Lizzie Tempest Ruins A Viscount (Felmont Brides Series Book 1)

by Maggie Jagger

Chapter 27

  Clouds lingered on the high ground covering all with a white mist, which reduced visibility to scant yards.

  Gladys peered out the window of the carriage as the landscape disappeared. “If the sun doesn’t burn this off we shall be in a pickle, Lady Felmont. His lordship might escape into the mist. I don’t want to shoot the vicar by accident.”

  “Just threaten, don’t fire at him, Gladys.” Lizzie said for the third time since the horses began the long pull up the hill.

  “Winging him in the arm might be the only way to catch him, my lady.”

  Gladys relished her role with far too much enthusiasm.

  Lizzie could understand the urge to actually shoot one of the Felmonts, but could not in all conscience condone wounding her husband. “The viscount will not put up a struggle, he believes us weak and helpless. Luring him to the Folly should be an easy task. Shooting him must be a last resort,” Lizzie said firmly.

  “I am sure you can lure a Felmont male anywhere, if he thinks there is wickedness for him to indulge in,” said Gladys, while she checked her pistol for the tenth time. She carefully did not name or suggest any particular wickedness with which to tempt the viscount.

  Lizzie resolutely refused to think of any licentious acts. It took such concentration that the carriage halted outside the churchyard before she thought herself halfway there.

  Mist obscured the church itself. Lizzie got down and looked around warily. She felt his presence in the pit of her stomach. Ancient yews provided lots of hiding places amongst the gravestones. He could be lurking anywhere. Lizzie dashed in a panic for the church. She wanted to hit him, to smite him with all her might. To crush him. She must not weep on his chest. She must capture and hold him forever.

  She hoped the burn on his bottom had festered, though she intended to dress the wound for him. The thought made her quite distracted so that she stumbled as she walked.

  “Watch out, Lady Felmont. You nearly tripped over poor Mr. Beaufield,” called Gladys. Lizzie looked back to see her companion trotting among the gravestones as if it were all a game.

  The church on the fell had not a dozen people in the pews. A few women who lived on the fell were already seated, a cheerful group of gossips who, no doubt, knew the whereabouts of their husbands.

  The vicar smiled a welcome with his lips closed to hide his rotten teeth. He bowed and escorted her to the Felmont pew to fumble awkwardly with the latch.

  The pew door swung open. Lizzie hurried in. Every fiber of her being declared her a coward, nothing except her determination to save the Beast from himself kept her sitting with an expression of calm dignity on her face.

  Her heart skipped a beat as the viscount stepped into the pew, tall and lean, his long face looked quite handsome, if she ignored the gloomy look he gave her.

  Lizzie slipped across the polished seat to make room for him until her elbow hit the far end of the pew.

  He was here. With her. The thought of capturing him and holding him prisoner made her blood sing. It was all she could do to stop herself from hitting him over the head with her hymn book. Instead, she studied it as if she had never seen one before. Just let him wait until after the service.

  She hoped Gladys didn’t catch cold lingering outside with her pistol. The beautiful scent of him made her ache for him. She hated herself for it. She hated him. Felmonts debauched every woman they touched.

  “My dear wife.” The Beast moved closer, sliding along the polished bench until he was far too close for comfort. “I hope I find you well?” he said in the low rumble she knew so well, that she had missed so much.

  “Quite well,” Lizzie replied primly. She conjured up the horrid sight of him fornicating in their bed with that disgusting woman. She refused to enquire after his health. He was probably poxed after his debaucheries at Quorr House.

  “I heard you are nauseous in the morning, my love,” he whispered, not leaning closer but she shivered all the same as his words tickled her ear.

  Lizzie’s hint in Ma’s ear had not gone amiss.

  He drawled on, “You can imagine how pleased I will be to be able to aid you tomorrow morning when you wake up in my bed. The pact, dear wife, is dead.”

  Lizzie watched the vicar take his place in front of the congregation. She hissed her words to the Beast. “Our marriage is dead. If you’d be so kind as to accompany me back to the Folly, I shall give the house over to your keeping and depart.”

  He had the nerve to laugh at her. “You don’t have a hope in hell of leaving me, my dear. Resign yourself to your fate. Your precious pact is dead. Shall we bury it in the graveyard?”

  His threats left her unmoved. There hadn’t been a pact since she’d found him fornicating with a whore. Damn him to hellfire!

  Lizzie girded her loins for what must be done. His dark coat touched her. His mouth quirked down in a sad smile she did not trust at all. His hair was tied back, but his dark waves had curled in the damp air. With a start she realized he was wearing a very bad wig.

  How very odd.

  She sniffed silently for she had missed the scent of him. Sleeping with soap from the priory under her pillow was not the same.

  His foot nudged hers in an effort to make her look at him. “Can’t we find a way to talk to one another, Lizzie? There was no need for you to run from me.”

  If she looked at him, she’d scream his sins at the top of her lungs from the Felmont pew. It was impossible to say what she had witnessed at Quorr House, not in a church.

  What a fine place to shout his sin.

  She was almost tempted to do it. Didn’t he know she had seen him, had he not even noticed her attack with the candle? She’d caught him in the act of pleasuring a woman, in the bed they were meant to share, and he didn’t even know it, or, did he not care?

  Lizzie smiled a smile worthy of Bertram Felmont. “Do come to the Folly after the service and we shall talk for as long as you wish.”

  She saw him nod out of the corner of her eye.

  The vicar began to pray.

  Lizzie stayed awake for half the sermon. Recently, she had been overwhelmed with fatigue, simply could not keep her eyes open. Perhaps she was pregnant. It was really too soon to tell, not after all the shocks her body had been subject too. Not that she objected to him knowing if she was increasing. After all, no one was going anywhere and it would be cruel to deprive him of his only child.

  When she awoke, the pew was empty. The vicar could be heard at the church door taking leave of the last of his parishioners.

  She had lost the viscount. Tears welled up. If she wasn’t careful she’d vomit where she sat. No sooner had she thought it than the need became urgent. She ran from the church, past everyone, until the mist hid her.

  Dry heaves shook her.

  Her only hope was Gladys with her pistol. Where had she gone? Had the Beast caught wind of the plan and captured Gladys or had he gone hurrying off to his whore, just like his father, only with poor Gladys following behind.

  Lizzie ran to see if they were on the road leading down to the village. Her coachman caught sight of her and started the horses. She trotted in front of them, peering into the mist, until nausea overcame her again. She scrambled over a low wall, not wanting an audience though there was not much she could do about the noise.

  The low cloud enveloped her. Lizzie wiped the tears as they ran down her cheeks. Men were such horrid uncaring creatures. She’d lost her chance to kidnap him. She’d never get to chain him to a bed.

  The viscount’s voice floated through the mist towards her. “Is that thing loaded?” Gladys must have answered for he spoke again in a voice vexed beyond control. “Of all the ridiculous notions my dear wife has had, this must be one of the worst.”

  Gladys’s voice rang out, “Stop! Stop, my lord, or I will shoot!”