The Reluctant Viscount

by Lara Temple

  As a poor relation of the old Lord Delacort, effectively living in Mowbray on his charity, Adam had had few illusions about his ability to compete. He should have been suspicious when Rowena started encouraging his attentions, but at the time he had only been convinced that love was triumphing over lucre.

  She had played him skilfully, ultimately convincing him that an elopement was their only chance for happiness. Yet he’d found their ‘secret’ rendezvous near the White Hart had been transformed into a scene from the worst music-hall farce with Rowena playing the kidnapped belle, himself as villain, Lord Moresby as Sir Galahad and most of Mowbray as either condemning chorus or avid audience.

  He clearly remembered the scene, with his mother standing shoulder to shoulder with old Lord Delacort, demanding he leave that very day, while his father had stood mutely by, eyes downcast. And then there’d been the anticlimax of the farce as the young Miss Drake had elbowed her way past Lord Delacort and demanded that Rowena admit she had planned this all along. Rowena had cleverly fallen into a swoon, judiciously finding herself in Lord Moresby’s arms, and Adam’s fate had been sealed.

  ‘Not Carthage! Dido is done to death!’ a voice exclaimed and Adam turned around, dragged back from his memories. A man of about sixty was walking down the lane, slightly hunched and with his hands clasped behind his back. He caught sight of Adam and stopped, one hand on the cottage gate, the other extending an accusing finger in Adam’s direction.

  ‘Carthage will just not do! A different setting is called for!’

  His eyes were a paler green than Miss Drake’s, but this was unquestionably the acclaimed poet William Drake.

  ‘What about Glasgow?’ Adam offered.

  ‘Glasgow?’ the poet asked, aghast.

  ‘It is certainly different,’ Adam explained.

  They both turned at the sound of a husky laugh.

  ‘Why not, Father? You might start a new literary fashion,’ Alyssa said as she stepped out of the cottage and headed up the short gravel path towards the gate.

  ‘Are you acquainted with this philistine?’ Mr Drake demanded.

  ‘This is Lord Delacort, Father. Lord Delacort, this is my father, Mr William Drake.’

  ‘Aha! You are the hedonist!’

  ‘Father!’ Alyssa exclaimed angrily, but Adam merely laughed.

  ‘You honour me, Mr Drake, but I doubt the original Greek hedonists would consider me worthy of the title. And I don’t think philistine is quite appropriate either. Perhaps you might care to try again? Third time lucky?’

  Alyssa giggled and her father threw her a venomous look, swinging open the cottage gate, which gave a squeal of protest.

  ‘Alyssa, did you find the name of Aeneas’s brother-in-law?’

  ‘Alcathous, Father.’

  ‘Alcathous, of course. Well, I am not to be bothered further today. My Aeneas is at a most delicate stage. Good day, Lord Delacort.’

  Alyssa remained standing by the gate as her father stalked into the cottage.

  ‘I am so sorry he—’ she began ruefully, but he cut her off.

  ‘Don’t apologise. You are not accountable for him.’

  She frowned at the annoyance in his voice and pushed slightly at the gate, which squealed again.

  ‘Fine. I won’t. You are as bad as he is anyway.’

  ‘Now, that is a worthy insult. Much more effective than your father’s.’

  She smiled reluctantly and as her eyes settled on the book in his hand she flushed.

  ‘I was wondering if you planned to return my book. Mr Milsom was mortified when he realised you hadn’t delivered it as promised.’

  ‘I almost didn’t. I am only on the fifth chapter. But form prevailed. Do you mean to say this book is for you? Somehow I had thought it must be for your father.’

  Her eyes lit up with laugher once more, but there was embarrassment there as well.

  ‘Hardly. Father does not indulge in reading fiction. He considers all contemporary writing outside of his own to be a waste of ink and paper.’

  ‘How very broad-minded of him. Still, tales of intrigue in the Sicilian court are hardly conventional reading material for a young woman.’

  She shrugged and the light was extinguished from her eyes, as if a cloud had passed between her and the sun.

  ‘You are an authority, then, on young women’s reading habits? Why shouldn’t a woman read, or even write, about adventures, and travel…or whatever she wishes?’

  Adam raised his hands in surrender.

  ‘I’m not saying they can’t or shouldn’t. Merely that they usually don’t, that is all. I should have known no standard definition would apply to you. I apologise for even suggesting it might.’

  ‘Your apologies are almost worse than your insults, Lord Delacort. Admitting that I might be right on the grounds that I am peculiar is hardly flattering. If that was even your objective, which I doubt!’

  ‘Not peculiar. Special,’ he offered. ‘Exceptional?’

  She shook her head, but one dimple threatened to appear.

  ‘I can see you are well used to trying to talk yourself out of trouble. But if this is a sample of your usual efforts, I am surprised you have managed to survive so far.’

  ‘I am usually more skilful. Fearing for one’s life tends to sharpen one’s focus. Here, take your book. I will ask Milsom for another copy so I can find out what happens after that very improbable hero tries to… Sorry, I shouldn’t reveal the plot…’

  Her brows drew together in a puzzled frown and again she looked much more like the resolute but overwhelmed young girl he remembered from years ago.

  ‘It seems strange that you might enjoy a fictional adventure after you have lived through real ones,’ she said wistfully.

  ‘Real adventures are rarely as enjoyable as fictional ones, Miss Drake. My strongest memories of my so-called adventures are of fear, hunger, dirt and a very firm resolve never to find myself in a similar situation again if I were lucky enough to survive. Unfortunately I tended to forget these resolutions all too often when either curiosity or greed came into play. But for now I intend to only pursue adventures in printed form.’

  He held out the book once more, but she shook her head.

  ‘You may finish reading it, then. I am busy anyway. Perhaps it will keep you out of trouble. Were you heading into town?’

  ‘Just wandering.’

  Her eyes met his and they softened.

  ‘Ten years is a long time,’ she said sympathetically.

  ‘True. I think the Hungry Tree has shrunk.’

  Her laughter rolled out, husky and infectious. He moved towards the gate.

  ‘Why on earth are you still here?’

  Her brow contracted in confusion.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why are you still living here, in Mowbray? You must be, what…twenty-six or twenty-seven? You should have been married and as far away from your parasite of a father as possible.’

  To his surprise she didn’t seem offended. Her eyes shone with amusement and he noticed now that she had only one dimple, conveying an impression of reined-in mischief. Or an internal battle between warring inclinations.

  ‘And how is marriage any better? I believe I have a great deal more freedom than most wives.’

  ‘But hardly the same benefits.’

  Her eyes met his with a disconcerting directness. A slight flush spread across her cheekbones, but there was nothing coy or flirtatious in the look. Still, he was disconcerted by the tightening of his body. Without thinking he took another step towards the gate, but stopped as three figures on horseback appeared over the rise, heading in their direction.

  Alyssa turned towards them, her face losing its animation, warning him what was coming before he even recognised the riders. H
e sighed in resignation as Rowena, Lord Moresby and Percy approached. He would have happily avoided this particular meeting, but he knew he would have to deal with this moment eventually. It was best to get it over with sooner rather than later. He stood by the gate inspecting the woman who had changed the course of his life and he felt a sudden stab of disappointment and a sensation of being quite old.

  Rowena was undoubtedly beautiful, but he could hardly credit he had ever been young enough to have acted as he had. There had been so many women since her, some even more beautiful than her perfect English porcelain loveliness, but none had ever excited the kind of do-or-die fervour he vaguely remembered she’d inspired in him.

  Though her betrayal had been very effective in wrenching him out of his infatuation, in some corner of his mind he had sometimes wondered what it would be like to see her again. The reality, as he watched her pull up her horse a few yards from him, was both a relief and a disappointment.

  Even her demeanour now, with her lips slightly parted, her eyes cast down in patently false modesty, was as artificial as any actress on stage. He had fallen in love with a beautiful statue and endowed her with all manner of fine qualities which had absolutely nothing to do with the object of his desire. He felt a flicker of both contempt and pity for the boy he had been, that he hadn’t been able to see what even the young Miss Drake had seen so clearly.

  ‘Good morning, Alyssa.’ Rowena nodded in Miss Drake’s general direction, but her gaze was on Adam, her lashes dipping over her lovely eyes. ‘Welcome back to Mowbray, Lord Delacort. Percy tells us you have already met since your return and I believe you know my husband, Lord Moresby?’

  The power of form over inclination carried them through the necessary polite exchange, but as soon as was decently possible Lord Moresby urged his horse onwards, his jaw set and his face flushed. Rowena, holding her playful mare easily, followed, her smile as serenely self-satisfied as a cat with the remains of a mouse between her paws. Surprisingly Percy lingered for a moment, bowing to Miss Drake with a boyish smile.

  ‘I trust I will see you, Mrs Aldridge and Miss Aldridge at the Assembly on Thursday, Miss Drake?’

  ‘I believe so, Mr Somerton.’

  ‘Lovely, I am looking forward to it.’ He smiled, not in the least abashed by her stiffness towards him. He turned to Adam and nodded abruptly in strong contrast to his sunny approach to Miss Drake, then rode off. Adam turned back to see her watching the riders disappear around a bend in the lane, her mouth tight. He felt quite tired suddenly.

  ‘So this is what it is going to be like. The sooner I get out of Mowbray, the better.’

  ‘At least it won’t be boring,’ she offered and he laughed.

  ‘I think that is a Chinese curse—may you live in interesting times.’

  ‘You have been to China?’ Her eyes lit up. But just as quickly, the proper young woman reasserted control and she half-turned towards the cottage. ‘I apologise. I dare say it is tedious to be asked questions about your travels all the time. Good day, Lord Delacort.’

  ‘Was Percy referring to a dance at the Assembly Rooms?’ he asked and she turned back, her brows rising.

  ‘Yes. They have one every Thursday during summer. Why? You don’t actually mean to attend, do you?’

  ‘Why not? It might be amusing.’

  ‘Amusing…’

  ‘Yes, amusing. As in diverting. Entertaining. After all, this is now my home, at least for the next couple of weeks. It is time I became reacquainted with my neighbours.’

  She stood, hands on hips, inspecting him suspiciously, the way she might look at her siblings when they were up to mischief.

  ‘You do expect the worst of me, don’t you?’ he asked sardonically.

  ‘Of course not. I was just wondering… You must do as you please.’

  ‘I usually do.’

  ‘That much is obvious if even half of what one hears is true,’ she replied with disdain and he felt a surge of annoyance. Everywhere he went in this perfect little corner of England he found more proof that propriety equalled sanctimonious dishonesty. For a moment he had actually thought this peculiar young woman might be cut of a different cloth, but it was all in the trimming—underneath she was the same as all the rest. She might have started out differently, but everything about her now was a statement of conformity. Even the well-tended garden that had replaced the wild jungle of ten years ago was testimony of her descent into grace. The familiar urge to undermine, to topple, prodded at him.

  ‘Probably more than half, sweetheart. And you never answered my question.’

  ‘What question?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘And don’t call me sweetheart. You may delight in upsetting people, but I don’t.’

  ‘Did I call you that? A slip of the tongue. And you are still avoiding my question. Why did you never marry and get out of here? Are you too scared to leave the comfort of Papa’s tyranny or did no one ever ask?’

  She stared at him, her mouth slightly open in shock.

  ‘Are you doing this on purpose? If you think the fact that I am unmarried gives you leave to insult me, you have forgotten who you are dealing with, Adam!’ She turned abruptly and headed towards the house.

  Adam bit back a curse. Whatever he thought of her, he had gone too far. He surged after her, grabbing her arm, but immediately dropped it as she turned and directed the full force of her furious gaze up at him.

  ‘Don’t!’ she bit out between clenched teeth and he took a step back.

  ‘I apologise. I didn’t mean… I’m a fool.’

  ‘You don’t have that grace! I never thought you of all people would become a bully! You may think I am weak to have stayed with Father while you were indulging in big, brave adventures around the world, but you know nothing of what it means to be brave for other people even at a cost to yourself. So don’t you dare preach to me ever again!’

  Adam remained standing as she swept up the path and into the house.

  * * *

  When Adam stalked into the breakfast room a quarter of an hour later, Nicholas was sprawled in a chair, still in his dressing gown, holding a cup of coffee.

  ‘How was the tour of childhood pastures? The coffee’s fresh—’ Nicholas said, but broke off as he registered Adam’s expression. ‘Adam? What’s to? Did something happen? Did you come across the beauty?’

  Adam shrugged and poured himself some coffee.

  ‘I came across the full cast of the Mowbray farce and managed to make a fool of myself.’

  ‘In front of the beauty?’

  ‘No. I insulted Miss Drake.’

  Nicholas’s brows rose.

  ‘She of the Hungry Tree? How did you manage to insult her? Did she ask you for help with Percy again?’

  ‘No. I didn’t give her the chance.’

  The silence stretched out for a moment and then Adam continued.

  ‘I don’t know why I did it. I’m just so tired of all the games people play here. The sooner I’m back in London, or frankly, out of England again, the better. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on her. She is just doing what everyone else does. It’s not her fault she is so desperate to conform.’

  ‘Well, then, apologise. You’ve annoyed more than your fair share of women these past years, Adam, and you always seem able to get round them in the end.’

  Adam met his friend’s gaze.

  ‘This isn’t the same.’

  ‘Fine. You’ll probably be antagonising most of the neighbourhood in short order anyway, so might as well start sooner rather than later. Anyway, I’m off to dress and then we’ll go for a good gallop. It will clear your mind.’

  Adam sighed and put down his glass.

  ‘A gallop might be a good idea. There’s an excellent run across the fields to Mare’s Rise. Just be careful of the wooded area once we cro
ss the first field, it gets very narrow between the trees for a hundred yards or so before opening up again.’

  ‘Good. I’ll let you win this time, since you’re in a foul mood. No leniency the next.’

  Adam shook his head, grinning reluctantly.

  ‘Hubris unbound. Have you ever won yet?’

  ‘It’s not you, it’s Thunder. He’s an unfair advantage. He’s like that Greek god horse in the Odyssey, you know, Poseidon’s brat. What’s its name? Marmion?’

  ‘Arion, in the Iliad. And you’ve just given me an idea.’

  ‘I have? Is it clever? I knew I’d be good for something.’

  ‘Go and get dressed,’ Adam suggested, unimpressed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘This came for you, miss.’ Betsy laid a small paper-wrapped package on Alyssa’s desk and stood back expectantly. Alyssa looked up from her writing, surprised.

  ‘For me? From where?’

  ‘I think it was one of the new footmen from Delacort Hall, miss, but I couldn’t rightly say. I did ask whether it was meant for Mr Drake, but he said, no, it was for Miss Drake.’

  Alyssa put down her pen and reached hesitantly for the package and then paused, glancing up.

  ‘Thank you, Betsy. That is all.’

  Betsy withdrew, clearly disappointed to be sent out before the unveiling, and Alyssa sighed. There was no way Betsy would keep this choice piece of gossip to herself and goodness knew what people would make of it. Alone, she untied the package to reveal a small silk pouch with something flat and firm inside. She emptied it on to the desk and an ancient silver coin rolled out and finally settled, showing a standing female figure holding a branch and sceptre. Two thousand years had rubbed away at the letters, but the word ‘Clementia’ was still visible encircling the figure.

  She stared at this amazing treasure, a tribute to the Roman goddess of clemency and forgiveness, her heart thumping uncomfortably. After a moment she pressed the tips of her fingers to her eyes, wishing she wasn’t such a fool. It was ridiculous to cry. It was ridiculous to feel anything because of him. She knew this gesture meant nothing. Selfish people were very good at manipulation. Her father was a master at interspersing his domineering commands with clever wheedling and Rowena usually managed to convince everyone around her to do precisely what she wanted in the end. Ten years ago Alyssa had believed Adam was very different, but that had been as much a fiction as any adventure tale she had ever read.