Vanquishing the Viscount

by Elizabeth Keysian

  Shading her eyes against the sun, she waited as the rider dismounted. He started to doff his hat, then froze mid-movement, gaping at her as if he’d just seen a ghost.

  She blinked and looked at the man more closely. Then she, too, froze in consternation.

  Good heavens. It was Viscount Tidworth.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Emma! I mean…er, Miss Hibbert. Forgive me. I was quite taken by surprise.”

  Surprise didn’t even begin to cover it. James felt as if he’d fallen down some dark chasm, only to be jerked to a halt at the very last minute before hitting the ground.

  His senses reeled, and he would have stumbled if he hadn’t taken tight hold of Lawrie’s reins. Damn that dismal, mold-covered inn he’d rested at last night—they must have given him some spoiled meat.

  “Forgive me,” he said again. “I’m not quite myself. But is it truly you? Not some bizarre waking dream?”

  The vision of female loveliness stiffened her spine and said briskly, “Of course it is I. Good afternoon, my lord.”

  “James,” he corrected, smoothing his hair back from his damp forehead before replacing his hat. It was awfully humid this afternoon—small wonder he felt unsteady. “For a moment I thought I’d come upon a nixie emerging from the water.”

  He smiled weakly. Where had that utterance come from?

  “A nixie?”

  “No need to look offended, Miss Hibbert. A nixie is a water sprite, like the naiads of classical literature. Although, you probably won’t have read— Again, my apologies. My tongue runs away with me. May I inquire how I come to find you in such a place and in such…er, disarray?”

  Disarray that made her beauty shine out like a beacon. Like some nymph from a carved Roman relief, her hair rippled to her waist in waves of chestnut, edged with a halo of gold where a finger of sunlight penetrated the willow fronds. Her figure was as slender as the trees themselves, cinched in at the waist by a long apron. Her delicate forearms were bare to the elbow, and her small, elegant feet peeped out from beneath the dusty hem of her gown.

  As he struggled to find something sensible to say, a vision of Belinda flashed before his eyes. Belinda, with her guinea-gold curls, stylishly arranged, and her clothing primped and pressed to perfection—the complete opposite to Miss Emma Hibbert, who looked as if she’d sprung from the earth like an ancient goddess, shameless and untamed.

  His body responded viscerally, arousing something deeper, more primitive, than anything he’d ever felt for Belinda.

  Suddenly, he understood Charles’s designs on the young woman before him. But unlike Charles, he preferred love to be a matter of the heart, of the soul—not something born of lust.

  He’d almost forgotten he’d asked a question, when she tilted her chin at him and said, “I live here.”

  “Here?” He gestured at the pond.

  “No,” she said, her stiffness melting just a little. “Nearby, at Tresham Hall.”

  “Tresham Hall?” he repeated, removing his hat to wipe his forehead again. “Surely not? I understood the place was completely dilapidated, which is why it’s being sold.” By the owner, a Mr. d’Ibert, not a family called Hibbert.

  He’d said the wrong thing again, if her scowl was anything to go by.

  “Not at all dilapidated,” she refuted. “The house has been cleaned and tidied a great deal since I arrived. It’s being sold from financial necessity, not because it’s falling down.”

  Ah yes, she’d once told him her family had fallen on hard times.

  Then it struck him. What a complete numbskull! Hibbert—d’Ibert… Why had he failed to see the obvious similarity? Hibbert wasn’t her real name. She was a member of the d’Ibert family, and Tresham Hall was her home.

  In which case, she ought to be delighted he was interested in buying the place.

  “I’m pleased to hear it’s not in disrepair. I wish to look the place over with a view to purchasing it.”

  She stared at him as if he’d grown an extra head. “You’re interested in buying Tresham?”

  “Obviously, I’ll need to see it first. I need somewhere suitable for conversion into a veterans’ home.”

  “A veterans’ home?”

  “Indeed,” he said, warming to the subject. “Remember, I was raising funds for it at the masquerade ball? I think the soldiers and their families would be more at home in an older building. I’d probably have to remove some of the internal walls to create large spaces, and widen some of the corridors, but there’s now plenty of money in the pot for building works.”

  She lowered her head, and her expression was hidden by the fall of her hair. Had he said the wrong thing?

  Again?

  “I suppose I’d better show you the way, then,” she murmured. “Although I still have plenty to do here.”

  “And what exactly have you been doing?”

  “Clearing the hedgerows.”

  “Then you must allow me to assist,” he said decisively, shouldering out of his jacket. “It’s no job for a lady.”

  A peculiar growl erupted from her throat.

  He gazed at her in astonishment, and the sound, accompanied by a flash of her hazel eyes, reminded him she was no milk-and-water miss. She was a young lady of very decided character, with a temper not to be trifled with.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t capable.” He wondered how many more apologies he’d have to make before the day was out. It might be safer if he didn’t speak, at all.

  She seemed to remember her manners then, for she said very politely, “I will accompany you to Tresham and present you to my father. But first, could you give me some privacy to put my shoes and stockings back on? I’d prefer not to walk along the lane in bare feet.”

  As he turned his back, he thought of offering to put her up on Lawrie. His mind taunted him with the image of a barefoot, bare-headed maiden sitting on his horse, her hair draping her body like the legendary Lady Godiva.

  “I’m ready now, my lord.”

  He gave up on correcting her formal address and turned around. “Do you wish to ride?” The prospect of placing his hands around that slender waist to lift her up was exceedingly tempting.

  “Thank you, no. I’m quite happy to walk.”

  To his disappointment, her luxuriant locks had all disappeared inside a bonnet, and she looked quite respectable. Even so, the image of her as a water nymph refused to go away.

  Taking hold of Lawrie’s reins, he fell into step beside her, matching her pace easily with his long stride, his mind hunting frantically for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t require him to apologize.

  “This road seems well cared for, the fields and boundaries well tended. And I’ve never before seen such superlative hedgerows, so remarkably free of brambles and weeds.”

  She laughed at this, as he’d hoped she would.

  But the smile didn’t last. She gave him a long, assessing look and asked, “How is Philippa Keane?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I wondered if you’d heard anything of Miss Philippa. If she’d written to you from Brighton?”

  “I should say not. I’m not much of a correspondent. I so rarely have the time.”

  Her expression became one of suspicion. “So, you’re not corresponding with Miss Philippa?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “Are you, perhaps, devoting your time to the entertainment of your cousin, Miss Jemima Pitt?”

  He stepped around a pothole, brushing accidentally against Emma. She seemed not to notice, intent as she was on her inexplicable line of questioning. He, however, felt the thrill of that brief touch stampede through his body like a herd of buffalo.

  He coughed to distract himself. “I don’t devote myself to Jemima, no. Mama sees more of her than I do.” He glanced over at Emma curiously. “Am I somehow falling short of your expectations in not corresponding with, or finding ways of amusing these young females?”

  The sway of her nex
t step brought her toward him again, and their elbows touched once more. He groaned softly to himself and hoped that it was not too long a walk to Tresham.

  She was clearly in the midst of some internal conflict, for her eyes darted toward him and quickly away again, and her breast rose and fell with her rapid breathing.

  He waited patiently, keeping pace with her while his horse walked obediently alongside.

  Suddenly, she stopped and turned to face him. “I’m sorry. I just have to say this. You should not lead one lady on while at the same time courting another.”

  He came to an abrupt halt, gaped at her, then grasped Lawrie by the bit and stroked the animal’s silky nose, giving himself time to think. Whatever was she talking about?

  Thinking didn’t help.

  “At risk of seeming rude, I’ve not the slightest idea what you mean.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You had a tryst with Philippa in your room that night you stayed at Figheldene. Does she mean nothing to you, now that you’re courting your cousin? And what of Miss Carslake? Have you entirely given up hope there?”

  His jaw dropped even farther, and he was unable to utter a word in response.

  “I didn’t have you down for a rake, but it seems I was mistaken,” Emma said tartly.

  He struggled for breath, deeply offended by her accusation. Apparently, they were not to be friends, after all.

  “You should be ashamed, Emma, believing in tittle-tattle like that,” he exclaimed angrily. “My cousin’s a delightful young lady, but we have no designs upon each other. You must think me shallow, indeed. What kind of a man nurses a broken heart for a mere month or two before offering up the damaged article to some other female? I am not that kind of man. Nor did I encourage Miss Keane. But how do you know about that unfortunate misunderstanding? Were you eavesdropping?”

  She had the grace to look embarrassed, but it failed to diffuse his annoyance.

  “My room was above yours,” she said. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

  “You mean you had an ear to the floor! You take my breath away with your hypocrisy. How can you fire such accusations at me when you, yourself, have behaved like a common housemaid, listening at doors and…and floors, and reveling in gossip and the perceived faults of others? You’re a poor a judge of character if you think I’d lure my host’s impressionable daughter into my chamber in the depths of the night. I thought we’d reached some kind of truce, you and I. I can see I was wrong. “

  If he hadn’t had hold of Lawrie’s bit, he might have been tempted to take Emma by the shoulders and shake some sense into her—gently, of course. It was hurtful to hear such words from her mouth, more hurtful than he could ever have imagined.

  A look of fright crossed her face, so he relaxed his harsh expression and said softly, “Don’t worry. I shan’t let your opinion of me affect my decision with regard to purchasing Tresham Hall. However, I think maybe we should stop conversing, lest we end up at loggerheads again.”

  It was a coward’s way out, refusing to talk, but he really wasn’t feeling quite the thing, and their verbal sparring was wearisome. As for her view of him, it was a cruel blow. By the time they came within sight of the high chimneys of Tresham, his head was brimming with unspoken rebuffs, any one of which would have ignited their argument again.

  Thus it was a relief to be delivered into the polite, smiling care of Mr. and Mrs. d’Ibert, and to see the back of their beautiful, infuriating, unsettling daughter.

  Chapter Twenty

  Emma had spent a considerable part of the night struggling to work out her feelings regarding Viscount Tidworth. Luckily, he hadn’t accepted their offer of George’s room for the night, so she didn’t need to worry about his physical proximity.

  Which was just as well, as she found being near him extremely distracting.

  “The viscount seems much taken with the property,” said Papa as the family sat at breakfast the next morning.

  “Do you think so?” queried Emma’s mama. “I found him hard to read. A bit stiff and aloof. What is your opinion of him, Emma?”

  Emma flushed and poked at her breakfast roll. “Perhaps he’s not always like that,” she muttered. For what man would not be wary—and seemingly aloof—after the kind of inquisition to which she’d subjected him? It was none of her business which young woman—if any—he wanted to pay court to. Heaven forbid she gave the impression she cared.

  “Very high in the instep,” continued Mama. “But also diplomatic, considering this sale has been forced upon us.”

  Papa stopped sawing at his bacon and said, “My dear, what do you expect from the future Earl of Rossbury?” He looked over at Emma and went on, “How remarkable that you already knew him. Maybe that will work in our favor. Do you think, now he knows you are a d’Ibert rather than a Hibbert, he’ll reveal your status to your employers? That could be embarrassing.”

  Not just embarrassing, thought Emma, fanning her cheeks with a napkin. It could cost her her job. Not to mention bringing all their creditors clamoring around, demanding settlement of their bills.

  But if Tresham were sold, they’d be able to pay those bills.

  Buttering another roll, Mama said, “Emma, I think you should show the viscount around the gardens today.”

  “Oh, but the hedgerow! I’m not quite finished.”

  “I’m not having you working on that hedgerow while he’s here.”

  “I care nothing for his good opinion.”

  Her mother’s knife clattered onto her plate. “Emma, I won’t have it said we lost our respectability along with our good fortune. Now, if you’ve finished pushing your breakfast around your plate, you can go up and put on your best gown and your claret pelisse, along with your Sunday bonnet.”

  Resisting the temptation to roll her eyes and protest that she was perfectly capable of choosing her own apparel, Emma went upstairs to prepare for Tidworth’s next visit.

  After changing her clothes, she could find no occupation that stopped her stomach lurching each time she heard a noise outside. The longer she waited, the more violent the sensation, until she thought she must be ill. Finally, a good hour later than expected, Tidworth hove into view atop his splendid stallion.

  She walked out to greet him, grateful that her bonnet threw her face into shadow, concealing the heat that burned in her cheeks. She couldn’t understand why he affected her so, like a green girl with a tendre. She didn’t even like the man!

  He leaped from his horse, staggering a little before handing the reins to the family’s one remaining groom. As he came toward her, his gait was awkward, and she wondered if he’d stayed up late carousing the night before.

  She hoped he had.

  Then she could go back to despising him.

  His voice as he greeted her was surprisingly soft, with no hint of the irritation or loftiness of the previous day. Taking her hand with the utmost courtesy, he conveyed it to his lips and asked after her health and that of her parents.

  All very right and proper. Yet there was something different about him today—besides the fact that he might be suffering from having been in his cups the night before. Perhaps he was more fluid in his movements, more relaxed in her company, and more at home after his initial visit to Tresham.

  “You will see I’m no coward,” he said. “I’ve come again, ready to face whatever vile slander you want to throw at me.”

  Ignoring his taunt, she said, “I’ve been asked to show you around the gardens today.”

  His gray eyes twinkled. “Are we to have a chaperone?”

  “I’m of an age where that won’t be necessary.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of you. I was thinking of myself—I might need protection from your cutting disapproval.”

  Her head snapped up. He was teasing her? Maybe even fishing for compliments?

  But why?

  “I shall endeavor to curb my tongue,” she promised, smiling deliberately up at him.

  “Excellent. Then let’s begin
our perambulations.”

  The next quarter of an hour was spent in companionable conversation as she escorted the viscount around the gardens. The kitchen and herb gardens—as well as the espaliered fruit trees—had been kept in good repair, but the ancient knot and flower gardens were choked with brambles and cleavers. The roses, stocks, and clove pinks gifted their fragrance to the welcoming summer breeze but grew untidy if unchecked.

  “Of course, all this will have to be cleared,” Tidworth said, gazing from the organized chaos of the flowerbeds to the wild woods beyond.

  “I beg your pardon?” A beat of panic awoke in her breast.

  “I mean, these narrow pathways won’t suit the veterans. Some have Bath chairs, invalid chairs, and crutches, so I’d need to take up the gardens and put down plain lawns. They could walk as far as they liked then, without fear of catching on something, or tripping.”

  Her heart squeezed painfully. But she loved these gardens!

  “Surely, just a little pruning would make the pathways more accessible?”

  “Too costly in the long run. A lawn would require less maintenance.”

  She pondered this for a while, biting down on her lip. “And what of the house interior? Will that be suitable for your veterans’ needs?”

  It hadn’t occurred to her that some of the soldiers Tidworth wanted to help would be physically impaired. She’d just assumed they were elderly, veterans of older conflicts than the Napoleonic wars.

  “The interior would have to be gutted to open out spaces for an infirmary and dining hall, and the floors must be dug deeper to give the rooms more height. The windows would need replacing, as well, as they admit too little light. Many veterans have problems with their eyes, you understand—damage from dust, splinters, and smoke.”

  He didn’t notice she’d stopped walking alongside him until he reached the end of the old brick path leading to the walled garden. When he turned to her with a questioning frown, she clenched her fists, ready to do battle. How could he possibly desecrate her family home like this? He was going to rip out the very heart of Tresham! He might as well just demolish the place and start anew.