Vanquishing the Viscount

by Elizabeth Keysian

  She wanted a man with whom she could talk on an equal footing. Someone who’d discuss classical authors with her, and poetry, and the state of the factories. She wanted a man who’d explain more about the war against Napoleon and have ideas on how best to deal with the hardships assailing Britain in its aftermath. Above all, she wanted a man she could respect, and one who could, just by walking into a room, light it up for her like a beacon.

  But no gentleman she’d met approved of ladies indulging in meaningful conversation. A lady was meant to be purely decorative.

  Unfortunately, in the eyes of the ton she would be anything but that. She was unfashionably tall and had chestnut hair instead of guinea gold curls. Her eyes, in repose, could be described in no more romantic a term than…brown. Her darling brother, George, had once praised the animation of her face, the dazzling beauty of her smile, and the mischievous light that gave hazel glints to her eyes. She assumed he’d just been teasing.

  Then had come that one brief moment of hope. Elias Hartley, Earl of Overcrich, had singled her out for his attention. Elias Hartley, the youngest, most devilishly handsome bachelor of the ton.

  The man who had humiliated her, broken her heart, and sworn her off attractive, magnetically appealing dandies forever.

  The gossips had loved the debacle, the obvious courtship that had connected her name with his, when all the while he was engaged to someone else. Why had no one taken pity and told her? He was bored, his affianced was stuck in France, struggling to find a ship to bring her home, and he needed the company of an adoring female.

  Several females—as she’d subsequently discovered, just to rub salt into the wound. But none of the others as innocent or naïve as herself. She’d emerged from the affair bruised, scarred, and unable to trust anyone who mingled with the upper echelons of Society.

  But most particularly, handsome, perfectly formed, supremely self-confident gentlemen. They were all vain, selfish, unkind, and totally unreliable.

  Why was she thinking about all this now? She’d set out for her new life in a much more optimistic frame of mind, even pondering that if she succeeded well at being a governess, she could run her own school one day, using the unoccupied rooms at Tresham. Then the house would never be at risk of being sold.

  That dream seemed to have melted away in the rain. It didn’t help that a cloud of gloom surrounded the stranger wedged between her box and the other side of the wagon. It was impressive how a person could convey so much disapproval simply through the way they breathed, and fidgeted, and tilted their head at one. He was determined to unsettle her, the odious creature. And he was making her retrace her steps when she needed to be moving onward.

  Despite his tousled appeal and good looks—and more probably because of them—she couldn’t wait to be rid of the man.

  Thus it was a huge relief when the Four Swans finally came into view, with its cheerfully lighted windows and smoke wafting from its chimneys. It would be a good thing if she were to go inside and dry out a bit before resuming her journey, but that would make them even later.

  Carrier Marshman dealt with the deposition of the disobliging gentleman at the inn. Emma hovered, keeping her face averted, while the landlord was instructed not to let the stranger leave until he’d eaten—and kept his meal down—and shown himself able to walk the length of the inn without staggering or getting lost.

  And—most important—remembered what his name was.

  Her unwilling traveling companion departed from her with a baleful glare on his aristocratic face, and not a single word of thanks. And reinforcing her low opinion of handsome aristocrats.

  She gritted her teeth. She’d done the right thing. If George were here, he’d definitely approve. And the stranger’s injury was not her fault but his own—if he hadn’t been careering about on his stallion at breakneck speed on a wet day, he would never have been thrown from his horse. She and Marshman were not responsible for the skittishness of his mount, and they’d done everything they could thereafter to help.

  Well, good riddance to him, ungrateful beast. She almost wished she might meet him again when he was feeling better, to give him a piece of her mind. That would put a flush on his noble cheekbones, and no mistake!

  She looked up at the rain-drenched skies, and a feeling of impending doom settled over her. What if he turned out to be someone terribly important, like an earl, or even a duke?

  Whatever her feelings about High Society, it wouldn’t be wise to make an enemy of a powerful person. Not now, with her family in such a vulnerable financial position. So, for the sake of everything she held dear, she fervently hoped she’d never see the man again.

  Chapter Three

  “My name is James Markham, Viscount Tidworth, heir to the Earl and Countess of Rossbury.”

  The innkeeper of the Four Swans gazed at James consideringly.

  James pushed back his shoulders, tilted his chin, and gave the fellow an inimical glare. Confident not only of his station in life but also of his own physical strength, he succeeded in making the innkeeper, no mean specimen himself, back down.

  “Apologies, zur,” the man said, bowing. “You’re a long way from home, I reckon, and not known around these parts.”

  “Never mind.” There was no point in further speech—he’d no time to lose. He’d left Birney House in plenty of time to reach Ashleaze Court, but the heavens had opened, making his way treacherous, and then that blasted cart had spooked Lawrie into throwing him.

  He strode out of the taproom, then stood in the inn yard, looking gloomily down at his clothing. There were scratches on his boots and faint smudges of mud all over his buckskins, not to mention dark stains up the back of his coat, probably made worse by the inexpert scrubbing of the tavern wench who’d attended him. In fact, he hadn’t felt quite so dirty and wretched since Waterloo, and that was a memory he did not welcome.

  A groom led Lawrie forward, and James stroked the beast’s soft muzzle, blowing into his nose and murmuring sounds of reassurance. “It’s not your fault, boy,” he whispered. “That damned carrier should have slowed his wagon as he approached the crossroads. He should have known he couldn’t see properly in the rain. And as for that stubborn chit who said it wasn’t safe for me to ride—what did she know? We’re as one, aren’t we boy, when we ride together? I know you’d never throw me off except under extreme stress.”

  James stepped onto the mounting block and vaulted lightly onto Lawrie’s back, then pulled the animal’s head around and pointed him back toward the crossroads.

  As the horse broke into a canter, he freed a hand from the reins and checked his fob watch. Tarnation! He’d been delayed a full two hours, and Robert Cornwallis could easily have beaten him to it, damn his eyes.

  He sucked in a deep breath and urged Lawrie to a gallop. Belinda Carslake, the woman he wanted to marry, had once confessed to corresponding with her old childhood friend, Cornwallis, during the fellow’s absence abroad. It was not at all the kind of thing James wanted his sweetheart to be doing, but he’d been so besotted with Belinda, he hadn’t had the heart to correct her.

  Belinda was young, vivacious, innocent, and beautiful. Her pedigree was unsullied, her person captivating. The perfect wife for a future earl.

  The perfect wife for him.

  Ever since his older brother Nathaniel’s premature death after Waterloo, his parents had been pressuring their one remaining son to marry and set up his nursery. Life was so precious, and hung by so slender a thread. James knew the heir to an earldom must marry a wife of high status and produce children on an industrial scale. If his first wife were to die in childbirth, he must find another, until he had sufficient progeny to ensure the succession would never fall to a less deserving branch of the family.

  So why hadn’t he proposed to Belinda when he’d had the chance? Perhaps because she seemed so young—a mere eighteen years of age compared to his twenty-six. She was like a butterfly, and it seemed wrong to pin her down too soon. She must be al
lowed to flutter around the parties of the ton and meet other gentlemen. Then, when she settled her choice on him, he could be sure her heart was true, and there would be no rival to ruin their wedded bliss.

  But now Cornwallis was back in England after his long sojourn in India. Back to stay, apparently. And Belinda’s letters to James were filled with news of his rival.

  As he sped through the dank countryside, he ruminated on Cornwallis’s attributes. No, the man wasn’t quite the thing. He’d be unfashionably brown from the unrelenting Indian sun, and had no doubt acquired his wealth in ways prejudicial to the natives. The Carslake family would surely not want an alliance with such a questionable personage. Wasn’t Belinda as much against the exploitation of the poor and ignorant as was James, himself?

  Still, he’d try not to make an enemy of Cornwallis. Such a nabob would make an excellent patron of the new war veterans’ hospital he was determined to build.

  His jaw clenched as he thought about Nathaniel’s death, the driving force behind his project. His older brother had been so strong, so courageous, and had acquitted himself well at Waterloo. He’d received a minor injury—a piece of shrapnel in the leg—and had broken his journey home to get the metal removed by a surgeon at a veterans’ hospital. But the wound had festered, and gangrene set in. Nathaniel had died within the week.

  Before he left the army, James had sworn no other soldier should suffer as his brother had, and lose their life so needlessly. He was currently in search of a suitable building in which to found his own veterans’ hospital, one that would be clean and well-equipped, employing the most able doctors in the land. It wouldn’t just house injured soldiers and their needy families but would also ensure they learned skills to help them make a living once they’d left military service.

  He was determined to win the support of as many members of the ton as possible, so the place would never be short of funds and would continue to thrive long after his death.

  Ah, at last. The gates of Ashleaze Court, Belinda’s family seat, appeared before him. A watery sunset broke through the purple clouds, touching the wet rhododendron leaves with a ghostly light as he slowed Lawrie to a canter. He dismounted in the stable yard, giving Lawrie into the care of a groom, and the chill of early evening whiffled through his damp clothing. He prayed the Carslakes had a good blaze going in the drawing room.

  As he pulled at the bell by the double front doors, his thoughts flicked back to the stubborn chit responsible for his delay. Pah! There was nothing wrong with his head—he was a soldier, by Beelzebub, not a milksop! A small crack on the pate was nothing to him—he’d survived far worse and had the scars to prove it. Just because he was a gentleman did not make him weak—far from it. His remark about his right hook had been no empty boast—Gentleman Jackson himself had complimented him on it.

  God have mercy on whoever came into that meddling girl’s sphere. She was pretty enough to be a heartbreaker, and her touch was a sensual experience he’d have enjoyed under other circumstances. Which made her a danger to men—to impressionable ones, at least. Fortunately, he’d never considered himself an easy catch when it came to women. And right now, there was only one woman in the world who mattered to him.

  Belinda Carslake.

  James handed the footman his begrimed coat and hat. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his cuffs and squared his shoulders as he was ushered into the drawing room.

  “Viscount Tidworth, sir, madam,” the footman announced.

  “Thank you, Hobson. James! How good of you to visit us, especially in this awful weather!”

  “Mrs. Carslake, delighted, as ever. Sir, I trust you are well? How are the pigs coping with all this rain?” He knew Belinda’s papa was obsessed with his Gloucester Old Spots, so never failed to ask after them when he visited.

  “Drusilla’s had a bit of a fever,” was the reply, “but I’m trying some excellent patent pig pills from a local chemist that seem to be doing the trick. How are Lord and Lady Rossbury?”

  James did his best to hide his impatience, when all he wanted was to be alone with the vision of loveliness seated to the right of the fire screen. Attired in a high-waisted dress of duck-egg blue, topped with a splendid shawl of Indian design, Belinda truly seemed to make the lamps burn brighter. Her milk-white complexion was complemented by shining curls drawn back from her forehead to frame her ears, and her lips, though small, were a perfect pink. His heart beat rapidly, stealing his breath.

  He pressed a hand to his chest, where it encountered the small bulge in his breast pocket. It was the box containing the ring he intended to present Belinda when she accepted his suit. Because, surely, she wouldn’t hesitate to accept him.

  His head swam, overwhelmed with excitement. This was the moment he meant to ask for her hand. Such a step to take, so many changes to make in his life. He would have a townhouse that knew a woman’s touch, a country estate that would echo with the laughter of children. His sober bachelor existence and the daily weight of his concerns would be lifted by feminine fancies and lighthearted chatter. And at night, his bed would be warmed by a beauty, her golden tresses spread across the pillow, her cheeks glowing from the onslaught of his lovemaking…

  “Oh, James!” cried the object of his desire, bouncing up from her seat and dancing toward him, “I have such thrilling news! You remember my friend, Mr. Cornwallis? He has just returned from India and came straight here to see me. You’ll never guess what happened. He said he’d missed me terribly, but my letters gave him hope. And now he has applied for my hand in marriage!” She all but squealed the last in her enthusiasm.

  James swayed forward, and when his hand met the corner of a lacquered cabinet, he gripped it like a drowning man grips a spar. Swallowing back the bile that bit into his throat, he lifted his head and forced the words from his mouth, voicing a question he never expected to have to ask. “And have you accepted him?”

  In answer, Belinda thrust out her hand. There, glowing with a soft light, was an enormous ruby ring in a splendid setting of gold.

  He closed his eyes a moment and summoned every ounce of strength he possessed. “Allow me to congratulate you,” he said, attempting a smile.

  Across his mind’s eye flashed a vision of the alluring she-devil who had delayed his arrival at Ashleaze.

  And he cursed the day she was born.

  Chapter Four

  Seated at her desk in the tiny schoolroom of Figheldene Hall, Emma began to write.

  May 12th, Figheldene Hall

  Dear George,

  I have so much to tell you, you can’t imagine!

  She paused, pen suspended, and looked over at her young pupils, busily engaged in practicing their handwriting. Finally, she had found a task to occupy them which didn’t involve endless interruptions and questions, and gave her a moment in which she could write to her brother.

  Mary, nine, and William, seven, are quite delightful once you get to know them. They have a much older sister and brother, Miss Philippa and Mr. Charles.

  Emma paused again and glanced toward the window that looked onto the garden. It was a fine spring day, and she longed desperately to be outside with the sun on her face, but her duties tied her to this room. She felt like a caged bird aching to fly.

  She could hear the light tones of Mr. Charles Keane as he conversed with a visitor below and envied the young man his freedom. He was a handsome fellow with an angelic look, but she knew from experience that he—just like Elias Hartley—could not be trusted. He’d already taken a liberty or two with her. However, much as she longed for someone to talk to about Charles, her brother was not that person.

  Thank heaven for the children and young people of Figheldene! The house is positively ancient and built in stone, with minuscule windows that make one feel imprisoned. Frivolity is not encouraged—although Philippa and Charles disobey this rule continually—and my termagant of a mistress, Mrs. Keane, has forbidden me to make friends with any of her offspring.

  She stoppe
d writing again and cast her mind back to her first meeting with Mr. Charles. When she first arrived three weeks ago, he and Willie—as young William was called—had helped her with her baggage and shown her up to her room.

  Charles, a man of similar age to herself, half a head taller, and with twinkling blue eyes, had treated her to a broad grin and informed her, “This is your sanctuary, Miss Hibbert. Mama will surely furnish you a key so you can keep the young marauders out—though I wouldn’t put it past Willie to climb up to your room via the old trellis. Oh no, don’t look alarmed! It probably won’t hold his weight, anyway. But if the young miscreant does anything requiring a good whipping, I’m your man.”

  He’d laughed at her shocked expression, then tugged at a damp strand of her hair before tucking it behind her ear. The peculiarly intimate gesture had taxed Emma’s mind for some time. Maybe, when Mrs. Keane had advised her not to make friends with the Keane progeny, she’d been thinking specifically of Charles.

  Another Adonis, a golden demigod just like the Earl of Overcrich. Well, she wasn’t going to be fooled again.

  Mrs. Keane is ghastly and behaves more like my jailer than my employer. She gave me strict instructions that I must follow to the letter, or expect to be disciplined, or even turned out without a reference. I am not to fraternize with the servants, nor command them to run errands for me. I must eat with the children in the old nursery unless specifically invited to attend a family meal, such as at Christmas. Lessons begin at eight o’clock sharp with luncheon at noon and high tea at four o’clock. I am given supper at eight o’clock in my room, after which, once the children are in bed, I may spend an hour or two in whichever room the family is not using to do my mending or pursue my studies. I mustn’t expect a fire to be lit in these rooms—the fires are extinguished once the family has vacated the room. I am permitted the use of a single oil lamp and must apply to Mrs. Keane when I need to have it refilled, but should be aware of the current cost of oil and not waste my time sitting up late in bed reading or writing. As if I didn’t know the cost of oil, after all the economies we’ve had to put in place at Tresham Hall!