The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  The path widened, and Charles took possession of her arm again. Unbidden, a tear trickled down her face. It splashed onto Charles’s shirtsleeve, immediately followed by another.

  “Do you know where Hastings is?” Charles asked.

  A sob broke free. “No.” As if he’d tell her where he was going.

  Charles stopped walking without warning, dragging Rosalind to a halt. He peered at her in astonishment. “Are you crying?”

  “No.”

  “You are. What’s wrong?”

  Rosalind sniffed. “I’m not crying.”

  Charles grasped her upper arms and reached out to trace one finger across her cheekbone. The sun glinted on the teardrop sitting on his finger. “Crying, just as I suspected. What’s wrong? Would you like me to find Hastings for you?”

  “No!”

  “No?”

  “Hastings is busy. I don’t wish to bother him.”

  Charles stepped closer and wiped her cheeks with the back of his hand, a soft smile of sympathy on his face. He was close enough for Rosalind to smell him—the faint scent of shaving soap, the rice powder coating his wig, and cloves and cinnamon on his clothes. He drew her closer still until her cheek rested on his waistcoat, the silver embroidery scratchy against her skin. His hand smoothed down her back. After resisting for an instant, Rosalind relaxed into his comforting embrace.

  “From what I hear, marriage is not an easy thing. Since his return from Europe, I have found George changed.”

  “Don’t you mean Lucien?” Rosalind asked.

  Charles chuckled. “Yes, of course. Lucien, as he prefers to be known.”

  Rosalind sniffed and pulled away enough so she could see Charles’s face. “How has he changed? What was he like as a boy?”

  “I arrived at Castle St. Clare after my parents died in a carriage accident. St. Clare and Lady Augusta regarded me like another son, and Hastings and his best friend, Viscount Mansfield, treated me like a brother. The three of us were inseparable, always in scrapes but always a threesome. We went on our Grand Tour together. St. Clare hired a tutor, and the three of us started on our big adventure.”

  As Rosalind watched, Charles seemed to drift back into the past. She touched his arm to regain his attention. “What happened?” Although she’d heard rumors, she needed facts from someone who knew firsthand.

  Charles blinked the past away. “We were in Italy. After spending time in Florence, we traveled down the coast, intending to visit the ruins at Pompeii. We were in Naples at a tavern. Mansfield and I left early and return to our rooms. Our tutor came with us, but Hastings had met a woman, and he stayed. It was a huge joke to us all.” He paused and coughed. “Not fit for a woman’s ears, really.”

  “Go on,” Rosalind urged. “Please, I’d like to know.”

  “It was a contest between us, as most things were. A game.”

  “A contest about women?”

  A trace of red flirted with his cheekbones, and he grinned crookedly. “Ah, yes. Hastings wanted to win. He and Mansfield were always very competitive.”

  “So he stayed on at the tavern.”

  “We never saw him again. None of us worried until late the next afternoon. We searched for days. The woman was the last person to see him. We questioned her, but she could not help. They spent most of the night together, parting in the early hours of the morning when it was still dark. It was as if he’d disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “Were the people in the tavern questioned? The woman’s servants?”

  “Everyone. For almost a month we searched the area, describing Hastings, but he’d vanished.”

  Rosalind frowned. “I don’t understand how he arrived back at Castle St. Clare.”

  Charles took her arm, and they walked through a crumbling stone archway into the wilderness outside. The blue of the sea was visible, and the muted thunder of waves beating at the cliff base became audible.

  “I’m not sure Hastings knows. He doesn’t remember what happened, and he’s tight-lipped about where he was before returning to St. Clare. As I said, he’s changed. He’s no longer outgoing and cheerful. I’m not sure I’ve seen him smile since his return. He’s distant, not just with me, but with Mansfield too, and he’s known Mansfield since the cradle. We used to do everything together. And now we don’t.”

  A silence fell between them as they strolled along the path, each deep in their own thoughts. Rosalind wondered what had happened to Hastings. After seeing his scar, it was obvious he’d been attacked and injured, but what else had caused an outgoing man to change so much?

  “He doesn’t want marriage with me.”

  Charles stopped in the middle of the path, a frown on his face. In the heartbeat before he spoke, a sea bird squawked and a bee collecting pollen from the profusion of nearby flowers buzzed. Miserably, she focused on the sounds to counteract her embarrassment.

  His fingers tipped up her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

  “No, he tried to call off the wedding before the ceremony.” The words burst from her, once her initial shock faded. “And now he ignores me. I’ll never have children.”

  Charles’s mouth fell open. He blinked. “You mean…?”

  Rosalind lifted her shoulders in a wretched shrug, color scorching her cheeks.

  “Oh.” Charles cleared his throat. “Give it time. Hastings has much to deal with these days.”

  “Maybe.” She didn’t believe time would heal the breach between them without help. Charles hadn’t heard Hastings last week. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind. Hastings had meant it when he said he didn’t want children.

  “I’m sure I’m right. Ah, this is the perfect spot for you to capture the vista. What do you say?” He stopped by a stone wall.

  Rosalind nodded, hardly caring where she set herself up to draw. In truth, she wanted to think, not paint. She must decide how to cope with Hastings, with Lady Augusta, the mystery of her disappearing clothes, and that was just the start.

  Like it or not, she and Hastings were married. She must make a life for herself.

  Charles set her drawing materials on top of a flat stone. “Can I do anything else for you before I leave? Help you set up?”

  Rosalind forced a cheerful smile but remained chilled inside. “Thank you, Cousin Charles. I’ll be fine on my own. Will you be here for dinner?” His company at the dinner table appealed, especially if they were to dine without guests tonight. A shudder worked its way down her spine when she imagined Lady Augusta’s pointed remarks and fault-finding, along with Hastings’s silence and scowls. Cousin Charles’s lighthearted company helped immensely during the longwinded dinners.

  “Mansfield is home from London, dancing attendance on his mother. We’re attending a puppet show in Whittlebury. Lady Sophia and Lady Radford are organizing the outing. No doubt Mansfield will arrive at Castle St. Clare for dinner. He has had some interesting experiences. He returned to Italy for a time and traveled to the East, to Constantinople. Sultan Abdul Musa befriended him after Mansfield saved the sultan’s brother from a runaway horse that almost trampled him. Mansfield’s stories of life in the sultan’s palace are…colorful,” Charles ended with an embarrassed splutter.

  “I look forward to meeting him.” Rosalind hid her amusement. He meant the tales were not suitable for a lady’s ears.

  Charles grinned. “You’ll like Mansfield. Most people do. Would you like to go to Whittlebury with me?”

  And give Lady Sophia another shot at ridiculing her dress? Rosalind shook her head. Not until the dressmaker completed her gowns. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “All right.” With a quick wave, Charles sauntered away.

  Rosalind frowned as she watched him depart. And sighed, miserable with her situation. Why wasn’t Hastings more agreeable, like his cousin?

  “Lady Augusta wants you.”

  The rough male voice almost two hours later startled Rosalind. She leaped off her perch on the stone wal
l, her hand fluttering to her breast. The footman waited in silence, his face impassive. She studied the intelligent glint in his brown eyes before deciding against a plea to tell Lady Augusta he couldn’t find her. She frowned. If she refused to return to the castle, he’d escort her by force. He looked the sort to follow orders.

  With a resigned sigh, Rosalind packed up her drawing materials. Lady Augusta had trapped her neatly this time. “Where will I find Lady Augusta?”

  “In the Blue Drawing Room.”

  Rosalind inclined her head. “Thank you.” She walked past the South Tower and into the courtyard. The squeaking of leather shoes and the rustle of fabric indicated that the footman followed her. She stopped and turned to fix him with a haughty stare. “I know where the Blue Drawing Room is located.”

  “Lady Augusta bade me escort you right to her.” His expression remained blank.

  Lady Augusta was treating her like someone lacking in wits. Rosalind’s chin rose in challenge. “I’ll change my gown before I attend Lady Augusta.”

  The footman proved equally stubborn. “Lady Augusta said immediately.”

  While they engaged in a duel of wills, Hastings appeared in the courtyard. A thrill of anticipation struck Rosalind unexpectedly hard, and her mouth dried as though she’d eaten too much pickled meat. Was her husband going to acknowledge her this morning? She swallowed, fighting to hold her emotions in check. Or would he walk right past her, treating her like an unfortunate encumbrance?

  “Good morning, Hastings.” Rosalind took a stand. He was her husband whether or not he liked it. She halted in front of him so he would need to step around her to avoid knocking her to the ground.

  He stopped inches away. His dark eyes narrowed although she witnessed a flicker of surprise, and perhaps approval.

  Rosalind watched in fascination, the pulsing of the muscle right near his firm mouth. “Good morning,” she prompted again. Her heart skipped a beat at her daring, at the strange flash of emotion in his dark eyes. She’d be lucky if he didn’t imprison her in the North Tower with the ghost if she kept this up.

  “What are you doing?”

  Rosalind suspected he was asking why she was blocking his way, but she pretended ignorance. Instead, she shot an aggrieved glare at the silent footman by her side. “Lady Augusta has summoned me.”

  One dark brow rose, and his mouth curled upward at the edges. “Best hurry then, before she takes it out on the footman.”

  That was a definite smirk. Bother the man. He’d hit on the one thing to make her hasten to the appointment. Still, she was reluctant to leave without a few words from her husband. She reached out to touch his hand. “Your friend Mansfield is coming for dinner tonight. I’m looking forward to meeting him. Charles mentioned him this morning.”

  Hastings didn’t reply. The picture that formed in her mind was not the one she expected. She’d expected a vision of Charles and perhaps another man—Mansfield. Instead, the image was dark. Apprehension prickled her skin. Her gaze shot to Hastings. His distant, unfocused expression mirrored her confusion.

  A faceless figure prowled Hastings’s mind with a sinister menace. Was this the same man she read in the villagers’ minds when she treated their ailments? The one they called Hawk?

  Hastings shrugged, snapping the fragile contact she held with his mind. “I have things to do.” His gaze narrowed further as he waited for Rosalind to move. Hiding her hurt, she did as he bid, her mind too full of unanswered questions to challenge him again.

  She stepped inside the Great Hall, trailed by her silent sentry.

  “Where is that dratted footman?” Lady Augusta’s screech echoed down the passage, exploding into the Great Hall with the force of a nor’easter.

  There was nothing for it. Rosalind had to face Lady Augusta. The footman mustn’t suffer a punishment because of her reluctance. Rosalind sailed into the salon to meet with her nemesis.

  “There you are! Where have you been, girl? And what are you wearing?” Lady Augusta’s voice rose even higher, if that were possible, her gray eyes snapping with anger while her mouth wrinkled up like an old apple left out in the sun. Before Rosalind answered, Lady Augusta’s gaze cut to the silent footman. “I told you to bring her immediately. Tell Tickell your next half day is canceled.”

  A horrified croak escaped from Rosalind, and for the first time, she saw a flash of irritation on the footman’s face. “It’s not fair to punish him. It’s my fault he took so long. I was way out by the Tower Garden. Then, on the way back, I stopped to talk to Hastings. The butler mustn’t punish him on my account.”

  “Go,” Lady Augusta ordered the footman. “And don’t forget to see Tickell.”

  Aghast, Rosalind could only stare at the elderly woman in front of her. She’d countermand the order later. “How can I help you, Lady Augusta?”

  “Where is that maid of yours? I told her to go to the village seamstress and come back with two suitable gowns. You can’t continue wearing the rags you’ve donned the last few days.” Her mouth pursed in a pained grimace as she flicked a gaze at the offending gown. “Where is she? I expected her back at least an hour ago.”

  “Mary and I visited the seamstress at the beginning of the week to order gowns. She’s busy with orders for the Mansfield ball.”

  “Which we are attending,” Lady Augusta snapped. “You can’t go in a gown such as the one you wore last night. You’ll make us a laughingstock. Your maid dresses better than you do. It’s no wonder Hastings spends so much time away from Castle St. Clare.”

  Grief lanced through Rosalind at the cruel reminder, but Lady Augusta spoke the truth. Hastings refused to spend time with her. So whom did he spend his hours with? The lady who inhabited his memories?

  “Pour the chocolate, girl.” Lady Augusta’s abrasive tone jerked her from her sorry thoughts. “Where is your maid? You haven’t told me. Speak up.”

  The dainty china bowls rattled as Rosalind arranged them on the walnut table next to Lady Augusta. “I haven’t seen her since she helped me dress this morning.”

  “Discipline, girl! That’s the only thing they understand. If I find she met with a man instead of hurrying back, there’ll be trouble. Servants require discipline.”

  Rosalind disagreed but knew better than to argue. She picked up the pot of chocolate and poured it into two bowls. She placed one within Lady Augusta’s reach.

  “Pass the sugar, girl!”

  “Yes, Lady Augusta.”

  She picked up the sugar bowl and held it toward Lady Augusta.

  “Two lumps.”

  Rosalind sighed and followed the order. When she was about to place the sugar bowl down, Lady Augusta seized her hand.

  “Another lump.”

  A haze of red and white swirled through Rosalind’s mind. The red seeped through the white like drops of blood. She shivered with a preternatural sense of walking through a patch of cold fog. The fog cleared to show children—Hastings, but a younger Hastings who laughed and gamboled over the sand with others chasing him. The mist swirled, rearranged then cleared in a different place, and Rosalind came face to face with herself. She wrenched her hand away, jolting the sugar bowl and scattering lumps in all directions.

  “You stupid girl,” Lady Augusta barked. “Ring for a maid.”

  Rosalind backed away, blindly reaching for the hand bell to summon a servant. Lady Augusta worried about the future, about the continuation of the St. Clare line. And she was in pain—severe pain she hid behind her irascible disposition.

  This presented a quandary. Everything inside her wanted to reach out and help, but how could she, and keep her gift secret at the same time?

  She returned to where Lady Augusta sat in an upright chair. Cubes of sugar crunched, breaking into crystals beneath each of her steps.

  “Stand still, girl. You’re making a mess.”

  “Yes, Lady Augusta,” Rosalind said, pondering a way to help the elderly woman without attracting attention to herself.

  Lady
Augusta snapped instructions to the maid. She disappeared and returned a short time later with a broom in hand.

  “Out of the way, girl!” Lady Augusta flashed an irritable glower in Rosalind’s direction.

  Rosalind suppressed a sigh. There was no winning with Lady Augusta. Everything she did was wrong.

  “Is that maid back yet?” the elderly woman barked. “You there! I’m talking to you. Has Lady Hastings’s maid returned from the errand I sent her on?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Where is the dratted girl?”

  “I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation.” Rosalind kept her voice low and soothing.

  Lady Augusta let out a snort that sounded like an impatient horse. “I’ll want to hear it.”

  Rosalind sank onto a chair, well out of the maid’s way, and sipped her chocolate. She wondered if Lady Augusta had finished with her and when she might escape.

  The maid swept up the sugar, bobbed a curtsy and hurried from the room, leaving Rosalind alone with Lady Augusta. Rosalind took another sip of her chocolate, waiting for Lady Augusta to speak. The silence drew out until she wanted to scream. She inched forward on her chair, her left hand clenching and unclenching in the folds of her skirt.

  “You will not bring Hastings to heel the way you’re going about things.”

  Rosalind started. The bowl almost bounded from her hands, splattering chocolate on her skirts. A dry chuckle burst from the elderly lady. Rosalind righted the dish, both humiliated and resentful. She didn’t need Lady Augusta to tell her something was wrong. Her mouth tightened as she glowered at the woman.

  “Good to see you have a backbone. I was beginning to wonder. I’ve instructed that maid of yours to return with two gowns and ordered the seamstress to hurry the others. You’ll have a decent gown to wear to dinner tonight. Give Lady Sophia some competition. That’s if your maid returns today. Meantime, I want you to go over the menus with me.” Lady Augusta paused, expectancy on her lined face. “Well, what do you say?”

  “Thank you, Lady Augusta.”

  The elderly woman fixed her with a steely glare. “You must win over Hastings.”

  “Yes, Lady Augusta.”