The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4)

by Grace Callaway

  She headed over to investigate. Entering the ferny grove, she discovered that the spire was in fact the top of a champagne fountain that rose some twelve feet tall. A red-tinted beverage frothed from its three gold-plated tiers, and the bottom reservoir was wide enough to take a bath in.

  Impressed, she went to the side table, exchanging her empty plate for a champagne flute. She was approaching the fountain to fill her glass when a deep masculine voice caused the hairs to prickle on her nape.

  “Miss Kent, I’d like a word.”

  She pivoted, her eyes narrowing when she saw who’d joined her. As usual, Viscount Carlisle emanated an aura of arrogant authority, his booted stance quietly aggressive. Not for the first time, she was struck by the differences between the Murray brothers.

  Whereas Wick resembled a gleaming young Apollo, Carlisle wore his coal-black hair short and possessed a swarthy and rugged mien. Topping six feet, the viscount was far taller than his younger brother and at least three stone heavier, all of it heaped on in uncompromising muscle. And while Wick had a charismatic smile, entertaining all with his rapier wit, Carlisle was more apt to hammer one down with a glowering look.

  He bent at the waist; she returned the courtesy, matching her brusque motion to his.

  “Lord Carlisle.” The syllables rolled off her tongue like an epithet. “Hasn’t anyone told you it isn’t polite to sneak up on others?”

  “Being neither a thief nor a highwayman, Miss Kent, I do not make a practice of sneaking up on anyone. I cannot be blamed if the other is simply not paying attention.”

  Her cheeks heated. It was just like Carlisle to make note of one of her lifelong faults.

  To cover up her embarrassment, she said coldly, “I was about to get something to drink.”

  “I wouldn’t get it there if I were you.”

  Her teeth ground together. She didn’t like being told what to do—and least of all by some pompous prig. Turning her back to him, she marched to the fountain. Just as she held the flute out toward a stream of liquid, a loud belch rumbled from the fountain’s depths. She looked up… and saw a red wave spewing directly over her head. Before she could react, a muscled arm hooked her around the waist, hauling her backward. Champagne splattered on the parqueted floor where she’d been standing but an instant earlier.

  Shock sizzled through her. From the near escape, yes, but more so from the intimate contact with a man’s physique. Although she’d done her fair share of dancing, none of her partners had ever touched her this way before. With her back molded against Carlisle’s front, she felt every inch of his disciplined form: it was like being trapped against a wall of ridged iron.

  She became aware of the warm brush of his breath against her ear, the heat of his surrounding strength. His scent entered her nose, clean and ineffably masculine. Simultaneously, she registered his steely thigh wedged against her bottom. Despite the layers between them, she shivered, a strange hot pulsing at her core. Even though she’d just eaten, pangs gnawed at her lower belly.

  “Let me go,” she managed.

  He released her so quickly that she tottered before catching her balance.

  “Gladly.” His derisive tone wiped any gratitude for the rescue from her mind. He snatched the glass she’d forgotten she was holding and strode to the side table, taking undue time setting it down. When he returned, he said with a scowl, “I wish to speak to you.”

  “About what?” Why do I sound so breathless?

  “About the fact that you are monopolizing Wickham’s time.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, she glared at him and said, “I’m doing no such thing.”

  “I saw you dancing with him. Flirting with him.” Carlisle’s lips flattened into a hard line. “Leave him be, Miss Kent, for he has bigger fish to fry.”

  He thought she was flirting… and with Wick?

  She said incredulously, “He’s like a brother to me.”

  “Well, he is my brother, and I’m telling you to leave him alone. He needs his focus.”

  “You mean he has to clean up the mess you made,” she retorted without thinking.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His blistering tone would have incinerated a lesser miss on the spot. For some reason, it just angered her more. “You’re not being fair to Wick.” She crossed her arms. “He has the right to make his own decisions.”

  Hostility smoldered in Carlisle’s eyes. They were the color of scorched earth: black with glints of bronze ore. His hands fisted at his sides, muscles bunching beneath the sleek skin of his jacket as if he were struggling to hold onto his self-control.

  “My family is my business,” he stated with grim finality. “Stay away from my brother.”

  “Wick is my friend, and I’ll spend time with him if I wish. What do you have against me, anyway?” Her resentment broke free. “Why did you spread such vile rumors about me?”

  The crest of his broad cheekbones reddened, but he said emotionlessly, “I spread no rumors, Miss Kent. Some old hens eavesdropped on a private conversation.”

  “You called me a hoyden. Said I’m barely respectable.”

  “That is not what I said.”

  “So you did say something.” She pounced on the admission. “At least be man enough to repeat it to my face.”

  A muscle ticked along his jaw. “You’re a female. You can’t handle the truth.”

  She didn’t know what irked her more, his misogynistic assumption or his dismissive tone. Steam gathered in her head, threatening to pop it off altogether. “Dash it all, I can.”

  “Fine. What I said was that my brother requires a wife who can keep him in line, and you’re not suited for the job. I said that you can’t spell propriety let alone put it into practice,” he said succinctly.

  For an instant, she was speechless.

  “You uppity blighter.” She could barely think over the roar in her ears. “You don’t know me! You have no right to sit in judgment.”

  “I call it as I see it, Miss Kent. Once I form an opinion, I rarely have cause to alter it.”

  His calm superiority enraged her past the point of rationality. “Well, you’re wrong. I can spell propriety, you condescending bastard! P-R-O-P-R-E-I-T-Y.”

  For pulsing moments, she glared at him: she’d be damned if she was the one to look away first. But the oddest thing happened. Lines suddenly fanned from the corners of Carlisle’s eyes. Flecks of copper glinted in the dark depths. The stern line of his mouth quirked.

  He was… laughing at her? Why on earth…?

  She reviewed what she’d said—and her face flamed. Butter and jam, Papa had always said that her terrible spelling would prove her downfall. The realization of her stupidity was followed by a swift and forceful undertow of humiliation. All at once, her armor of indifference crumpled, and she felt the blow of each and every insult she’d ever been subjected to.

  Hurly-burly… hoyden… never land a husband… The smirking glances of the other debutantes, her family’s worried expressions…

  A muffled sound escaped Carlisle. The past faded, everything narrowing to the incendiary present: the cad was laughing at her. Mortification met fury and combusted.

  “Don’t you dare make fun of me,” she said through clenched teeth.

  His wide shoulders shook.

  She took a step closer, jabbed a finger at him. “I’m warning you. Stop laughing.”

  He held his big hands up in defense. “Or what, Miss Kent?” Mockery glinted in his eyes. “You’ll spell me into submission?”

  Red saturated her vision. Her hands acted of their own volition, shooting upward, planting on his chest. They gave a shove—and time suddenly slowed. She had the sensation of watching from the outside as Carlisle stumbled, surprise rippling across his face as he lost his footing in a puddle of champagne, his large body falling backward like a felled tree…

  The thudding splash brought her to her senses. In stupefied horror, she took in Carlisle sitting
on his behind in the fountain. Blood-red champagne rained merrily over his head and shoulders.

  Gadzooks, what have I done?

  She took a halting step toward him… stopped at the hellfire raging in his eyes.

  He growled, “Get out of here. Now.”

  Panic made her obey. She dashed out the back of the grove, slipping between two potted ferns, walk-running until she reached the safety of the crowd. Like a criminal, she continued to sneak glances behind her, her heart thumping and mind whirling with the latest calamity she’d caused.

  Chapter Two

  Richard Murray, Viscount Carlisle, jolted awake. Angry voices sounded… some fracas in the street. As Cheapside’s thoroughfare was just a few blocks away, such disturbances were not unusual, but it didn’t make them any less annoying. Richard stared through the dimness at a crack in the ceiling, his mood darkening further when he realized that he sported, at present, a raging morning cockstand.

  With an aggrieved sigh, he sat up. The bedclothes slipped down his bare torso, bunching at his waist and catching on his erection. Shoving his hands through his hair, he raised his knees, resting his elbows there and willing the insistent throbbing of his groin to subside.

  “Insolent little baggage,” he muttered. “This is all her fault.”

  He had no doubt that Miss Violet Kent was responsible for the state of his mind and body. Regarding the former, what man wouldn’t be furious at being assaulted—pushed into a bloody fountain and by a mere chit at that? Under normal circumstances, her little tap wouldn’t have budged him, but she’d taken him by surprise and then he’d slipped in that goddamned puddle…

  Embarrassment scalded his gut. In all honesty, the fact that a close encounter with a female had resulted in him emerging a fool should come as no surprise. In his dictionary, women were synonymous with trouble. Miss Lucinda Belton and Lady Audrey Keane had taught him that lesson long ago. In fact, they’d schooled him so well that he’d avoided entanglements with respectable ladies altogether.

  Whenever he required female companionship, he purchased it. A simple exchange and one in which both parties left satisfied. In bed, he dealt with women just fine.

  Outside of bed, however, they were a damned nuisance. All he’d wanted was for Violet Kent to leave his brother alone: was that too much to ask? Instead, she’d made him the laughingstock of the party.

  Well, he’d refused to give the ton the blood they wanted, the satisfaction of seeing his humiliation. He’d exited the gilded arena as if he weren’t dripping with champagne. As if his bloody boots weren’t squishing with every step. He’d walked out of there as if nothing had been out of the ordinary, and he’d managed that by focusing on varied and creative ways of retribution.

  Bending Violet Kent over his knee, for instance.

  Unfortunately, that led to his second—and persistently throbbing—problem.

  He ought to have let her get doused by the fountain, he thought savagely. That would have served the little romp right. But, oh no, he’d had to obey his instinct to pull her out of harm’s way. The resulting jolt of lust had been his own damned fault.

  He chalked it up to animal urges. What red-blooded man wouldn’t respond to the wriggling of a pertly rounded derriere against his groin? It was only primal instinct that had caused the lurid image to blaze in his head: of bending Miss Kent over the nearest surface, tossing up her cheerful yellow skirts, spreading her sleek thighs and…

  He glanced down; to his disgust, his shaft now tented the sheet.

  Just bloody perfect.

  Throwing off the bedcovers, he stalked over to the table holding the basin and ewer, grimacing as his aroused flesh bobbed heavily with every step. He splashed icy water onto his face and, gripping the edges of the rickety washstand, waited for the room’s drafty chill to cool his blood. Although there was a more appealing way of discharging the problem, he refused to yield to the primitive impulse.

  Self-discipline and rationality were his ruling principles. From experience, he’d learned to distrust his emotional reactions when it came to the opposite sex and relied instead on his intellect to guide his decisions. Despite his body’s inexplicable reaction to Miss Kent, he told himself he had only one objective pertaining to the chit: to keep her out of his brother’s life.

  The thought of Wickham smothered the remnants of his arousal. Knots tightened in Richard’s gut as he yanked on a tattered robe. His younger brother knew nothing of restraint and was infinitely susceptible to the dangers of the opposite sex. And Wick was up to his ears in hot water already.

  For Wick was in debt—and this time, Richard hadn’t the coin to pay it off. Wick’s only hope of staying afloat was marrying an heiress. To that end, Richard had spent no small effort in securing a lifeboat for his brother. He’d paved the way with Alfred Turbett, a wealthy merchant. All Wick had to do was take that last step and propose to the man’s daughter.

  Which Wick wouldn’t do if he remained mesmerized by Violet Kent.

  Richard was intimately acquainted with Miss Kent’s type, all right. She was a shallow flirt who waltzed her way through life with no care for consequences. She thrived on male attention, gave no damn about anything but herself and her own pleasure. The brazen minx would have Wick wrapped around her little finger—and then, when her fun was done, she’d toss him away like last season’s slippers.

  Over my dead body, Richard thought fiercely.

  He rang for Bartlett; the valet was one of the few servants he retained in this small house he rented. Reduced circumstances had made such economies necessary. He was not a man to live beyond his means; if only he could say the same of his brother.

  He had just sat down for breakfast in the small and shabby parlor when Wickham sauntered in. The latter was still dressed in last evening’s clothing—typical, seeing as the young rakehell never went to bed before dawn. Also typical was the fact that despite whatever debauchery Wick had been engaged in, he still managed to emerge looking like a Greek god.

  Shadows accented Wick’s long-lashed hazel eyes, the hollows beneath his sculpted cheekbones. His golden brown curls were fashionably rumpled. Their mama had been a famous beauty in her day, and Wick took after her in looks and temperament—the opposite of Richard, who resembled their father and all the viscounts before him.

  A stroll through the family gallery showed a line of dark, swarthy men with the hulking bodies of peasants and the glowering disposition of Hephaestus. Unfortunately, like that humble god of the smithy, they were also attracted to their natural opposites—dazzling, vibrant Aphrodites—which had led to a family legacy of disastrous unions.

  Staid and vivacious never made for a good match.

  “No need to get up on my account, old boy,” Wick said. “Thought I’d stop by and join you for a spot of breakfast. Though I had the devil’s time getting here. Don’t know what you were thinking leasing this hellhole.”

  “It’s Cheapside, not the Ninth Circle—” A pungent odor tickled Richard’s nostrils, and he sneezed. Twice. “Holy hell, what is that smell?”

  “What smell?”

  Eyes watering, Richard said, “The noxious odor that suggests you rolled in a field of lily of the valley before diving into a vat of musk.”

  Wick sniffed at his jacket. “Ah, that. Must have rubbed off on me. It’s French,” he added in lofty tones, “and expensive.”

  Seeing the smudges of rouge on his brother’s collar, Richard said dourly, “Are you referring to the perfume or the tart who wore it?”

  “Both,” Wick said with a smirk.

  Given the strain between him and Wick of late, Richard refrained from pointing out that costly trollops, French or not, were well beyond Wick’s means. A lecture on fiscal responsibility would only alienate his brother further. Besides, he remained wary of his brother’s purpose in calling.

  Wick left before the mishap, he told himself. It’s possible that he doesn’t know what happened.

  Going to the sideboard, Wick let out
an aggrieved sigh. “Kippers and eggs again? How’re such meager offerings supposed to fuel a fellow for the day?”

  “If you don’t like it, don’t eat it.” Richard forked up eggs.

  Setting down a plate piled high, Wick took an adjacent seat at the table. “So you don’t look any worse for the wear.”

  Damnation. He decided to bluff his way through. “And why should I?”

  Wick gave him an innocent look. “Because of the splash you made last night?”

  Heat crawled up Richard’s jaw. “It was an accident.”

  “Accidentally got tap-hackled, did you?”

  “I wasn’t drunk.”

  “Then how the bloody hell did you take a tumble into a fountain?” his sibling chortled.

  Devil take Violet Kent. Richard’s face burned. Yet he couldn’t reveal the truth of what had happened. First of all, he’d slit his own throat before admitting that he’d been downed by a female—and a slip of a miss at that. Second, his sense of honor precluded him from incriminating a lady, which was precisely why he’d instructed her to flee the scene of the crime.

  Beneath his seething anger, he also felt an uneasy flicker of… guilt. In a way, he supposed he owed it to her to protect her reputation after the gossip he’d inadvertently started about her. He regretted that his private conversation with his friend Blackwood had been overheard and circulated by the wags. His worry over Wickham had prompted him to speak brashly, causing Miss Kent unintentional harm.

  Her face rose in his imagination: the high, creamy slope of her cheeks and her tip-tilted eyes, which were the rich, tawny shade of his favorite whiskey. Her bee-stung mouth was too generous for her face, the bottom lip particularly full. A retroussé nose added to her air of feminine mischief and merriment.

  In and of themselves, her features were not beautiful, but together they exuded an undeniable appeal, a vividness that made it difficult for one to look away. She wasn’t Aphrodite, but Aglaea, one of the Three Graces, the embodiment of glowing good health and vitality. Grudgingly, Richard had to admit that Violet Kent’s attractions went beyond skin deep, stirring a dangerous, primal response in him. And if her charms were not lost on him—a sensible, level-headed man—then what untold peril did she pose to his hapless brother?