Vanquishing the Viscount

by Elizabeth Keysian

  The sound of laughter jerked him from his disturbing thoughts. Some of the boats and a punt had been brought out and were being sculled inexpertly around the island. He should offer to take some of the children out later—he loved hearing their squeals of delight at the speed of his rowing.

  He looked for Emma again, but she was no longer sitting where she had been. His mouth suddenly dry, he cast about for Charles, but he was nowhere to be seen, either.

  Panic gripped him. This was the moment that would make or break his future hopes.

  He walked across to the buffet table, realized he wasn’t hungry, and stalked back to find a seat on the blankets. But he couldn’t stay there, either. Every position was uncomfortable, and there were no conversations he was interested in joining. To calm himself, he began walking along the margins of the lake…and caught sight of a woman disappearing into the recently erected Greek temple.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. He recognized that gown—Emma’s. Why Charles had to drag her quite so far away from the company to have his private conversation, James couldn’t fathom. Couldn’t they just converse as they walked, instead of disappearing into the Stygian gloom of one of the follies?

  It was no good. He had to go and find them. Not to eavesdrop, but to be on hand should Emma need him. Charles was apt to sulk when disappointed—or even cut up rough—and James didn’t want Emma to be on the receiving end of one of his friend’s temper tantrums.

  Correction: erstwhile friend.

  He half walked, half ran to the colonnaded pavilion of the folly, then paused by the open door and peered inside. The circular chamber was fed with light by a central oculus in the domed roof. Bathed in a golden glow in the middle of the floor—and clenched in a tight embrace—were Emma and Charles.

  James’s heart turned to lead, and he looked away, biting down hard on his knuckles.

  He’d gambled everything on a woman’s heart—and lost.

  A muffled cry brought his head around sharply. Emma was stamping down hard on Charles’s foot and attempting to wrestle herself free. Each time his head darted forward to kiss her, she pulled away. The expression on her lovely face was not one of desire.

  It was one of disgust.

  James saw red.

  The next instant, Charles was flailing about on the stone floor, and Emma was safe behind James, protected by his body.

  Charles scrambled to his feet, his face a mask of fury. “You pushed me down! How dare you push me down!”

  “Count yourself lucky I didn’t punch you,” James returned ominously.

  “I should knock you down for that,” Charles said, squaring up to him. “You damn well deserve it.”

  James didn’t move a muscle. “You’re welcome to try,” he said.

  He watched impassively as Charles looked him up and down, weighed his chances, then lowered his fists and stood glaring at him malevolently.

  When Emma made a small noise of distress behind him, he reached a hand back to reassure her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t hit him in front of you, much as I want to draw his cork for manhandling you like that. Charles, it’s time you excused yourself from this house party.”

  “But I’ve been enjoying myself—until now, that is.”

  James raised an eyebrow and just stared at him.

  Flashes of angry red appeared on Charles’s cheekbones. “You always were on the wrong side of arrogant, James,” he spat out.

  “That’s enough. I don’t want to cross swords with you in front of Miss d’Ibert, and if you had anything of the gentleman in you at all, you wouldn’t, either.”

  His former friend looked at him balefully, held his gaze for several heartbeats, then relaxed his shoulders. “Very well, I’ll leave. But you must stand by your part of our bargain. You won’t say a word to Aunt Letitia or Papa?”

  “I’m a man of my word. Goodbye, Charles. From this moment on, I no longer consider myself your friend.”

  “I shan’t lose any sleep over it,” Charles said sourly. He smoothed down his jacket and ran a hand through his hair before marching down the steps of the temple and off in the direction of the house.

  James felt a brief moment of regret over the lost friendship. True, Charles had always had his flaws. It was just a shame he hadn’t been able to overcome them as he matured. Perhaps one day he would.

  James then turned to face Emma, his heart kicking up to a rapid tattoo in his chest. Apart from looking a little pale, she appeared relatively unruffled.

  “Bravo, Emma,” he said lightly. “You were making a good defense of yourself.”

  She grimaced. “I’m mortified! I wish you hadn’t witnessed that. Nonetheless, I’m so grateful you came along.”

  That sounded promising. Did it mean the crisis was over?

  He stared up at the oculus, all emotion suspended. “Did he propose to you?” he asked.

  She cleared her throat. “He did, much to my surprise—and alarm. But without any enthusiasm. That didn’t come until after I refused him.”

  The oculus misted, but James blinked it back into clarity and allowed himself to breathe again. “The dog!” he muttered. “I wish I had planted him a facer. But it would be wicked to draw blood in the presence of a lady.”

  “You forget,” she said, gazing up at him with a growing smile, “I have no fear of blood. My brother is studying to be a doctor.”

  She was teasing him.

  Which gave him hope.

  Looking down at her smiling rosebud mouth, he ached to feel it beneath his. But she’d already been mauled by one gentleman in the last few minutes and wouldn’t welcome the experience again so soon. Remembering his vow to woo her slowly, he offered her his arm.

  “There’s boating on the lake,” he said. “I’ll row you out later if you like. Do you feel up to returning to the picnic?”

  Her fingers tightened on the sleeve of his coat and a look of disappointment swept over her face, making him want to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

  But this was neither the time nor the place.

  Keeping his expression neutral, he helped her carefully down the steps and back onto the path, but his thoughts were in turmoil. There was so much he needed to say, so much he wanted to ask, but he didn’t know where to begin. It was probably best they make their way back to the picnic in companionable silence, rather than risk making a mull of things.

  He was so thrilled by the success of his plan and the renewal of his hopes, he couldn’t eat a thing. The need to speak to Emma privately, to begin the task of fixing her heart on him, was gnawing at his insides. Sitting next to her, trying to make normal conversation with her brother and Jemima, taxed him to the point of nervous exhaustion.

  After no more than a few minutes, he could take no more. “Miss d’Ibert, would you like me to take you out on the—”

  He got no further. A warning shout from behind him was followed by a splash and a piercing scream.

  Spinning around, he saw a little boat rocking wildly on the lake with a small child clinging inside it. Someone else was splashing madly about in the water. People leaped to their feet, uttering gasps of horror as they took in the situation.

  With reflexes honed by his boxing bouts, James reacted before the company could draw its next breath. Shrugging out of his jacket, he flung it into Emma’s arms and ran swiftly to the water’s edge. There was no time to take off his boots—a child could drown in that time. He waded through the sucking mud and the shallows, and when he deemed it deep enough, he thrust forward and swam to the still-rocking boat.

  A few strokes brought him to the struggling child. Treading water, he heaved her sodden weight up and managed to get her back into the boat without capsizing it. The blood thrummed in his ears so loudly he could barely hear the other child screaming. His only thought was to get the two of them safely to the bank.

  Rather than risk tipping the boat over by climbing in himself, he took a few deep breaths and heaved the boat around so the prow
was facing the shore. Then he set his shoulder to it and started to swim, pushing it before him. When his feet struck the bottom, he stood up and waded, pulling the boat along.

  He was immediately surrounded by other gentlemen helping to beach the craft. His body ached from his efforts, but he ignored the pain. Though his vision was blurred by water and shock, he was able to see the two girls carried to safety. When he saw George bending over the child who’d fallen in, he knew he was no longer needed and collapsed onto the lawn, his chest heaving.

  Emma was beside him instantly, pale and shaken. She tried to return his jacket but he waved it away— There was no point in getting that soaked, as well. He looked across at the group huddled around the child, heard some spluttering coughs, then saw a ripple of relief flow through the onlookers.

  “She’s all right,” Emma told him. “George has got her breathing normally. She’ll be better in no time—children are built tough. Now, we need to get you out of these wet clothes.”

  “No matter. They’ll dry soon enough in this heat.”

  His breath was starting to ease, his heartbeat settling back to a more regular rhythm. But his mind was still in shock—such an ugly, frightening thing to happen so soon after the euphoria of his victory over Charles. The accident could so easily have become a tragedy.

  Gazing over at Emma, he attempted a smile. “While everyone’s attention is focused elsewhere, could you please help me out of my boots? The leather will swell, and I won’t be able to get my feet out of them for days, just as at Waterloo. Though I fear it will undermine your dignity, and you may get muddy.”

  “I don’t care about that,” she said, and set to it with a will. The first boot came off with a plop and landed in a dripping mess on the grass. The other followed soon after, and he removed his stockings and stood. The trek across the gravel into the house would be painful in bare feet, but he’d just have to grit his teeth.

  Emma was wiping her muddy hands on the grass. There was black, noisome mud plastered down the front of her gown, but her eyes were on him, her face full of concern. “We must get you back to the house and into some dry clothes,” she said.

  “And we must get you back to the house and into some clean ones,” he responded with a smile.

  Together, they made their way back into the atrium, Emma holding her muddy skirts out and away from her petticoats, and him carrying his ruined Hessians, leaving a trail of water behind him.

  She insisted on seeing him to his room and putting him into the care of his valet, who was given strict orders to get him dry and warm as soon as possible and to inform either herself or George should he develop the shivers.

  “A dousing like that might just bring back another bout of the ague,” she explained, her hazel eyes somber, a small frown on her brow.

  History was repeating itself, but this time he had no complaint. Forgetting the presence of his valet, he caught her face between his hands. “Don’t worry—I’m strong. My body’s learned to cope with far worse than a little energetic swimming. Now, let me go inside before I ruin Colt Hoare’s carpet. Thank you for your assistance. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  He’d rather see her before dinner. In his room, alone, so he could collect on the promise of her kiss.

  And he also wanted her in his bed, naked, married to him—and in love with him.

  He knew it was a lot to hope for.

  But nothing on earth would make him give up now.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “Thank you for your assistance” wasn’t quite the response Emma had hoped for after the dramatic events of the day.

  When she saw James cleave through the water to rescue the drowning child, her feelings for him had shot way past the bounds of propriety. A lengthy, reassuring kiss before parting would have been most welcome.

  Something more would have been even better.

  Consequently, she couldn’t hide her disappointment when the valet politely closed the door on her.

  She wandered off, bereft.

  At least now she knew which room was James’s—and it was just around the corner from the one she was sharing with Jemima. She went into her chamber and called for the maid. Between them, they removed her filthy gown and put her to rights again.

  After the maid’s departure, Emma lurked about with her door open, hoping to hear James leave his room so she could catch and speak to him privately. This plan was ruined by the arrival of an overexcited Jemima, who was clutching a man’s jacket in her arms.

  “Oh, Emma, did you see George?” she asked. “He was so commanding. He just stepped in, made everyone stand back, and set to work at once getting the water out of that poor girl’s lungs. He explained it all to me afterward. How wonderful it must be to have the gift of life in your hands! Had I been born a man, I’d have liked to become a physician.”

  “There’s nothing to stop you from learning and practicing household medicine,” Emma replied.

  Was this girl the perfect foil for her brother? She obviously admired him.

  “James was brave, too, wasn’t he?” Jemima rattled on. “While everyone else stood around in shock, he just threw himself into the lake and swam like a fish and pulled the girls to safety. This is his jacket, by the way—you left it on the lawn.”

  “Oh.” Emma took it and laid it on the bed, then gave a secret smile.

  Here was the perfect excuse to knock on James’s door. With any luck, he’d answer it himself.

  Jemima was on her knees on the window seat, peering outside. “They’re all coming up now,” she said. “We abandoned the picnic, as everyone was so upset, even though the outcome was good. The children’s parents are complete ninnyhammers not to watch them more closely. It must have taken the girls several minutes to launch the boat themselves and row it out so far, yet no one saw or stopped them.”

  “Children are very good at staying out of sight when they want to,” Emma remarked, thinking of her two charges back at Figheldene. How far away, how long ago that seemed now!

  “They may even have launched from the other side of the lake,” Emma pointed out, “and been hidden by the island. I daresay the truth of the matter will be gone into most carefully, to make sure such a near tragedy never occurs again. I pity Sir Richard! He won’t want any more house parties for a while. He went white as a sheet when the child was in the water.”

  Jemima leaned out of the window once more, and exclaimed, “Oh, here’s George coming in. I’ll run down and congratulate him again. Where did you get to, by the way?”

  “I helped James off with his boots and had to come in because I was muddy. Is the child now fully recovered, do you know?”

  She should have asked that question first. How selfish of her to let her concerns for the child be overridden by her desire for its savior.

  “Oh, what a nuisance for you,” Jemima was saying. “Can your gown be rescued?”

  “It’s only mud. If treated quickly, I’m sure it won’t stain. Now run along and speak to George before he disappears into his room and doesn’t come out until dinnertime.”

  After Jemima’s departure, Emma sat down on the bed, staring at James’s jacket. After a moment, she reached out to stroke the beautifully finished fabric. It was strange to find the jacket cold to the touch and inanimate. Without its wearer, it was no more than a limp piece of cloth. She brought the collar up to her face and breathed in, inhaling the spicy combination of scents that made her think only of James.

  There was something heavy in the breast pocket. She felt its familiar oval shape, pulled it out, and opened it.

  The portrait sketch he’d made of her, all those months ago, was still there. All this time he’d kept it, nestled against his heart. How often had he taken it out and looked at her likeness and thought about her?

  She was inundated by a flood of guilt. How could she have mistaken his motives so? It all began to make sense now—why he’d wanted to hold her when he was ill, why he’d decided to buy Tresham, why he had his moth
er take her up and restore the name of her family.

  It had all been done for her. Not by chance, not from gratitude, but out of love.

  Not only that, but his heart had remained true, even though he hadn’t shown it outwardly. He might be handsome, but he wasn’t fickle, and he wasn’t faithless. He was nothing like Elias Hartley, Earl of Overcrich.

  There was no studied charm, no artifice about James. His word was his bond. He would never dream of toying with a woman as Elias and Charles had toyed with her. Everything he’d done had been dictated by his heart. A heart that could—and should—be hers, if only she could find a way to make amends for how she’d treated him.

  Any last traces of doubt that she loved him were scattered to the four winds. A powerful feeling uncoiled deep in her belly, tugging at her like an invisible cord that joined her to James. It had lain there for months, getting gradually stronger, but so subtly she’d barely noticed its growth. So much had happened to distract and confuse her, yet all the while there’d been this connection with him—if only she’d had eyes to see it.

  It was as much as she could do not to march straight into his room and demand he marry her, there and then. It was imperative she seize the first opportunity to tell him she was ready to love him back. She’d take the jacket to him right now and make sure he understood that she’d never cared for, nor encouraged Charles.

  Standing outside James’s door, the jacket clasped against her breast, she knocked gently. Anticipation made her heart pound like a steam hammer, making her disappointment all the more poignant when the door was opened by James’s valet. He took the jacket from her with a polite expression of thanks, informed her that the viscount was taking a rest, and closed the door again.

  Curse it! Now she’d have to wait until dinner. But her mind was made up—even if she had to drag him into a cupboard to tell him of her feelings, she’d do it.

  Dinner was held early that night because luncheon had been so truncated. The two girls involved in the boating incident were brought before the dinner guests and apologized very prettily for being such a nuisance. They thanked their saviors so charmingly that it brought a tear to the eye of everyone, even the Countess of Rossbury.