The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  “Time we had St. Clare offspring running about the castle again.”

  Rosalind winced. Was she that obvious? How did Lady Augusta know it was her dearest wish to hold a child to her breast, to smooth the soft down of its head and shower enough love to make him or her grow into a healthy adult? Hastings’s child. An excited tingle speared from her breast to her belly at the notion. Yes, she wanted her husband to give her a child.

  “Surprised you, did I?” A dry cackle sounded. “I’m not so old I don’t remember what it’s like for the blood to run hot with passion. Are you listening?”

  “Yes, Lady Augusta,” Rosalind said in embarrassment. When she dared meet Lady Augusta’s gaze again, she noticed the imperceptible tightening of lips. The elderly woman required a tonic. She hoped Mary would have some idea of how to get her to drink a potion without raising suspicions. “Shall we start on the menus? Cook will want them as soon as possible.”

  By the time they finished to Lady Augusta’s satisfaction, a full two hours had passed.

  “Ring the bell for Tickell. Tell him to send for Hancock. I am weary and wish to rest.”

  Rosalind rose with alacrity and made haste before Lady Augusta gave her another chore.

  “See if your maid has returned. She’d better be back if she knows what’s good for her.”

  Rosalind reached for the doorknob, half expecting Lady Augusta to call her back. She jerked the door open and almost leaped through in her hurry to leave. Their menu-planning session had left her with a pounding head, and it had done little for Lady Augusta’s temperament either.

  A maid hovered a few feet from the door, making Rosalind suspect her of eavesdropping. The amused glint in the maid’s dark eyes confirmed her suspicions.

  “Has Mary returned from her errand?” Rosalind’s words wiped the smirk from the maid’s face and raised guilt in her. She sounded like Lady Augusta.

  “I haven’t seen her.” The maid tossed her head. “But she may have returned while I was doing the library.”

  Rosalind nodded. “Lady Augusta wishes the services of her maid. Please inform Tickell.”

  Once the servant left, Rosalind hurried away to check her chamber. As the maid had said, it was possible Mary had returned with the gowns and gone straight to Rosalind’s room to hang them so the creases dropped out.

  “Mary?” Rosalind pushed the chamber door shut behind her. “Mary, are you here?”

  Silence greeted her call. Rosalind stepped into the dressing room to collect the cloak Mary had lent her and came to a stunned halt.

  Six gowns hung on hooks where this morning there were none. But they didn’t resemble the dresses she and Mary had ordered from the seamstress.

  They were gorgeous, gowns of the like she’d never seen before, with matching petticoats. And the colors! She picked up the closest gown and couldn’t resist holding it to her body, despite the risk of marking it. Oh, it was glorious, the blue and gold fabric soft and feminine. She buried her nose in the silk, savoring the scent of new cloth.

  An excited giggle bubbled up her throat. There were five more, each so beautiful she’d have trouble choosing which gown to wear tonight. Rosalind whirled about, swinging the gown with her. The fabric rustled as though she were dancing. She couldn’t wait to see Hastings’s face when he saw her in one of her new gowns. And to thank him, for it must have been his doing. For once, she’d show to advantage. She’d look beautiful.

  9 – The Missing Maid, Puzzles, And An Impossible Husband

  The dinner hour approached, and Mary was still missing.

  As darkness drew in, Rosalind paced her chamber, clutching her kitten for comfort while worry stung her flesh like hundreds of angry bee stings. Her hand stilled on top of Noir’s head. Despite Lady Augusta’s conviction, Mary wasn’t the type to run off with a lover. Puzzlement gnawed at her, along with anxiety.

  Mary’s whereabouts remained a mystery. She’d returned to the castle with the gowns, hung them in the dressing room and disappeared with not a soul seeing her. Repeated questioning of servants had produced no answers. No one had seen Mary since early this morning.

  A tap at her chamber door, just as a clock chimed the hour, announced a maid. Maybe she would have news of Mary. With optimism surging inside, Rosalind set Noir down and bade her enter. One glance at the woman and her hopes plummeted. Mary was still absent. Forcing a smile, she submitted to the maid’s attentions and fretted, trying to decide what else she could do. Even though she hadn’t seen as much of Mary recently, her maid was the one constant in her topsy-turvy world. Selfish reasons aside, concern for Mary’s safety filled her. No matter what anyone said, this wasn’t characteristic behavior for her maid.

  Time crept past as the maid styled her hair, applied a patch to the right of her mouth and helped her dress. Finally, she smoothed the lustrous pink silk of Rosalind’s gown, coaxing a tuck into obedience, flicking a piece of lace on her sleeve.

  “You look right nice in that dress.” The sturdy girl stood back to survey her handiwork. “The color suits you. Should I come back later to help you get ready for bed?”

  “Thank you, Janet, but I’m sure Mary will return soon.”

  Janet bowed her head and curtsied, but not before Rosalind witnessed the clear doubt in her round face. Everyone accepted the stories of a lover.

  Outside, the sun slipped from sight. A stiff breeze blew in from the sea, rattling loose shutters and shooting chilly drafts about the castle. Clearly, a storm was on the way. Apprehension eroded all her pleasure in donning one of her new gowns. Mary wouldn’t willingly face the biting wind and rain, especially with her grumbles about the dangers of fresh air.

  In the distance, a clock chimed the next hour, reminding her of the need to hurry. She scooped Noir off the dresser and placed him on the floor.

  “Thank you, Janet. Will you make sure my chamber door is closed when you leave?”

  Janet’s gaze speared to Noir. Her mouth compressed, but she nodded. “Aye, my lady.”

  Rosalind’s silk skirts rustled as she hurried down the passage. When she entered the Chinese Drawing Room, guests were still arriving. Lady Augusta beckoned her with an imperious gesture of her hand. “What was in that tonic you sent for me?”

  “A recipe my grandmother taught me.” Rosalind fought the need to roll her eyes. Good grief. She’d wanted to help. Why was Lady Augusta telling her off?

  “Ah, Hastings.” Lady Augusta summoned her nephew from a discussion with Charles.

  Rosalind gaped, momentarily speechless. Was that a smile on her face?

  Hastings sauntered to a halt beside Rosalind. Dark locks were styled in loose curls on his shoulders, contrasting with the pale blue waistcoat he wore with black breeches and jacket. His inscrutable dark eyes skimmed her face and traveled down her body.

  A tremor raced through Rosalind, the air whooshing from her lungs. His gaze caressed her, soft as a handful of petals brushing her skin. She imagined his hand trailing down her body instead of his eyes. And at that moment, she wanted to touch him so much, her hand tingled beneath her pink gloves. Every time he looked at her, her heart leaped in response, yet the awareness of his masculinity, his strength, tied her insides in knots of confusion.

  “You will escort your wife to dinner,” Lady Augusta commanded, jerking Rosalind from her illicit thoughts. “Introduce her to Mansfield.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  Rosalind glanced in the direction Lady Augusta indicated with a flutter of her fan. A large man, tall and solid, stood on the other side of the parlor near a display of Oriental etchings. Cousin Charles held up his quizzing glass and minced three steps before whirling to speak to the man. The blond man threw back his head and roared with laughter at Charles’s antics.

  “Go on,” Lady Augusta snapped, striking out with her fan to emphasize her order. “Before Tickell rings the dinner bell.”

  Hastings’s expression never changed. “Shall we?” He offered his escort to Rosalind.

  Tho
ughts of her husband had rattled her so much, the protective gloves she wore were a blessed relief. A chance to block her gift and know her mind would remain free of visions. Forcing aside her worries for Mary’s safety, she placed her trembling hand on Hastings’s arm and strolled at her husband’s side, her head held high with pride.

  Lucien hid his shock at Rosalind’s appearance. Tonight, his wife looked like a graceful bird instead of a small brown mouse. The pink gown lent color to her cheeks and made her blue eyes sparkle. He sensed, rather than saw, the admiration of the male guests. He slowed his steps and moved her closer to his side. Immediately, a delicate scent assailed him, bringing to mind the rose garden on a lazy summer afternoon.

  “Lady Hastings. You look good enough to eat.”

  Lucien couldn’t help but tense at the admiration in his cousin’s voice and, judging by her puzzled glance, his English mouse noticed his reaction.

  “Cousin Charles.” Rosalind swept into a low curtsy. “Thank you.”

  “Lady Hastings, may I present Viscount Mansfield? You’ve heard me speak of our childhood friend, Mansfield.”

  The man, supposedly his friend, bowed over his wife’s hand. Try as he might, he had no recollection of Mansfield. The childhood memories Charles described were like mist, opaque yet insubstantial.

  Mansfield straightened, lust flashing beneath the polished veneer. It was gone so fast Lucien wondered if he’d imagined the reaction. He scowled, his frame tightening with inner tension. If Mansfield thought to flirt with his wife, he could think again.

  “Steady, cuz.” Charles wore an amused smile. “Friend.”

  Lucien blanked his face, but too late. Drat the woman. He didn’t want her in his mind, and yet he couldn’t rid himself of the possessive urges that surfaced without warning.

  “I’m pleased to meet you at last, Lady Hastings. If I’d known how beautiful and charming you were, I wouldn’t have dallied in London for so long.”

  Lucien curled his arm around Rosalind’s slender waist in a proprietary statement. “Mansfield.”

  “Hastings.” Humor lurked in his eyes. “Are you keeping your wife prisoner in the castle? The local rumor mill—”

  “You shouldn’t rely on gossip,” Lucien cut in without a trace of nuance.

  Mansfield gave an arrogant nod and eyed Rosalind with a speculative lift of a brow. “So I see.”

  What the hell did that mean? Lucien might not remember his childhood friend, but he recognized a wolf when he saw one. A wolf who was ogling his wife’s attributes. Lucien winged a dark glare at the man, one that promised retribution should he continue.

  “Good evening, Hastings,” a soft feminine voice cooed.

  Rosalind stiffened at his side, the distaste in her expression so in tune with his own thoughts Lucien almost laughed. Lady Sophia might flirt with him, but she didn’t truly like him and never met his gaze. It was apparent his scarred visage offended her sensibilities.

  Still, Lady Sophia’s artless chatter provided insightful clues in his search for Hawk. He’d learned which of the local aristocracy purchased goods from the smugglers, who ordered tea, tobacco, brandy or French silk. After receiving the information from Lady Sophia, he’d questioned several of the landowners, but none of them knew Hawk’s true identity. In truth, none of them cared so long as they continued to receive their luxuries with minimum fuss.

  He’d discovered the landowners deposited money at a specified place on a particular night, and the next morning they’d find goods on their doorsteps—every step of the transaction took place at a distance. So he hated to alienate Lady Sophia too much. After his previous setdown when she’d tried to trap him into kissing her, he was lucky she still spoke to him. “Lady Sophia.”

  “Hastings, I wanted to discuss my purchase of a new mount. I’m sure Lady Hastings can spare you for a few minutes.”

  “Perhaps after dinner, Lady Sophia,” Rosalind said. “Tickell will ring the dinner bell soon.”

  She was trembling, although none of the others noticed. He wondered at her possessive manner since his previous behavior had been little short of rude. His gaze drifted over her pert nose and onward to soft pink lips. The drift of color to her cheeks made him smile. Rosalind hid quiet dignity and a caring nature beneath her reserve, and he couldn’t help but admire her for it.

  Thunder crashed, reverberating throughout Rosalind’s chamber. A fork of lightning lit the night sky before Janet, who was still substituting for Mary, slammed the shutters across the windows to close out the storm. “Will you need anything else tonight, Lady Hastings?”

  Rosalind noted the tinge of color on the maid’s cheeks, the way she picked up her hairbrush and put it down only to fondle a blue-and-silver hair ribbon. She was like a bird craving freedom from a cage, restless and eager to fly.

  “Are you meeting Tom tonight?” Before dinner, the maid had told her about the man who was courting her.

  “Yes, my lady.” She hugged herself, the sparkle in her eyes making Rosalind even more miserable.

  Why couldn’t Hastings court her?

  Rain lashed against the shutters. The wind roared its fury. Rosalind glanced down at her hands. She didn’t want to be alone. She could order the maid to stay. After all, what fool would venture outside in weather like this? She turned to Janet, about to tell her she required her services tonight. Another glimpse of her sparkling eyes, the flushed face and clear impatience to leave made Rosalind’s shoulders slump. A fool in love—that’s who would brave the elements.

  She couldn’t do it. It wasn’t the maid’s job to quell the monsters that haunted both Rosalind’s chamber and her mind.

  “No, Janet, I won’t need you again this evening.”

  The maid nodded and skipped to the door. “Good evening. Sleep well.”

  Rosalind fixed a smile to her lips and concentrated on ignoring the apprehension spreading through her body. She still doubted Mary would face this storm, even if Janet intended to go out in the icy elements. “Have a lovely time.”

  “Thank you, Lady Hastings.” A quick grin stretched across Janet’s face before she disappeared from sight, the heavy wooden door closing with a soft thud, leaving Rosalind alone.

  Again.

  Rosalind rose from the stool in front of her looking glass. Where was Mary? No matter what Lady Augusta and the others said, Mary wouldn’t run off without a word. Tomorrow she’d ask questions in the village and organize a search.

  A loud crash, almost overhead, made her wince. The promised storm had arrived with vengeance. She hoped Mary was somewhere dry and warm.

  Rosalind padded to her bed and climbed in. Sleep. Slumber and forget about Hastings, although tonight he’d been attentive to her. Was she wrong to wish for more? The yearning for a loving partnership and children was like a fist squeezing her heart. Rosalind ached for Hastings’s love, his friendship.

  The candle flickered out and the room settled into darkness. Rosalind punched her pillow, lay back and pulled the covers over her shivering body. Her pulse raced unaccountably, as it often did when she was alone in her chamber. A shiver swept her body. Malignant eyes watched again. For several days now, watchful eyes followed her every action. It didn’t seem to matter what time of the day or night. Then there was the mystery of her disappearing gowns…

  Rosalind frowned into the darkness. The new gowns were a mystery too. She’d meant to ask Hastings but hadn’t found the right time during dinner, not when Lady Sophia was monopolizing his attention.

  The sensation of someone watching her heightened. Rosalind bolted upright. Licking her lips, she stared into the darkness, searching for the unknown entity that stalked her, that watched and waited until she questioned her sanity. Rosalind strained for the slightest noise to prove she wasn’t going mad, but she heard nothing above the groaning wind and rain.

  Forcing aside her smothering unease, she lay back and resolutely closed her eyes.

  A mistake.

  Imagination took flight, growing w
ith each rattle of thunder. Rosalind bolted upright in the bed. The back of her neck prickled. The small hairs on her arms and legs stood to attention.

  A sound that could have been a footstep hiked her heartbeat to a gallop.

  “Who’s there?” Her voice sounded tiny and scared. Rosalind swallowed, the noise loud to her ears. She fumbled for the bell-pull and tugged. She wanted a candle. Not knowing what loomed in the inky black darkness was worse than being able to see the threat face to face. “Noir? Here, kitty.”

  An eternity later, a brisk tap sounded on her door.

  “Come in,” Rosalind called.

  The door opened, and a light flickered, illuminating a maid’s face. “Can I get you something, my lady?”

  “There seems to be a draft. My candle blew out.”

  The maid surged forward. “I’ll light it for you.”

  With the maid’s reassuring presence, Rosalind’s terror eased. The flickering light of the candle was welcome. Where was Noir? She couldn’t see her kitten anywhere and desperately needed his comforting presence. He’d developed a habit of hiding and pouncing at her ankles when she least expected it.

  “Will that be all, my lady?”

  Rosalind resisted the urge to order the maid to stay, at least until she’d found her kitten. After a pause, she acknowledged the truth. The fewer people who knew about Noir’s extra toes, the better. “Yes, thank you. That will be all.”

  The maid curtsied and withdrew. It was best. She couldn’t allow fear to rule her life. She slid from the canopied bed and picked up the candle. Holding it aloft, she walked the perimeter of the chamber, searching for a clue to prove she wasn’t sinking into madness.

  There! There on the rug. A trail of sandy footprints.

  Rosalind didn’t think twice. She raced from her chamber, heading for Hastings’s adjoining room. In the early days of their marriage, she’d tested the connecting door between their rooms. Hastings kept it locked. She hammered on his door and waited. Nothing happened. She glanced over her shoulder. Was that something moving behind her? Deciding not to wait and find out, she opened the door and burst through. Something—Noir—streaked in front of her. Rosalind toppled to the ground with an unladylike grunt while her kitten scampered out of the room. The candle snuffed out when the holder hit the ground, leaving her in darkness.