, among other fashionable events in December 1817.

  It was also from the papers that I learned that a Bonaparte was in line for the British crown. Three-year-old Jérôme Bonaparte was the son of Jérôme Bonaparte, one of Napoleon Bonaparte’s brothers. The child’s claim came through his mother, Catherine of Württemberg, a great-granddaughter of King George II. As said in the book, many people would have had to have died to put the boy on the throne, but the mere notion alarmed many, and the discovery amused me.

  My characters are generally happy to spend most of their time in the country, so it was interesting to have two people who aren’t. Again, I wasn’t sure when I began how I was going to give them their truly happy ending, but then the plot laid the way.

  This novel stands alone, with new principal characters, but as it follows my timeline, it takes place within what I call the Rogues’ World.

  I have written a series of historical romances about a group of men called the Company of Rogues, who came together at Harrow school to create a protective band that has lasted into their adulthood. The first one, An Arranged Marriage, was published in 1991 and the last, To Rescue a Rogue, in 2006. There are nine books and an overarching story line, so they are best read in order.

  You can find that order on my Web site, jobev.com/rogues.html.

  I have written other romances that are spinoffs, using characters who appeared in the Rogues’ World books, but from now on I will be writing about new characters, and there may not be any clear connections from book to book.

  However, in my creative mind there exists a Regency England that has been formed over nearly thirty years where my characters exist. Therefore some old characters are likely to pop up—hosting a ball, attending a meeting, or giving a helping hand, especially in London, where the nobility gathered for the season and meetings of Parliament. Readers unfamiliar with previous books won’t notice, but those who are will meet old friends. In this book, Hal Beaumont, Stephen Ball, and Lord Charrington are Rogues, and Sir George Hawkinville, who is off in Paris, is a spinoff character.

  If you’re new to the Company of Rogues and wish to know more, all the books are available in print and e-book form. Again, you can find a list on my Web site.

  I also have a Georgian series about the Malloren family, and the details of those books are also on my Web site. There are four medieval romances, six traditional Regency romances, and a number of novellas. The Viscount Needs a Wife is my fortieth novel. Enjoy!

  I have an author page on Facebook at www.facebook .com/Jo.Beverley, and sometimes I tweet. You can sign up for my occasional newsletter on most pages of my Web site.

  As always, I appreciate it when readers leave a review online, as reviews help other people find the sort of books they will enjoy.

  All best wishes,

  Jo

  Read on for an excerpt from Jo Beverley’s next romance, coming soon from Signet Select.

  Lady Barbara Boxtall has been alarmed by the death of Princess Charlotte. It has made it all too clear that life is unpredictable, and if her younger brother, the Earl of Langton, were to die, the title and all that went with it would fall into the hands of their wastrel, gamester uncle. As he’s a neck-or-nothing sportsman, she’s determined that Norris must marry, and soon.

  She herself is resigned to spinsterhood. Her six-foot height has deterred most local gentlemen, and a disastrous season in London has turned her off social events outside her Hampshire neighborhood. Norris, however, is a splendid figure of a man and, being an earl, can marry as soon as he wishes to. He has no right to be quibbling about his youth and love.

  “What’s the matter now?” asked her lady’s maid, Ethel, putting aside the stocking she’d been mending by the fire.

  “Norris,” Babs said.

  “Ah.”

  Ethel was more of a companion than a maid, and dressed accordingly. Her black gown was made of a fine wool-and-linen blend, and she wore no apron, nor a cap on her wiry black hair. She played the servant well enough when she and Babs were in company, but they’d been together now for twelve years, and in private they were equals and friends.

  “You and your brother always seem to be butting heads,” Ethel said. “It’ll pass.” She’d remained sitting, as she always did if not needed for some task, but her composed attitude, hands in lap, suddenly st
irred exasperation. Even Ethel didn’t seem to realize how dire their situation was.

  “It won’t pass,” Babs said, “because I can’t let it. It’s the matter of the future of the earldom and his marriage.”

  “You addressed that subject with him?”

  “Of course I did!”

  “As soon as he arrived?”

  “Why wait?” Babs asked, but she grimaced. “Very well. Perhaps that was a mistake.”

  “More haste, less speed.” Ethel was irritatingly full of sayings.

  “How long was I supposed to wait? And then he had the gall to throw it back at me!”

  “How did he do that, then?”

  Babs paced the small room, reluctant to put the absurd suggestion into words, but she couldn’t keep secrets from Ethel.

  “He said that if I marry by the end of the year, he’ll marry by the end of January.”

  Ethel’s brows rose. “I didn’t think he had the wits for that.”

  “He’s not stupid.”

  “No, but you can’t expect an old head on young shoulders. He is young to be marrying.”

  “At twenty-five, I’m considered past hope.”

  “Young for a man,” Ethel said.

  “He’s not just a man—he’s an earl. He has a duty to start his nursery, and no right to turn the tables on me. My marriage won’t help.”

  “True enough.”

  Babs continued to pace, wishing that Ethel would share her outrage, but it wouldn’t happen. Ethel was the personification of placid calm.

  “He’ll have to come to his senses,” Babs said.

  “A leopard can’t change its spots.”

  “Stop spouting proverbs at me! Especially when they do no good. Oh, I’m sorry. But really . . .”

  “You need a ride,” Ethel said.

  Babs almost argued against that, but Ethel was right. Brisk exercise would burn off her agitation and let her think more clearly. There had to be a way to get Norris to the altar soon, and she’d find it.

  Ethel went with her into the dressing room and helped her into her habit. It was dark blue, and a relief from constant black. Babs left the house hoping for an encounter with her brother so she could relaunch her arguments, even though she knew it would be wiser to give him time. She felt as if every minute, every second, mattered.

  * * *

  An hour later Babs returned calmer. Ethel had been correct about more haste, less speed. There was no extreme urgency. True, Norris could kill himself at any moment in some sporting wildness, but it was unlikely. She could allow him a month or two, but he must turn his mind to finding a bride.

  As Babs dressed in black silk for dinner, she said, “It’s not surprising that Norris isn’t thinking of marriage at the moment, with the world in mourning for such a dreadful reason.”

  “A wife dying to give birth to a man’s child.”

  “Trust you to put it bluntly.”

  “Why not? Any man with a heart has to be considering the matter.”

  Babs doubted her brother was shying away from the altar for that reason, but perhaps it was possible. “Life must go on,” she said.

  “True.” Ethel finished fastening the back of the gown. “What ornaments?”

  “Something with a little brightness. My amber beads and bracelet.”

  Ethel fastened the triple row of beads that sat neatly at the base of Babs’s throat, just above the high neck of the gown. She added the matching bracelet at her right wrist, overlapping the long dark sleeve, and added short black net gloves.

  She liked to wear amber because it matched the color of her hair, which was easy to manage since she’d had it cut to shoulder length. The shorter hair at the front and sides meant that curls framed her face without the slightest need of curling irons. Since she disliked fussing with her appearance, it was a blessing.

  Unasked, Ethel had brought just the right shawl—a long Norwich one, woven in a design of black and gold.

  “Thank you. Any advice?”

  “More flies are caught with honey than with vinegar,” Ethel said.

  “That’s true.”

  “And it is your mother’s birthday.”

  “Which I’d forgotten! Very well. Honeyed sweetness all evening. But I must catch my fly.”

  * * *

  The meal progressed well enough, for Babs didn’t stir discord and Norris gave a firsthand account of the events around the princess’s death. Babs and her mother had received letters, but they valued his view of how London had reacted.

  “I understand the princess’s doctors are being blamed,” Babs said as the soup was removed and the first course laid out.

  “And the queen,” Norris said, eying the various dishes with approval. He had a mighty appetite. “She wasn’t there, you know.”

  “She isn’t well, poor lady,” their mother said, “and seventy-three years old. Her granddaughter’s death and all the traveling and ceremonies will have taxed her.”

  “You fear there could soon be another funeral?” Babs said. “We’ll all be in mourning forever.”

  “Hope not,” Norris said. “Town died on the same day. The theaters closed, and most of the shops as well.”

  “It is touching to see such general respect for the poor princess,” their mother said.

  “Aye, though it’s made Town remarkably dull.”

  Babs restrained herself from commenting.

  “At least the theaters have opened again,” he said. “The shops opened within days, of course, but no one’s putting off mourning or throwing grand entertainments.”

  “People are truly sad,” Babs said.

  “It’s thrown up a few oddities,” he said, helping himself to more ragout of mutton. “Last week a foreign ambassador’s wife turned up to a reception in white.”

  “No!” Babs exclaimed.

  “Why?” asked their mother.

  “I’m told white’s a mourning color in some countries. That’d make our spring assemblies pretty sad affairs, wouldn’t it, with all the hopeful misses in their pale silks and muslins?”

  Babs almost said something about hopeful misses but managed to repress it. She did say, “I doubt you’ve been inside Almack’s in years.”

  “Gads, no. Dull stuff there. Cribb’s Parlor’s more my style.”

  “Pugilism?” his mother exclaimed.

  “All the thing, Mama. Keeps a fellow in trim. A man’ll hear it from Cribbs if he’s bellows to mend.”

  “Don’t sink to cant, dear.”

  “Apologies, Mama.”

  “And I don’t like to think of you under attack.”

  “It’s all in good fun.” Norris flashed a look at Babs. “No danger at all.”

  At that taunt she could hardly hold herself back, but speared a chunk of meat instead. “What do you find to do with yourself in Town amid all the gloom?”

  “There are still private parties to enjoy, and I took part in a splendid steeplechase near Chiswick. The Great All-Black.”

  “All black?”

  “In keeping with mourning. Men to be dressed in black and riding completely black horses. The price of an all-black horse rocketed the week before, but of course I had Torrent.”

  Lady Langton smiled at him. “Then of course you won, darling.”

  Norris was a brilliant rider and could afford the best horses. And Torrent was his best.

  “Neck and neck with Arden on Viking and Templemore on Beelzebub, but then Torrent put a foot in a rabbit hole and down we went. Damned shame.”

  “Is Torrent much injured?” Babs asked.

  “Dead,” Norris said, lips wobbling. “Broken leg.”

  “How very sad,” his mother said, “but thank heavens you were unscathed.”

  “Pretty well. Knocked out by a damnably placed rock. I ca
me round to find I’d nothing but a headache and bruises, but Torrent was a goner. He was a fine beast.” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. “A fine beast.”

  “He was,” Babs said. “But. . . .” She cut another piece of meat, though she wondered whether she could swallow it.

  Norris had almost died.

  The idiot made light of it, but a slightly harder blow could have killed him. Or he could have broken his neck or been mortally injured in some other way. Not long ago young Lord Scorton had broken his back in a similar accident. He’d lingered a day or so but died. At least he’d had a son.

  Babs struggled through the meal, making general remarks to conceal her inner turmoil while trying to come up with a conquering argument. She knew her brother, however, and knew now that he’d dug in his heels, nothing would move him.

  There was only one thing for it.

  She waited until they were in the parlor and the servant who brought the coffee had left. Once they all had their cups, she gathered her courage and made her announcement. “Very well, Norris. I accept your challenge.”

  He sipped. “What challenge?”

  “If you will marry after I do, I will marry by the turn of the year.”

  “No, you won’t, Babs. You’re a confirmed spinster.”

  “I’ve had offers!”

  “First I’ve heard of it, and clearly you’ve accepted none of them.”

  “Now I will.” Despite the sick churning inside, she took satisfaction in his alarm.

  “You’ll accept a man you’ve rejected simply to force me to the altar? I don’t believe it.”

  “To force you to start filling the nursery, I will.”

  He surged to his feet. “You damnable woman!”

  “Norris!” his mother exclaimed.

  He froze. “I’m sorry, Mama, but it’s more than a man can bear to be bullied so by a sister.”

  “An elder sister,” Babs said. “Elder and wiser.”

  “A foolish woman.”

  “Now you’re insulting our mother.”