Vanquishing the Viscount

by Elizabeth Keysian

  Willie coughed, and Emma glanced up, but he just rubbed at his nose, then bent again to his handwriting. A fly landed on Emma’s page, but she daren’t swipe it away for fear of smudging the ink. A hearty puff of air sent it buzzing out of the room.

  Mr. Charles’s voice was louder now. He must be right beneath the schoolroom window with his friend—a male friend from the sound of it. Their discussion was animated, and Charles seemed to be trying to reassure his companion, who was evidently distressed and angry. The temptation to eavesdrop on their conversation was strong.

  I am to receive my wages once a quarter…

  “If she’s that fickle, she’s not for you.” Charles’s voice broke in upon her, ruining her concentration.

  With a sigh, she abandoned her letter and walked quietly to the window where she pretended to be removing a cobweb from the frame.

  Neither of her young charges looked up.

  “She’s young, and perhaps not ready to settle down yet,” Charles continued.

  “She quite clearly is ready to settle down,” countered his friend, “as she’s now engaged to that wretched Cornwallis. They announced it almost as soon as I arrived—how can any fellow work that fast?”

  How, indeed? Emma thought, biting down on her lip. This woman, whoever she was, sounded exactly like a female version of Elias Hartley. In nature, certainly. Was the lady under discussion handsome, too?

  “Engagements can be broken,” Charles said. “But don’t waste any more time on her if she’s not interested. I imagine this must be the first time you’ve been jilted. Poor James!”

  “I was so certain of her heart.”

  Charles snorted derisively. “What does love have to do with anything? Your sort marries for pedigree, don’t they?”

  His sort? Charles’s friend must be a blue-blood then. She grimaced. Of course they married for pedigree and whatever other selfish reason one could think of. The new Countess of Overcrich had turned out to be a wealthy heiress with an ancestral line—and an arrogance—stretching right back to the ark. Emma doubted very much Elias had married for love, or if he was even capable of such an emotion.

  She’d settle for poor and plain, if she were ever to marry. So long as the fellow loved her above all things and had a kind and generous heart.

  The man called James said evenly, “Don’t tease me, Charles. I’m not in the mood. I’ve got this damned charity ball to sort out. I was planning to announce our engagement at the ball, but now I haven’t the heart for any of it.”

  “What? Abandon your distressed soldiers? You’d hate yourself if you let them down! And maybe you can use the event to demonstrate you are back on the marriage mart.”

  “And be a laughing stock? Everyone will know by then that Belinda chose Cornwallis over me. I should postpone.”

  Emma felt for the unknown man. It must have been horrid, being thrown over like that. She leaned out of the window, to see if she could catch sight of the speaker. His voice sounded vaguely familiar.

  Bother. There was a thick rhododendron in the way. But perhaps they would start walking again soon and reveal themselves. She’d wait and see.

  “Don’t postpone,” Charles urged his friend. “There’s absolutely no need to feel humiliated. The fact that the girl has elected to marry a nabob from a family of merchants, in preference to one of the oldest titles in the country, won’t reflect well on her. Just hold your head high and summon up that aristocratic arrogance you lot are so good at. It’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll give it some thought. Well, I’d best be off to try to settle things with Mama. She wants the ball to go ahead, too, and is as eager as ever for me to marry. Apparently, I’ve been unfit for company since Waterloo and need a wife and family to cheer me up and stop my obsession with my veterans.”

  Emma’s heart sped from a canter to a gallop. Surely, she had heard this man’s voice before, but where? Clinging tight to the stonework of the windowsill, she leaned out as far as she dared.

  “She’s right,” said Charles. “You’ve been an absolute misery these last few years. You think of nothing but your boxing and your home for old soldiers. What about real life? What about light-skirts, handsome servant girls, gambling, and fun?”

  The men were moving away from the shrubbery. She could see Charles’s companion now—a tall man, with wavy, light brown hair beneath his beaver hat. But it wasn’t until he tipped his head back, saying with a laugh, “I think I’ll leave all that to you, old friend,” that she recognized him.

  Her heart skidded to a halt.

  Lord have mercy!

  It was the ungrateful, rude, and disturbingly handsome gentleman who’d been thrown from his horse.

  Chapter Five

  James promised himself he wouldn’t stay long at this evening’s little soirée. He had far too much to think about, to organize, if his charity ball was to go ahead.

  But Charles’s taunt from the week before about his fit of the blue devils had struck home. His heart was broken, yes, but life must go on. And he wasn’t going to attract subscribers to his charitable cause if he didn’t socialize. So, tonight, at the Keane’s small gathering, he would put on a brave face and pretend to be enjoying himself.

  He started his campaign by complimenting Charles’s sister, Philippa. “Miss Keane, you are in great good looks tonight.”

  “Don’t try to flatter me, Tidworth. You’re far too high in the instep to be interested in poor, plain little me,” she replied with a provocative toss of her head.

  Of course, he knew she meant not a word of it. Philippa Keane had the power to turn heads wherever she went—masculine ones, at least. Her light blond hair framed charming features, which included a pair of laughing blue eyes and a rosebud mouth. Her expression was never still, and due to the unevenness of her teeth, she always smiled with closed lips, giving an impression of mystique.

  “Come sit with me,” she commanded when he made no reply. “I never get to see you anymore. Charles tells me you’ve been suffering from melancholy. I do hope you haven’t been jilted by a lady. But if you have, she wasn’t worthy of you and must have been addled in her wits.”

  “You flatter me with your attentions,” James said, forcing a smile as she took him aside. “But if you think I’m going to apprise you of the details so you can gossip about me, I must disappoint you.”

  The dainty mouth turned down at the corners, then lifted once again. “Well, if you won’t talk to me, you can at least dance with me.”

  “But, surely, you don’t want to dance with a miserable partner. Unless…you wish to be seen with me to make a potential beau jealous?”

  “Such cynicism! But here’s Charles. We can all have a coze together.”

  As he was towed into a quiet corner of the drawing room, James appreciated how pleasant it was to be in a small house for a change. Sometimes the vastness of Birney House, and his own estates at Langley and Westwater, overwhelmed him. There was never any privacy, either from the servants or the curious gazes of the public who wandered about his house and grounds. Even when these were absent, he felt the dead eyes from the ancestral family portraits peering down upon him, and felt the weight of duty to marry, reproduce, and keep the name of Markham alive.

  Figheldene was a much better size—and its great age added to its interest. In fact, somewhere similar might be good for his veterans’ home, a place which was comfortable in scale, not massive and grand—which could be intimidating to simple soldiers. Although, some of the walls of such a modest structure would have to be knocked through to create large enough spaces for a communal dining room and a hospital wing.

  Philippa’s voice broke in upon his reverie. “You’re absolutely right, Charles,” she said.

  “I told you Tidworth has become a complete stick-in-the-mud.”

  She jutted her chin at James. “Well, if you won’t dance with me, I shall remind Mr. Fulton he requested a waltz, and make you jealous.”

  “I, too, am promised,” Charles s
tated, patting James on the arm. “Pray don’t sit here looking gloomy, but go into the hall and wander around making polite small talk with the guests. I know they’re thrilled to have such an illustrious personage as Viscount Tidworth in their midst and are dying to exchange a few words with you. You could drum up some support for all those worthy causes of yours.”

  “How good of you to remind me,” James responded with a lopsided smile.

  Charles winked at him and strode away.

  Making his way into the hallway, James stood for a moment in the midst of a milling crowd of people, wondering who to tackle first. But before he could decide, he felt a peculiar prickling sensation between his shoulder blades, exactly like the feeling he’d had at Waterloo when his instincts had saved him from a sniper’s ball.

  His breathing went shallow, and he turned around slowly to see who was staring at him with such palpable dislike. But there was no one. Then he looked up and saw faces peering down at him through the balustrade on the landing above.

  Willie and Mary Keane, dressed in their nightclothes. His shoulders relaxed as he raised a hand to wave. Their parents must have permitted them to stay up late to watch the dancing.

  But come to think of it, Mrs. Keane would never have allowed that—she was far too strict. Someone else must have.

  Yes, there was, indeed, a third face looking down at him. It must be the new governess Charles had mentioned in glowing terms. Was she really as attractive as he claimed?

  James’s gaze locked with a pair of dark eyes set in a pale, oval face.

  His breathing quickened.

  By God! He knew that face! It was the self-same woman who had delayed him on the road to Ashleaze Court, before his intended proposal to Belinda Carslake.

  The very woman whose thoughtless actions had been the undoing of his most cherished dream of wife and children.

  Fury swamped him, and the blood sang in his ears as he took the stairs two at a time.

  He would confront his nemesis! And bring her down.

  When he was finished with her, her job would be gone, her reputation in tatters, and her dreams as dashed and empty as his own.

  Chapter Six

  Alarm shot instantly through Emma at the all-too-familiar sight of the man below. She gasped in horror.

  Along with Willie and Mary, she’d been innocently watching the Keanes’ guests, reliving her bittersweet memories of the days when she would have been down there among them, one of the Quality. Fortunately, there’d been no one she recognized at the little soiree, for it wouldn’t do to be caught hanging about on the landing in nightgown and wrap, peering down at the gentry through the banisters like some kind of Cinderella.

  Then one guest, in particular, had caught her eye as he’d made the rounds in the hall. His noble bearing had first attracted her attention, as well as his splendid height. He’d looked so magnificent, she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him—despite her firm resolve never again to trust a handsome face. For long minutes she’d followed his progress around the room. Then suddenly, to her great consternation, she realized she recognized that perfectly proportioned body.

  Instead of sodden, muddy traveling clothes, he wore an elegant, long black tailcoat, which, if the lamplight reflecting from his broad shoulders was anything to go by, was entirely made of silk. This was partnered with spotless white silk breeches encasing his muscular legs, a patterned light waistcoat, and a fine linen shirt with a high collar supported by a stock that kept his handsome head elevated in a very grand manner. The close cut of his clothing accentuated the taut musculature of his figure, and she suddenly remembered with a flush how she’d run her hands over his chest and limbs as he lay sprawled on the muddy ground.

  And how much she’d enjoyed that illicit exploration.

  She’d not yet been able to see his face, but it had to be him. None other than the arrogant ingrate she’d met on her journey to Figheldene, and overheard in the garden last week with Charles. The transformation from drowned rat into Society Buck was quite remarkable. There was a restless energy about him—he looked like a clock wound up with its pendulum held in check, or a lion about to spring on its prey.

  Then the predator had stopped prowling and glanced about the room, as if sensing her gaze upon him.

  That was when he turned, looked up, and saw her.

  She froze, and so did he.

  Her heart pounded like a navigator’s mallet. It really was him. And, unhappily, he’d recognized her instantly.

  For seconds that stretched to an eternity, his eyes raked her face, and she gazed back at him in absolute horror. A hollow space opened up in her stomach, and had she not been clutching the stone balustrade, she might have swayed like a poplar in a gale.

  Then, suddenly, he was gone from her vision, only to appear moments later charging up the stairs like a rampaging bull.

  Desperate to avoid a scene which might cost her job, she swiftly urged the children back to the nursery and their beds, then she raced along the passageway and scampered into the schoolroom.

  She shut the door and fumbled with the key. She must lock it behind her!

  Too late. The latch lifted, and he was there in the room with her, his face looking positively demonic in the flickering light from the dying fire.

  Her heart quailed.

  Even though she was at a complete disadvantage, dressed only in her nightclothes and with no weapon at hand—not even her dignity—there was only one thing to do.

  Brazen it out.

  “So,” she said, lifting her gaze to his and smiling pleasantly, “I see you are recovered from your concussion. I assume you’ve recalled your name?”

  His eyes were pure granite as he glared down at her, his face set like stone. Even in anger, his features were incredibly handsome.

  Which only made her even more wary of him.

  “If there ever was a concussion,” he growled, moving toward her threateningly.

  “Of course there was. My brother is—”

  “Studying to be a doctor. Yes, so you mentioned. But your diagnosis, whether right or wrong, has cost me dear.”

  She lifted her chin higher. “I don’t see how me possibly saving your life could have been more than a minor inconvenience.”

  “Then please, let me explain.”

  But she was not to hear his explanation, for at that moment the sound of raised voices came from the passageway outside the schoolroom door.

  Could tonight get any worse? She recognized Charles’s voice and that of his father. In a heartbeat, they would be in the room and discover her in a state of dishabille—and alone with a man.

  She’d be turned out before breakfast and would have to return to Tresham in shame and humiliation.

  Swift as a striking snake, her companion caught her by the elbow and dragged her behind the long schoolroom curtains.

  Not a moment too soon. She heard the door open, and when she peeped through the crack between the heavy drapes, she saw Charles and Mr. Keane enter the room.

  Her captor held her about the waist with one arm while his free hand pressed against her lips. Not that she needed any warning to make not a sound. She was no more desirous of being caught in a compromising position with him than he was with her.

  How fortunate that she and he were enemies. She was experiencing the same heady excitement she’d felt when Elias placed his hands on her waist. Only now, the feeling was somehow heightened by the precariousness of their situation.

  She forced her limbs into rigidity and held her breath, silently praying neither Mr. Keane nor his son came anywhere near the window. The last thing she wanted was to be forcibly leg-shackled to the abominable man who held her.

  Mr. Keane was saying angrily, “I’ve been watching you flirt with every woman under the age of forty tonight. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you making eyes at Miss Hibbert, as well. I’ve told you before, it’s high time you stopped frittering your life away and settled down to either a useful occup
ation or a home and family. Remember, no lady of quality will take you if they discover you’ve been interfering with the servants.”

  Charles huffed and said, “Why do you have to bring up that old chestnut again? I’ve told you time and again I wasn’t the father of that slut’s babe, no matter how much she begged and wept and told you I was. It was a convincing display, but a false one, and I’m certain the culprit was an itinerant farm laborer. I have better taste than to lie with a servant.”

  Mr. Keane exhaled heavily. “Even so, Charles, we can’t risk gossip. Several of our friends have mentioned the rumor to me tonight, and I’ve put them off as best I could, but your behavior seems to confirm rather than deny the gossip about you.”

  Emma shivered. Overhearing this private conversation was awful. She shouldn’t be here. Nor should the man who kept her clamped firmly to his side. They should make their presence known before anything more damning was revealed. Regardless of the unpleasant consequences.

  She pulled at the arm that held her, but the gentleman’s grip was unyielding. Her hip pressed against his thigh, and she could feel the heat of him seeping through her nightgown, invading her with masculine certainty and allure.

  Allure? Great heaven, the man was not that attractive.

  No, she was just overwhelmed by the situation. Not overpowered by a compelling masculinity that made her knees weaken and her heart throb painfully.

  Absolutely not. She was not susceptible to such things. Not anymore.

  This man was clearly her enemy.

  Capable of ruining her life.

  Far too arrogantly handsome to be trustworthy.