Vanquishing the Viscount

by Elizabeth Keysian

Even as she pictured him pursuing her, she felt her cheeks flush. Good lord. She was acting like a schoolgirl, merely because a well-set-up gentleman had noticed her. Had she not learned her lesson with Elias? She must keep up her guard.

  The thought was bittersweet, for she longed to be gay and carefree as she once had been…especially tonight. She would not attend another splendid ball like this in a long time…if ever. Grateful for the mask that hid the gloomy expression this thought caused, she turned away from the crowd and sought refuge in a window embrasure. She needed a moment alone to gather herself.

  “Madam.”

  Good heavens, how could someone that tall move so quickly and unobtrusively? The man who’d been watching her now stood before her, trapping her in place with his body.

  She swallowed a gasp and plied her fan, needing him to step back a little. He was cutting off her air.

  When he didn’t move, but just stood gazing down at her, his mouth set in a grim line, she began to panic. Because suddenly, she once again remembered where she’d seen that tall, attractive male form before.

  Was she really that unlucky?

  Her voice quavered as she replied, “Sir?”

  “Come.” He thrust out his hand and seized hers.

  Her heart skidded to a halt, her limbs turned to water, and the only thing working was her racing mind.

  It was him.

  Viscount Tidworth.

  He knew she was no countess, and he was exactly the kind of person not to see the amusement in their innocent deception. Charles and Philippa’s Grand Jest would be exposed, and they’d all be sent home in disgrace.

  Unless he hadn’t recognized her and had something else in mind…

  “Do you mean to dance with me, my lord?” she asked, struggling to keep the tremor from her voice.

  “No. I mean to talk to you. Come with me, if you please,” he added, coldly polite.

  Her heart leaped to life again, fluttering like a trapped bird. How could she possibly accompany him? Charles and Philippa were the worst possible chaperones—they cared not what she did with herself, nor what compromising position she might land in because of their silly plan. Who would rescue her if something went horribly wrong? Charles would probably just laugh if she got into a scrape, and deny all knowledge of her.

  The grip in which Tidworth held her brooked no denial, however, so rather than appear to be dragged across the ballroom, she twisted her hand so their fingers meshed and allowed him to lead her off, keeping her head held high and her walk confident.

  With no memory of the route they’d taken, she found herself in a darkened room, alone with her captor. After releasing her to close the door behind them, he reached out a hand, ripped off her mask, and cast it to the floor.

  She froze in shock, feeling naked, violated at the brutality of this action. Then he dragged off his own mask and flung it down, too.

  She looked up into the hard blue-gray eyes and quivered at the enmity she saw there. Somehow, she found the voice to protest, “Sir! What do you mean by this ungentlemanly act?”

  “Pah!” he spat out, glowering at her. “If you were a lady, I might be expected to behave in a more gallant fashion, but as you are not, we’ll dispense with the niceties. What, pray, are you doing here? And pretending to be a countess?”

  Her hackles rose. “By what right do you ask that question? My affairs are no concern of yours.”

  “You don’t deny it, then?” His eyes narrowed. “I see. This will be some madcap scheme of Philippa’s or Charles’s, I assume? For, I know you’re just a governess in the Keanes’ employ, a Miss…Hibbard, I believe? It amuses you, does it, to make fools of the ladies and gentlemen who have so generously delved into their pockets in order to be here tonight? No doubt, you’ve made no charitable contribution, since a mere governess’s wages couldn’t possibly hope to meet the expense of a ticket.”

  “Hibbert,” she corrected with a lift of her chin. “And I can assure you that my ticket has been paid for. But I still don’t see what this matter has to do with you, my lord.”

  “Do you expect me to believe you don’t know this is my ball, organized to raise funds for my charity? That you don’t know this is my home? I’m entirely within my rights to have you thrown out into the cold as an impostor.”

  At his words, Emma’s confidence dissolved into consternation. “Y…your home?”

  “Well, my father’s, to be exact. The Earl of Rossbury. Neither he nor I approve of servants masquerading as guests.”

  The unfairness of this remark cut her to the quick. How she longed to correct him. She wasn’t truly a servant. She came from a great, ancient family! She wished for nothing more at this moment than to be back in their loving embrace.

  A tear sprang to her eye in the face of Tidworth’s disdain. “You don’t understand,” was all she managed to say.

  “Then help me to do so. Explain yourself.”

  Could she explain the situation without implicating Mr. Charles and Miss Keane? If Tidworth valued Charles’s friendship, he might be persuaded not to make a scene.

  “We meant no harm, my lord,” she replied. “It was meant to be a joke, but I realize under the circumstances how it could be taken amiss.”

  Why hadn’t Charles or Philippa told her it was a charity ball? Tidworth’s ball? Perhaps she should have asked for more information, but she’d been starved of fun for so long, she’d allowed herself to be talked into the harebrained plan far too readily.

  “I shall ask Mr. Charles to take me home directly,” she said contritely, eager for escape. She was feeling guilty and foolish.

  Tidworth’s eyes glinted. “I knew Charles was behind it. Did he coerce you? He can be very persuasive.”

  Yes, he could. And how should she have responded? Made an enemy of her employer’s son by refusing?

  “It would have been wise,” Tidworth went on, “if he’d informed me of this idiotic prank.”

  “It wouldn’t have been a prank if he’d told you,” she said, perhaps a trifle mulishly.

  “Noble of you to stick up for him, but he won’t thank you for it. Charles’s loyalties are somewhat…changeable.”

  She regarded Tidworth. “Those are not the words of a friend. I’m surprised Mr. Charles considers you such.”

  Did the man not realize he sounded like a pompous ass? It must be his usual state. He’d been just as unpleasant to her after he fell from his horse.

  Her guilt started to evaporate.

  “Now you’re sounding childish,” he said between his teeth. “What manner of governess is no better than her pupils? The Keanes should turn you out.”

  “How dare you!” she said with a gasp of affront. “You’re quite the most ungracious and ungrateful person I’ve ever met!”

  “And you are the most stubborn, illogical…impossible female I have ever had the misfortune to come across. If you only knew what your thoughtless actions have done to me. But no, I don’t wish to speak of it.”

  She unclenched her fists and made a supreme effort to control her temper. She was better than this.

  “What is my crime?” she demanded quietly. “Beyond having masqueraded at a masquerade? And even though I’m not a countess, I’m not as lowborn as you seem to think me.”

  He lowered his voice and moved closer, dipping his head so he could meet her gaze directly. “If you were born into a good family,” he said, “I can only think they’ve disinherited you due to some scandal, which is why you’ve had to go into service.”

  The urge to slap him was so strong it almost took her breath away. She had to leave. Before she did—or said—something she might really regret. Tears brimmed in her eyes but she couldn’t let the odious man see what he’d done to her.

  She bent and swept up her mask from the floor.

  “No, you don’t.” He stepped between her and the door.

  “Stand aside, sir.”

  “I will not. You will explain to me what you said just now, about your family.”<
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  “Why? Your only interest is to insult me. Let me go.”

  His voice softened. “Tell me what I wish to know, and I’ll release you.”

  “Oh, how very honorable of you. Very well, if you insist. But you must promise never to breathe a word of this to anyone. Especially not Mr. Charles.”

  Her tormentor straightened his shoulders. “You have my word,” he said crisply.

  She turned the masquerade mask over in her hands, keeping her eyes averted. “I come from a noble family fallen on hard times,” she said. “My brother and I are working so we can prevent the sale of the family home. We face ruin, but through no fault of our own.”

  “What’s the name of this family?”

  “That, sir, I would rather keep to myself.”

  “Couldn’t you just have sought a wealthy husband? Or are you too proud?”

  Horrible man—what right did he have to make such implications?

  “There was a lack of suitors.”

  “Indeed?” He sounded genuinely surprised, and she wondered if she ought to feel flattered. Then he spoiled it by saying, “You’re handsome enough, and not without character. But perhaps a little too much character, if our meetings are anything to go by.”

  She couldn’t let him get away with that. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, my lord, I’m not selfish, or immutable.”

  “Not immutable? Pardon me, but your insistence that I rest up at the Four Swans instead of continuing on my journey was implacable. There was simply no arguing with you.”

  “I thought only of your welfare. I would never have forgiven myself had I allowed you to ride on and you fell off your horse and killed yourself.”

  This seemed to give him pause for thought. Eventually, he said, “What was I to you? You didn’t even know me.”

  “Do you think I offer compassion only to viscounts? Had you been a person of the very lowest status, I would still have helped you.”

  He took a sharp breath, then blew it out slowly. Was she getting through to him, at last? “Perhaps I’ve judged you too harshly,” he admitted, “but you simply don’t know what that delay cost me.”

  No, she didn’t. It might help if he told her, but she wasn’t about to ask.

  The silence stretched between them. She could feel his gaze on her face, and eventually she could stand it no longer. Raising her eyes to his, she asked, “So, what happens now?”

  “I had sworn to hate you for eternity, but instead I find myself pitying you.”

  What? She straightened in affront. She didn’t want or need his pity. A little respect might be nice. But Hell would freeze over before she could get anything like that from him, no doubt.

  “I’d be obliged if you’d tie my mask back on for me,” she said stiffly. “Then I shall be out of your way.”

  She thrust the mask at him and was about to turn her back when the door suddenly burst open and a man dressed as a Venetian Harlequin erupted into the room.

  Charles! She was saved.

  Or was she…?

  Chapter Ten

  James stepped in front of Miss Hibbert in an attempt to shield her identity from whoever had burst in upon them, but he was a fraction too late.

  “Aha! Countess, I’ve tracked you down, at last.”

  James recognized the Harlequin. Charles Keane. Good. He had a thing or two to say to the miscreant.

  Charles didn’t remove his mask but perused the governess’s flushed face with insulting intimacy, then turned to James and said, “Why, Tidworth, you sly dog.”

  James clenched his fists. What the blazes did Charles think he was doing—having a tryst with the woman? Surely, his friend knew him better than that?

  The smile beneath the Harlequin mask faded.

  “My God, what have you been doing to the countess? You have put her quite out of countenance.”

  A cursory glance showed that he had, indeed, upset the girl. She dashed a hand across her eyes, tilted her elfin chin defiantly, and told Charles, “It’s no use, sir. Lord Tidworth has exposed our little subterfuge. Why didn’t you tell me the host of the ball was your friend? Or that it was for charity?”

  The woman’s bosom rose and fell enticingly in her tight bodice, contrasting nicely with the exaggerated width of her hips. What would she look like without all the cinching and padding, he wondered.

  Inappropriately.

  Damn. She might be comely, but he had no business noticing. She was opinionated, tempestuous, and could almost certainly be relied upon to do the wrong thing when her temper was roused. She’d done nothing but fight with him since the first moment they met, and there seemed little likelihood that would ever change.

  He’d had enough battles to last him a lifetime. Real battles, where men came at one with deadly weapons and hatred in their eyes. Whatever his future held, he was determined it would involve domestic felicity. Which was the last thing Miss Hibbert—no matter how enticing her person—could ever offer a man.

  “What a spoilsport you are, James!” Charles chided. “I have to say, I think you’ve been handling our poor countess a little too roughly, old fellow.”

  “Governess,” James corrected. No matter how noble her ancestors might once have been, she was a servant now.

  Still, it was a point of honor with him always to be courteous to servants. Whatever had goaded him to act so boorishly tonight?

  He took a calming breath. “I haven’t been handling her at all. As I recall, you’re the one who pursues all the attractive females,” he said, attempting a mischievous grin but probably failing at it.

  “Hah! Don’t believe a word of it, Miss Hibbert. I could tell you tales of his days at Oxford that would make your toes curl.”

  “But you won’t,” James said. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “Don’t give me that stiff-necked poppycock, James.” Charles’s face—or what could be seen of it—was ruddy and shining. How much had the fellow had to drink? The evening had barely begun!

  “I believe Miss Hibbert would like to be taken home now,” James said.

  “But we’ve only just arrived. Philippa will be devastated if you throw us out.”

  James rolled his eyes. No doubt true. And Miss Hibbert looked very downcast as well. He debated with himself for a long moment.

  Fine. Really, what harm had been done? With a groan, he said, “Very well. I have, perhaps, been rather too…judgmental.”

  He could feel Miss Hibbert look at him archly. She’d be thinking judgmental barely covered the rudeness he’d exhibited toward her.

  “There’s no need for the pair of you or Miss Hibbert to leave. On the condition that you don’t perpetuate this nonsensical rumor that your governess is a wealthy heiress. Let her remain a woman of mystery, and leave my guests to speculate for themselves.”

  He took the mask from Miss Hibbert’s hand and refastened it for her, earning a knowing smirk from Charles.

  For pity’s sake, why did his friend have to interpret everything as having some basis in lust? Admittedly, the lady was alluring—and up close, her silken locks smelled of honeysuckle, sensuous and sweet. But her disposition left far too much to be desired. He could never feel true affection for such a woman—and for him, affection meant a damn sight more than lust.

  His irritation must have shown in his face, for Charles stopped smiling, gave him a cursory bow, and ushered the governess from the room.

  James swung on his heel, stalked across to the desk, and collapsed into his chair. Then he reached for the whisky decanter and poured himself a generous glassful. Taking a sip, he swilled the liquor around the glass and gazed about him at the bulging bookshelves, the small portraits of long-dead ancestors in their gilded frames, and the cut-glass inkwells that reflected the flickering flames from the fire.

  The smells of old leather, pipe smoke, and beeswax soothed his nerves. Aside from Belinda’s perfidy, it had been a long time since anybody had upset him quite as much as the deceitful governess did every t
ime they’d encountered one another.

  But there was more to his bad mood than that, wasn’t there? He felt ashamed of the way he’d handled himself with her. Servant or no, the way he’d spoken to her was unpardonable.

  He tried to focus on the play of light on the whisky glass and rekindle his enthusiasm for the ball. But all he could see was the governess’s devastated face and the tears glistening in those hazel eyes at his harsh accusations.

  He’d never knowingly driven a woman to tears before. Miss Hibbert didn’t even know the true nature of her crime. Her play-acting tonight had been a touch paper to his emotions—emotions he’d held in check ever since Belinda had thrown him over for Cornwallis. And he’d unfairly taken it out on Miss Hibbert.

  It was time to stop blaming anyone but himself for that debacle. He should have acted sooner, asked Belinda for her hand as soon as he was sure she would make him the perfect wife. That was all there was to it.

  He’d spent so much time courting her, he’d been so certain they were made for each other, he’d never imagined she felt differently. There was the laughter they’d shared, the dances, the carriage outings, the walks, the stolen kisses. Mama had been right—Waterloo had become a mere shadow lurking at the edges of consciousness when the golden image of Belinda was before him.

  Belinda’s face faded, replaced in his mind’s eye by the sweet, sad face of Miss Hibbert. Why did this stranger, whom he’d met but thrice, have the power to move him to such an unaccustomed display of emotion? She clearly thought nothing of him, or his opinion—was that the reason? He wasn’t used to being disliked, but in her case, he’d made a total ass of himself, and thoroughly deserved her disrespect.

  He was an honorable man, so an apology was in order. For upsetting her, at least. He still couldn’t condone her pretending to be a countess, even in jest. Maybe one day he’d look back on this unfortunate incident and laugh about it with Charles.

  But not today. He was still too cross at being made a fool of.

  There was, however, something he could do today.

  Thumping the glass down on the leather surface of his desk, he leaped to his feet and set off in search of Miss Hibbert, determined to make amends.