The Viscount's Bawdy Bargain

by Connie Lane

  No sooner had she reminded herself of the fact than she heard his voice in the passageway outside the breakfast room door.

  A spurt of panic shot through Willie’s insides and she cursed her bad fortune and the fact that there was only one door in the room and no exit by which she could escape except the window. Somerton was never out of bed this early and though it was always prepared and kept hot and waiting, he was never down to breakfast because more often than not, he stayed in his chamber late and had nothing more than coffee in the morning. He was never up and about at this hour and she had never thought to have to face him so soon.

  At least not until the taste of his lips against hers had faded.

  Willie gave another thought to the window and actually might have made a move in that direction if she didn’t hear the door creak open. Desperate to calm herself and hide the fact that her hands were shaking, she grabbed for the papers she had set on the table next to her untouched breakfast plate. She tapped them into a pile, reordered them and tapped again.

  “Good morning, m’lord.” When Somerton entered the room, no one could have been more surprised than Willie that her greeting came out as evenly as it did. “You are awake early this morning.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Finch.” Somerton’s response was automatic when Mr. Finch handed him a cup of coffee. He accepted it and took a sip before he turned to Willie, and though his voice was as composed as hers, there was no mistaking that he was no happier encountering her than she was to find him in a place—and at a time—when she thought herself more than safe.

  “I had a bit of trouble sleeping,” Somerton replied, and it came as no surprise. Willie had had a good deal of trouble sleeping as well. He glanced at the empty chair opposite Willie’s. “You don’t mind if I join you?”

  “It is your breakfast room, m’lord. Your breakfast.” She made to push her chair away from the table. “I can leave you in peace if—”

  “No. Stay.”

  Nick slipped into the chair opposite Willie’s and wondered what in the world he was going to say to her. He had no illusions. He knew he had done any number of impetuous things in his life. But none of them, as reckless or as daft or as foolish as they might have been, was as reckless or as daft or as foolish as kissing Willie.

  And now that he was faced with the aftermath of his action and with the sight of her across the breakfast table from him, he found himself feeling shuttle-headed and at a loss for words.

  “I want to…” Wondering how best to phrase what he wouldn’t have had to say at all if he had a brain in his head and an ounce of self-control the night before, Nick took another sip of his coffee and glanced over at Mr. Finch. His look, apparently, spoke volumes. Mr. Finch excused himself on the pretext of getting more eggs from the kitchen and Nick started all over again.

  “I want to thank you. For last night.”

  It came out wrong. Even though Willie was making notes next to what looked like a list of names on the paper in front of her and did not look up when he spoke, he saw her jaw tense. He set down his cup and scrambled to cover the faux pas.

  “I did not mean what you think I meant.”

  “But you said what I think you said.” She glanced up at him for the briefest of moments but she refused to meet his eyes. “You did say it, didn’t you?” she asked, and before he could answer, she went back to her list.

  “I meant that I wanted to thank you. For coming to your senses last night long before I did. If you had not wished me good night and left the room when you did—”

  “What?” Willie’s head snapped up and this time, her eyes were wide, her cheeks were touched with a splash of pink that made him think of the roses that grew outside the kitchen door. She must have known she looked a bit like Nick felt, as if the world had tipped on its axis and it was unclear which direction was up and which, down. She shook her head as if to clear it and as if she hadn’t said a word at all, went right back to her papers.

  And it was just as well.

  As much as he’d enjoyed thinking about it all through the night, he didn’t relish putting into words what they both knew all too well: If she had not somehow recovered the sanity Nick so clearly had lost and left the library after the second searing kiss they shared, he was sure he would not be looking at her across the breakfast table this morning at all. He’d be studying her from the vantage point of the pillow next to hers.

  The thought was enough to send Nick’s desires soaring in the most astonishing directions. Because he refused to let her know it, he looked instead at the pile of papers in front of her.

  “You’re busy this morning.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “And deep in thought.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Household business?”

  “In a way, m’lord.”

  “I do wish you would call me Nick.” The request was as much a surprise to him as it was apparently to her. Willie looked at him in wonder.

  “It is my name.” Nick scrubbed a hand over his jaw and winced. Perhaps because he was too on edge to sit still, Rooster O’Reilly had been less than precise with his morning shave. There was a scratch on his cheek and a notch of skin taken out of his chin that had only stopped bleeding before he walked into the breakfast room. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to call me by my name.”

  “It would be improper, m’lord.” She didn’t need to add that it would not be nearly as improper as everything they had done the night before. “And far too informal.”

  “It would be pleasant to hear once in a while. My friends all call me Somerton. It is only my family that uses my Christian name and it is, you will agree, far more pleasant to hear it spoken now and again than it is to hear only m’lord this and m’lord that. It’s tedious, don’t you know.”

  “Yes, m’lord—” She caught herself and flinched. “Yes. Nick.”

  He had never had an opinion one way or another about his name but hearing it from Willie’s lips suddenly made Nick think it sounded very good. He offered her a short-lived smile that was of little use. Willie had already gone back her papers.

  He was not hungry, but Nick got up and filled a plate. At least if he were wondering what Simon Marquand might have slipped into the food, he wouldn’t spend his time wracking his brains with thoughts of how he wished he could get things back to the way they were the night before.

  Even before he kissed Willie.

  His hand poised over the serving spoon next to a dish of thick-sliced ham, Nick paused. Long before he kissed Willie, last night was quite remarkable.

  There was the dreadful tedium of Almack’s, of course, but after that…

  For just a moment, he closed his eyes, reliving the light-as-air feeling of twirling through the library with Willie in his arms.

  It was remarkable. She was remarkable, a vision swathed in linen and with that damned fiery hair of hers as sumptuous as silk around her shoulders. A vision with her bare toes peeking out at him.

  It wasn’t until he realized that he was smiling that Nick knew for certain that he was a madman.

  He needed to think of Willie less, not more. And nothing was sure to make him think of her more than thinking of the way she felt in his arms. With her mouth hot against his and her breasts soft against his chest and his fingers itching to nudge aside the ridiculously high neckline of her nightdress and caress the bare skin beneath—

  “Eggs, m’lord?”

  Mr. Finch arrived just in time to save Nick from himself. Though he was not fond of eggs, he took a large helping. He headed back to the table.

  “And what is it, exactly, that you’re so busy studying, Willie?” he asked her.

  “A list, m—” Her shoulders went back a fraction of an inch. “A list, Nick. A revised list. Of marriageable ladies.”

  It was not such surprising news.

  Which didn’t explain why it twisted through his gut.

  “You’ve revised…” As if it might help him better see the long list
of names she had written down in her precise hand, he tipped his head and leaned forward. “Are you so anxious to get rid of me, then?”

  It was a rhetorical question.

  At least Nick thought it was.

  Which didn’t explain why Willie didn’t realize it.

  She clasped her hands together atop the papers. Her knuckles were whiter even than the lace cloth. She looked at Nick steadily and she didn’t need to say a word, he knew what she was thinking because it was exactly what he was thinking about.

  About the kiss.

  And the touch of skin against skin.

  About the scorching heat.

  And the desire that even now tingled in the air between them like the charge that is said to ride the sky before a storm.

  They both knew that they had to find him a wife as quickly as possible and this time, the urgency had nothing to do with Nick’s lack of the blunt or with the fact that Ravensfield was determined to make a great deal of money off Nick’s ill fortune.

  They had to get Nick married. Fast.

  Before it ever happened again.

  Because if he ever started kissing Willie again, he knew there was no way he’d be able to stop.

  “Nick, you are a sly boots!”

  Lynnette Overton, Nick’s cousin, was a vivacious girl with mahogany hair and dark eyes that sparkled in the light of the candles that burned around the room. She was a tiny thing with energy enough for any three people twice her size and she twinkled a mischievous smile up at him at the same time she tapped her painted silk fan against his sleeve.

  “No one expected you to be bold enough to host another soirée.” Lynnette smiled politely to an elderly matron who shuffled by. “The ton is positively agog at your cheek!”

  “Agog, perhaps. But not averse to taking advantage of my hospitality.” Nick wasn’t sure if the realization cheered him or sent his mood plummeting even lower than it had been in the week since the incident in the library with Willie. He paused long enough to greet the Duke and Duchess of Chesney, then turned again to his cousin.

  “They pretend to be scandalized,” he told her. “All of them. In truth, they are as prurient as those who stop and stare at the scene of an overturned carriage. I can’t decide if they are really here to enjoy themselves or if they secretly hope they might be witness to another debacle. Imagine the thrill of seeing the Viscount Somerton further damage his reputation. And the absolute ecstasy of having, firsthand, another few weeks’ worth of fuel for the gossip fires.”

  Lynnette laughed. “At least you can console yourself with the fact that the Markhams are not here!”

  “That is something, I suppose.”

  “And the young lady in question…” She craned her neck and tried her best to look over the heads of the guests who were filing into the room and taking their seats in preparation for a performance by Leonardo Pancotti, the famous tenor.

  “The young lady is question is Lady Sylvia Moore Paget.” Without trying to look too obvious, Nick tipped his head toward where the young lady was taking her seat in the front row next to her mother, Lady Margaret Moore-Paget. “She is the heiress to the old Earl of Parmenter’s estates.”

  Lynnette pursed her lips. “And that makes her a very wealthy young lady, indeed.” Because she was so short, it was difficult for her to see and she cocked her head right and left, trying to catch a glimpse of Lady Sylvia through the crowd. “She looks to be a pleasant enough girl.”

  “I suppose.” It was true. Lady Sylvia had clear skin, a full head of mousy but well-tamed hair and, if what little exposure he’d had to her earlier in the evening meant anything, she was well behaved and well enough interested in Nick to pretend to be interested when he asked her opinion about the weather.

  Which didn’t explain why just thinking about her made Nick feel as if his shoulders were loaded down with lead weights.

  “She seems a bit tall to me.”

  Lynnette elbowed him in the ribs. “How can you tell when she’s seated?”

  “Her teeth are not even.”

  “Are you looking for a wife? Or buying a horse?”

  “They say she is used to getting her own way in things and that she can be a termagant when she is crossed.”

  “Then, my lord, you will simply have to be sure not to cross her.” Lynnette let out a laugh as airy as the scent of the lilacs that grew outside the windows. She gave Nick a meaningful look that he pretended he did not notice. “You are clambering for excuses, I think.”

  “I am clambering for an end to this evening so I can get on with—”

  “What?” This time, it was impossible to miss the look his cousin shot his way. Lynnette’s eyes were aglow, her brows were raised in curiosity, and for one terrified moment, Nick wondered how much she knew. Or how much, at least, she could guess at. “Are you so anxious to carouse with the Dashers that you would leave your guests?”

  It wasn’t what Nick feared she might say and he breathed a sigh of relief and glanced around, nodding politely to his guests. There was a sizable crowd gathering, which wasn’t at all a surprise. Though this was to be his first-ever performance in London, Leonardo Pancotti’s fame had preceded him. He was an opera singer of huge talent, huge appetites and huge proportions—or so Willie had assured Nick when she talked him into hosting this musicale—and he had made a name for himself on the Continent. As a whole, the ton was already passionate about the man and being among those invited to Lord Somerton’s to be the first to hear him sing made this quite the most sought-after invitation of the Season.

  The entire thing was a stroke of genius on Willie’s part and Nick had told her so more than once in the days since she had announced the scheme. In fact, it was, for the most part, the one and only thing they had talked about.

  Uncomfortable, Nick twitched his shoulders.

  There was a time he and Willie talked about everything: the latest amusements in town, the newest fashions and why they were so ridiculous, the freshest news and the most interesting gossip.

  These days, in formal conversations filled with stilted sentences and uncomfortable silences, all they talked about were Italian opera singers.

  And all because he’d kissed her.

  “Speaking of Signor Pancotti…” They weren’t but Nick thought it just as well to get his mind on the things it should have been concerned with. And off the one person he could not afford to think about. “Shouldn’t he be here by now?”

  “He’s here right enough. I saw him arrive.” Lynnette looked over her shoulder toward the door. “Your Miss Culpepper took him aside to get him settled.”

  “She is not my Miss Culpepper,” Nick told her in no uncertain terms. “And you’d think the man would be settled by now.” Again, Nick glanced around, just to be sure his musical guest was not somewhere in the room. If he was, Nick was sure there would be a crowd gathered around. All he saw instead was a room filled with people who were looking excited and just a bit impatient.

  It was time to get the performance under way.

  “Ladies and gentlemen…” At the same time Nick ushered Lynnette to her seat, he raised his voice and the murmurs of conversation in the room settled into a hum of expectation. “I have not had a chance to greet all of you personally as I would have liked but I welcome you now to Somerton House.” Because he knew it was expected, he glanced at Lady Sylvia and offered her a smile. She was too engrossed in smoothing a wrinkle from her gown to notice but her mother—who, Nick had heard was more than eager to snag a title for her daughter—sat up a little straighter in her chair. Just to make sure those sitting nearby had not missed the special attention His Lordship paid to her Sylvia.

  “I am sure we are all anxious to hear Signor Pancotti.” Anxious to turn away from the self-satisfied look on the woman’s face, Nick turned toward the door and as if they had rehearsed the introduction as well as the maestro’s entrance, it snapped open.

  Unfortunately, Signor Pancotti was not on the other side of it.
/>   Mr. Finch was, and he waved Nick out into the passageway.

  “You’ll excuse me one moment,” he told his guests and more curious than ever, he ducked out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

  “Problems, sir.” Mr. Finch led Nick toward the back of the house and kitchen. “That Pancotti fellow…”

  Once they were through the kitchen door, he didn’t need to say another word.

  The scene that greeted Nick was like something out of the last act of Hamlet. Bodies littered the kitchen floor. One of them was Clover, who was looking none the worse for wear in spite of the fact that her gown was twisted up around her knees and her hair was a fright. Bess and Marie were on their knees next to her. Madame and Flossie were standing close by, wringing their hands.

  Simon Marquand was a few feet away, bent over a second prostrate figure. Because the man was lying face-down, Nick could not easily identify him. At least not until he realized that his initial thought was of a beached whale in knee breeches.

  “Signor Pancotti!” Nick hurried into the room. “Good God! You haven’t killed him, have you?”

  He had not even realized Willie was in the room until she came into his line of sight. She was carrying two wet cloths in one hand and the stump of a broken brandy bottle in the other. She plunked what was left of the bottle down on the table, twisted one of the cloths and handed it to Clover. None too gently, she slapped the other on the back of Signor Pancotti’s neck.

  “Of course no one’s killed Signor Pancotti,” she said. “Though those of us who have been unfortunate enough to spend some time with the man were sorely tempted.” She nudged the singer with the tip of one shoe and when he did not so much as move, she shook her head in disgust. “What he is,” she told Nick, “is royally drunk.”

  “Drunk?” Now that he had more of a chance to take in the scene, Nick noticed the glass that had rolled to its side on the table next to where Pancotti was lying.

  Willie puffed out a breath of annoyance. “He asked for a drink,” she explained. “To calm his nerves, or so he said. I brought him a bottle and I tried my best to keep him amused but…well…”