Reckless Viscount

by Amy Sandas

  She quickly came to understand why married couples so often went on holiday following their wedding. It was so very difficult to make it through even a few hours without yearning for his company and wishing they were still abed.

  And he was so attentive, so patient, so focused on her during those long and dark hours.

  She tried, and hoped she was able to return at least some of the pleasure he lavished on her every night, but she worried about that as well. She so badly wanted to feel as if she brought something more valuable to their union than her inheritance.

  By the state of his townhouse, Abbigael guessed he had been in a strained financial situation for a long while. The luxurious boudoir she had seen her first night was the only room that boasted any extra comfort or the slightest bit of opulence. The rest of the house, although clean and well maintained, was nearly as Spartan as Leif’s personal bedroom. His understated decorating style was apparent throughout the house, and even though the furniture was threadbare and the drapes thinned and faded from multiple washings, the home was comfortable in its way.

  Aside from that, on one day when she had been left to her own devises for a few hours, she had wandered into a room Leif appeared to be using as a study. The old scarred desk was covered in architectural blueprints, both aged and new, for a grand old estate titled Dunwood Park. Judging by the large number of drawings and amount of scribbled notes running along the edges of the papers, this was a project her husband had put a lot of time and thought into.

  Abbigael yearned to ask him more about it but never seemed to find enough long moments when they were alone together, unless it was in the bedroom. And then there was very little conversation.

  She was convinced there was so much more to her husband than what he presented to the world. He already knew her darkest secret, and she hoped that in time he would trust her enough to share himself with her.

  Perhaps it was too soon for such expectations. And something far more vitally concerning was brought to her attention one afternoon two days before the ball.

  When her father arrived in town.

  Leif had only recently begun to occupy his study on a regular basis as he pulled out years and years of plans and notes he had made for the renovation and restoration of the Neville family seat in Sussex. He was going over a few ornate drawings of the seventeenth-century orangery that sat half-finished beyond the overgrown gardens that he had sketched years ago during a fit of romanticism. His perusal of the old drawings was interrupted by the impatient knocking at the front door.

  He suspected immediately who had come to call. Anyone else who might stop by without notice would have been familiar with Langley’s particular pace and would have known to simply knock and wait.

  This caller was not so tolerant.

  While he waited, Leif carefully tucked his drawings back into the worn leather portfolio and stacked everything neatly to the side. Then he glanced to the corner of the room and was grateful to see that the liquor service held a few options. He wasn’t sure yet what the occasion might call for.

  He stood and came around to lean against the front of his desk just as Langley appeared in the open doorway to announce the visitor.

  “My lord, Sir Felix Granger of Dublin, Ireland requests an audience.”

  Leif had to smile at the servant’s old-fashioned formality.

  “Of course, Langley, do show the gentleman in.”

  As Abbigael’s father strode past the butler and into the room, Leif tried to take his measure. Women, he had learned to pin with amazing accuracy in just more than a glance. For the most part, they were fairly transparent and often only needed certain things when it came to him. Men, however, were a different animal altogether.

  Abbigael clearly took after her mother in her fair coloring and slight stature.

  Sir Felix was a fit-looking man somewhere in his mid-fifties. His eyes were dark and his brown hair was colored with only a few strands of grey, giving him a distinguished appearance. The very picture of a proper British gentleman—he who gave nothing away in his expression or manner. His eyes held no particular light and did not stray far from what was directly in front of him. All Leif could ascertain was that the other man was intent on his purpose and he was well accustomed to shielding his nature.

  A true politician, Leif thought ruefully. He abhorred politics.

  Pushing off from his desk, Leif stepped forward with an outstretched hand, keeping his expression pleasant and relaxed.

  “Sir Felix, welcome. I am Lord Neville.”

  The handshake was the perfect length and strength as dictated by society for a formal introduction. Leif found himself growing amused. Suppressing his involuntary mirth, certain it would not be appreciated quite yet, he gestured to the liquor service.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  The older man’s eyebrows lifted just a tick higher on his broad forehead.

  “It is not yet even two o’clock, my lord,” he replied with a touch of incredulity at having to state the obvious.

  Leif shrugged off the statement. “Something else then?”

  “No, thank you.” The man held rigidly to his manners despite the fact that Leif could see he was becoming annoyed. “I am not here to socialize, as I am sure you are well aware. I understand my daughter is in residence. If she could join us, please.”

  As he spoke, Sir Felix perused the room and chose a high-backed leather chair set in front of the cold fireplace as far from the desk as possible. He took very properly paced strides to the chair and settled into it with his back straight, his hands parallel on the arm rests and his feet braced wide in front of him, looking very much like a man who knew his objective and would not welcome distraction.

  Glancing to Langley, who had remained in the doorway awaiting further orders or an official dismissal before shuffling away, Leif nodded. “Please inform the viscountess that her father has come to call and that he desires her presence.”

  Without further acknowledgment, Langley turned with unhurried care to follow Leif’s request.

  Looking back to Sir Felix, Leif attempted to lighten the dour atmosphere that had entered the room with the visitor.

  “I trust your trip from Dublin was without incident, Sir Felix.”

  Settling his sharp gaze on Leif, the older man replied, “Lord Neville, I am not here to chat with you. I have done my research and already know all there is to know about you, your activities since Eton, your family and your family’s history going back to the Conqueror. I am here to speak with my daughter. You may hover in the room if you wish or you may take yourself off. I care not.”

  Leif smiled then, not terribly concerned by the set down. He had faced harsh prejudice before. Whereas he may have considered allowing a few private moments for the reunion between father and daughter, he now fully intended to stick around. In large part to be contrary, but also because he suddenly couldn’t stomach the idea of Abbigael facing this man alone.

  Knowing Langley’s pace and figuring on having at least another twenty minutes before Abbigael could be found and advised of her father’s request, Leif went to pour himself a finger of brandy. Snifter in hand, he returned to his seat behind his desk and settled in for a silent and awkward wait.

  Leif rocked back on two legs of his chair to lift his booted feet up onto the corner of his desk. A smile tilted his lips when he saw the other man’s almost imperceptible grimace. Leif thought about what he knew of the Sir Felix Granger.

  An Englishman. First cousin to the dowager countess of Blackbourne. Influential in the Irish Parliament. A widower who may or may not have grieved upon his wife’s tragic death. And a father willing to abandon his only child to face debilitating grief alone when it threatened to interfere with his ambition.

  Sir Felix held the key to Abbigael’s inheritance, and so also to all of Leif’s dreams for the future, and he had full power to cut her off without a penny. All evidence of his past actions indicated Sir Felix had very little concern for hi
s daughter’s welfare. Yet Leif was compelled to search beyond the indications of his past action. For all of his stiffness and obvious pride, Abbigael’s father had a few revealing tells.

  The older man sat in the worn leather chair, glancing about the room with the air of a man who had seen it all and rarely found anything to surprise him. Leif suspected Sir Felix managed to take in a significant number of details in those brief flicks of his gaze, though his expression remained perfectly passive.

  His expression may not have revealed any of his thoughts, but there was nothing ambiguous in the way his forefinger tapped in an incessant rhythm against the smooth leather of the armrest. Nor in the way he purposefully kept his gaze away from the doorway, almost as if he dreaded his daughter’s appearance.

  Leif swirled the brandy in his glass and lifted the rim to his lips. He didn’t particularly like the stuff, preferring the invigorating fire of whisky, but he knew it to be the more refined choice. He figured he had better make some compromise considering it was rather early in the day.

  Sir Felix was doing all he could to display the fortitude of a man who would not be put off from his intended goal regardless of how long and awkward the wait may be. And Leif was doing nothing to hide his blatant scrutiny of his guest when Abbigael appeared in the doorway, slightly flushed and out of breath as if she had just dashed the full length of the house.

  Leif had already decided to play the unobtrusive observer, and though he should have stood at Abbigael’s arrival, he remained as he was in order to watch every detail of Sir Felix’s reaction. His rudeness went totally unnoticed, as he suspected it would, since the other two occupants in the room didn’t spare him the slightest glance.

  Sir Felix rose slowly from his chair when Abbigael took three tentative steps into the room, then stopped to clasp her hands together at her waist.

  “Hello, Father.”

  “Abby.” Sir Felix cleared his throat. “You look well.”

  Though Leif had no doubt the words were intended as a statement, he heard the unmistakable lift at the end hinting at a question.

  As if she had heard it as well, Abbigael unlinked her fingers and dropped her hands to relax at her sides as she lifted her chin a touch higher.

  “Thank you, as do you. How are things in Dublin?”

  The politician nodded and rocked back on his heels. “Much the same as always.”

  Leif was seriously starting to consider throwing a book against the wall, thinking maybe that would help to shatter the overabundance of propriety that seemed to have taken over the room. But he didn’t have a tome solid enough to accomplish such a daunting task within reach. He wasn’t exactly sure what he had expected out of Sir Felix’s visit, some shouting perhaps, a few harsh accusations thrown his way certainly, but never had he imagined this stiff, distant formality.

  “I am glad you are here, Father.”

  Leif noted the taut breath of anxiety in Abbigael’s voice that she wasn’t quite able to hide.

  Her father lifted his brows at that and brought his hands around to clasp them behind his back. “It would seem I never should have left.” He gave a heavy sigh and stalked around the chair toward the fireplace. Speaking toward the empty grate, he continued in a tone weighted with disappointment. “I had hoped you would address this issue with some intelligence and maturity. I believed you understood me when I said that any match would require my approval.”

  “Father, I—”

  “And yet,” he interrupted forcefully, finally turning around to pin Leif with a direct and accusing stare, “I receive a note from Blackbourne explaining that you had run off with a penniless good-for-nothing.”

  “Ah, to be fair, Sir Felix,” Leif spoke up then, swinging his feet to the floor and sitting forward in his chair. “Abbigael did not run off with me. Rather, I absconded with her in the middle of the night. She was sound asleep and I was quite foxed, though that bit is irrelevant, I suppose, and she was completely unaware of her predicament until we were nearly to the border. She really had no choice in the matter.” He grinned then and lifted his brandy in a mock salute. “And rumor has it I am good for some things.” He shouldn’t have added that last part, but he couldn’t resist shaking up the stoic politician.

  Finally showing some real emotion, Sir Felix turned his shocked gaze back to his daughter.

  “Is that true? He abducted you? I will call the magistrate immediately.” He started across the room in long angry strides.

  Abbigael put her hands up and side-stepped to put herself between Sir Felix and the door.

  “No. Father, please. I married him willingly. Let me explain.”

  Sir Felix came to an abrupt halt and eyed his daughter as if she were a complete enigma to him. “You can explain this?”

  Abbigael glanced to Leif and then looked back to her father. “Yes, I can if you will let me.”

  Sir Felix visibly collected himself. It was apparent to Leif that the older man was not often put at a loss. He returned to the chair he had previously occupied and took a seat.

  He settled a stern and unreadable gaze on Abbigael for a few silent moments before replying with calm authority. “I am a reasonable man. I will listen to your explanation…” he paused to throw a dark look toward Leif, “…then I will call the magistrate to arrest Lord Neville and I will have this marriage annulled.”

  Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, Abbigael came forward into the room, but she did not sit down.

  Over the next thirty minutes, Abbigael retold in concise and sparing detail the events of her London debut from the day Sir Felix left England through to the night when Lord Atwood made his appearance. A few minutes into her story, Leif rose from his chair and came out from behind his desk to lean against the front edge, crossing his arms over his chest in a deceptively casual stance. He was amazed at how carefully she downplayed her emotional distress over Atwood’s perfidy and the ton’s reaction to it.

  He studied Sir Felix throughout the explanation. At the first brief reference to the rumors that surfaced regarding Abbigael’s past, a muscle jumped along her father’s jaw. As she continued, his attention slid slowly to the side until his focus was just off center from where his daughter stood before him.

  Just as Leif began to wonder if Abbigael had noticed her father’s withdrawal, she paused in her speech and a small sigh whispered past her lips.

  He pushed off the desk and stepped closer to her.

  When she spoke again, it was to skip quickly through the telling of how she had intended to return to Ireland but had a fortuitous change of plans when she found herself bound for Gretna Green.

  Leif almost chuckled at the pleasant spin she put on the venture.

  “In truth, Father,” she stated in a tone that was almost a touch too bright, “I am quite content with my current circumstances.” Her smile was fixed and her spine straight as she held her hands out in supplication. “Lord Neville may not be the husband you or I envisioned, but he accepts me. I know he will take care of me.”

  A twinge of conscience pulled at Leif’s brow. He didn’t imagine the flat note of deception that had entered her voice at the last statement and he couldn’t fault her for it.

  Turning his attention back to Sir Felix, he waited for the man’s response. Though Abbigael had painted a much prettier picture of their elopement than what had actually transpired, her father may easily decide that her future financial comfort was not worth the risk of handing her dowry over to a man of Leif’s reputation.

  After a moment of continued silence as Sir Felix narrowed his eyes to glower with faint accusation at Leif, Abbigael spoke again.

  “Though I know the asking comes late, I still covet your blessing, Father.”

  Clearing his throat, Sir Felix pushed himself to his feet. He was careful to avoid looking at his daughter directly as his sharp gaze swept past her at about the height of her knees. He turned and strode back to the cold fireplace, hands locked securely behind his back. Anothe
r moment later, he turned back to face the rest of the room.

  “Abby, it seems I have need to speak with your…with Lord Neville alone. If you would please excuse us.” He gestured to the door.

  Leif watched Abbigael’s shoulders pull back and her spine stiffen at her father’s gruff dismissal. Reaching out to her, Leif set his hand on her arm and turned her to face him.

  Hurt mingled with firm resolve in her sea-green eyes. A crease marred the smooth surface of her brow and her lovely mouth was pressed into a stern line.

  Leif forced himself to smile despite the fact that her drawn expression twisted at his guts.

  “Don’t worry, Irish, I doubt I will be able to corrupt Sir Felix during one private conversation.” Not caring that her father pretended not to be watching from across the room, Leif lifted his hand to the side of her face and rested his thumb against the corner of her mouth. Then he leaned close so his lips brushed the curve of her ear as he spoke. “Besides, all of my corrupting influence is focused securely upon you, and there is still so much work to do.”

  When he pulled away, he was pleased to see some color back in her cheeks. Her pale eyes were soft as she looked up at him. Brushing his thumb lightly over her lower lip, he asked “Have I told you how lovely you look today?”

  She gave a small shake of her head as a little smile reversed the downward curve of her mouth.

  “My deepest apologies,” he muttered in a low whisper.

  Then, right there under the watchful eye of her staid and oh-so-proper father, he planted a firm, and chaste, by comparison to how he had kissed just that morning as the sun rose, kiss on her lips.