Farleigh’s eyes filled with relief. “Straightaway, my lord.”
St. Vire rose from his chair. He leaned toward the sitting man and stared at him intently. “And if I find you are lying to me, I shall make sure you suffer for it.” He smiled cheerfully at him. “I can, you know.”
A shudder went through Farleigh’s bulky frame. “Yes, no, of course, my lord.”
“Go, now.”
Farleigh stood hastily and almost ran from the room.
St. Vire frowned. The whole thing was in very bad taste, but there was no help for it. It was necessary for the spell to work. He sighed. What a pity it was that magic had no sense of good ton.
Chapter Two
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Once more Leonore Farleigh’s eyes rose from the book on her lap to the parlor clock. Except for this action, she showed nothing of what she was feeling, for she kept her face emotionless, her posture straight, and her hands steady upon the pages. She gazed dispassionately at her mother, who was embroidering a purse by the light of a branch of candles, and said nothing. It was not necessary. The clock made enough conversation for both of them. She turned her eyes to her book.
A loud voice sounded in the hallway outside the parlor. Mrs. Farleigh gasped. Leonore looked up slowly, her gaze cool as she stared at the parlor door. Carefully, she smoothed the pages down, then closed the book. She clasped it, white knuckled, on her lap. Mrs. Farleigh dropped her needlework and twisted the rings on her fingers.
“Leonore! Martha!” came the voice again, and a large, heavy thump made the door tremble. Leonore caught her mother’s frightened glance and looked once more at the clock. It was a little past nine o’clock; early for her father to return from the gaming hells he frequented.
“I think you should open the door for him, Leonore.”
Leonore cast an angry glance at her mother. “No. I want to know how inebriated Father is by how long it takes him to open the door.”
“Leonore, please—”
But the door opened, and Leonore smiled to herself cynically. Her father must have won something at the gaming table to be less intoxicated than usual. Indeed, his red face was full of smiles as he gazed upon both his wife and daughter.
“Congratulate me, Martha!” He wove his way forward and draped himself upon the sofa on which his wife sat. He gave his wife a smacking kiss on the cheek, and she visibly tried not to wince. “I have got our Leonore here a fine husband.”
A cold chill seized Leonore’s heart, and she could feel herself grow pale. She could smell the brandy on her father from where she sat. He is inebriated, she told herself. He does not know what he is saying.
“Did you hear me, Leonore?” Mr. Farleigh turned his wavering gaze toward his daughter. “A husband!”
“Yes, Father.”
“Well, are you not going to thank me?”
Leonore caught another frightened, warning glance from her mother, but it was for nothing.
“I am convinced you must be mistaken, Father.”
He rose up like an angry bear and cuffed her ear. “I am not mistaken. It is Lord St. Vire, I tell you!”
Leonore put her hand to her stinging ear and stared at him, expressionless. “I am afraid I have not heard of him.” Her voice trembled only a little, and she was glad of her control. Perhaps if they were lucky her father would tire soon and leave. A great weariness came over her as she looked at him. She yearned to leave home, and marriage might be an avenue of escape. Being a governess gave her some relief, but it did nothing for her mother or her sister. On the other hand, marriage could be worse; there was no guarantee of relief from her father’s rages—or indeed those of a husband—and still it did nothing for her family.
Her father seized her shoulders, pulled her from her chair, and shook her. “Stupid girl! He has an estate near Avebury. It was rich in my father’s time, and I am certain it is still so. You will marry him, for I have promised you to him.”
“Edward, no!” cried Mrs. Farleigh. “I have heard nothing good about the St. Vires, for all they are reclusive.”
He turned reddened eyes to her and raised his fist. “Silence, woman! I know what is best for my family!” His wife shrank away from him. He turned to his daughter again.
“How much money did you lose this time?” Leonore bit her tongue, but it was too late to take back the words she had blurted. Her father shook her again, then pushed her away. Slowly, she sat down on the chair again.
“It matters not—he has agreed to marry you, and he will pay all our debts as well. Do you see?”
“Yes, Father.” There was both relief and greed in her father’s eyes, and Leonore knew it was not some drunken dream of his, but the truth.
Her stomach turned, and she pressed her lips together to keep down the rising nausea. She had been sold to this St. Vire, no doubt an old, lecherous man, one who had probably worn out his prior wife, trying to get sons on her. Why else would he want to wed a young woman like herself, whom he had never seen?
“Good girl,” Mr. Farleigh said, and he released her. “We will go to him now.”
“Edward, it is very late! Why, it is not decent to have a girl go to a man’s house at this time of night! Indeed, not at any time at all!” his wife cried.
This time it was his wife whom he seized by the arm and shook until she sobbed. “Decent! Not decent! She is my daughter, and she is going with me, woman!”
“Father, stop!”
He turned, staggering.
“I will go with you. I cannot promise I will marry him, but I will at least see him for myself.” Perhaps if he thinks I am willing, Father will not cause trouble. Then I will take my savings from my wages and take Mother and Susan with me to Aunt May’s house to visit—to gain a little quiet for once. No one can object to that, not even Father. She wished she had taken a governess’s post away from London, so that she need not feel obliged to come home on her days off. She sighed mentally. She had, after all, chosen to stay close to home; it was useless to regret it now.
“You will keep your mouth shut and say nothing, do you hear?”
“Yes, Father.”
Mr. Farleigh was all smiles again. “Good.”
Leonore had not even time to nod at her mother reassuringly before her father seized her arm and pulled her out the parlor door.
The hackney took Leonore and her father to a fashionable part of town—Pall Mall, she believed, looking at the new gas lamps. The lamps lighting the street were brighter than the moon and shone upon the gleaming brass fixtures on the door of the house. About that, at least, thought Leonore, her father had not lied. St. Vire must indeed be wealthy to live on this street. She wet her dry lips as her father nearly dragged her up the steps to the door, his fingers digging into her arm. She closed her eyes briefly, more from shame than from the pain. No matter how many times she had been humiliated by her father and his actions, each new humiliation was as nauseating as the last.
The door opened slowly at Mr. Farleigh’s pounding, and the butler acknowledged them with a slight bow. He led them through the silent house, and Leonore could not help staring all around her, for the walls were covered with brocade, the draperies heavy and rich. Fine paintings lined the hallway, suggesting finer ones within the rooms. The clean smell of beeswax and polish came to her, and as she went up the stairs, she felt the smooth and sturdy banister beneath her hand. Lord St. Vire must be very wealthy indeed.
Lightly knocking at the door in front of them, the butler announced their presence.
“Come in.” The door muffled the voice, and Leonore could not tell from it if the owner was young or old. Shame and anger overcame her in that instant, heating her face, and she felt she could not look at her host without showing it. She stared down at her hands clasped tightly in front of her instead and stepped into the room.
“Welcome, Mr. Farleigh, Miss Farleigh. Please sit down.”
The voice in front of her was soft and deep and did not quaver with age. Pe
rhaps he was middle-aged, instead of old, thought Leonore … not that it made her situation any better. She pressed her lips together firmly, choosing a chair well away from her father. It was best to face things as they were instead of guessing and pretending, she knew, however much less it hurt to pretend and imagine. But still she did not want to look at him; just for a moment she wanted to pretend she was not here. Leonore swallowed and castigated herself. She would control her emotions once again, and show a face as serene as she could make it.
“Miss Farleigh,” the voice said, soothingly. “Do look up. I would very much like to see your face.” Somehow she could not take offense at his words, for his voice pulled at her, the sound of it curling up around her ears so that she felt impelled to do just as he asked. For one moment she fought it, then took a deep breath and looked up.
He was beautiful.
Her breath left her in a rush. He was tall, much taller than herself, and she was considered well over average height. He could not be much older than her own five-and-twenty years, Leonore thought. His hair was dark and glinted red in the candlelight—it would show dark auburn or chestnut in the sun, she was sure. Two dark, arched eyebrows were set in a face perfectly oval and smooth of lines. Beneath those brows were eyes, large and of an impossible green—grass green, almost—fringed with thick lashes. His lips, smiling gently, were austerely formed and yet oddly sensual. She would have thought him too beautiful to be a man, except that the lines of his face escaped the feminine with a firm, cleft chin, a strong jaw, and a classically straight nose.
But he was pale, pale as a marble saint in a medieval church, and there were shadows beneath his eyes. The cause of that must be dissipation, Leonore thought, or illness. Her mother had said that there had been little good said of the St. Vires; perhaps that was why he wished to marry her, sight unseen. Perhaps his reputation put him beyond the pale for marriage with any well-born young lady, although his wealth and looks must have attracted many. Here was a puzzle, she thought.
St. Vire gazed at her up and down, his eyes lingering upon her figure, but with the coolness of an experienced horse trader. A blush warmed her cheeks, though Leonore kept her face impassive. How dare he! she fumed inwardly, then thought, how dare my father! For she was being sold as surely as a well-bred horse would be at Tattersall’s. She began to resent him, almost as much as she did her father.
Something of her thoughts must have reflected in her face, for St. Vire smiled at her gently, saying, “I understand how awkward this must seem, Miss Farleigh. But you see, I need a wife quickly and could not wait to do it in the usual manner.” He glanced at Leonore’s father and returned his gaze to her. “I believe you came here willingly?”
“I came to see what you were like. So yes, I suppose you might say I came willingly. I made no promises to my father, and neither do I make any to you.”
Her father rose from his chair in a stumbling rush. “I told you to keep your mouth shut, you little—!”
“Silence!” The room filled with an almost palpable threat as St. Vire leaned across his large desk toward Mr. Farleigh. The older man shrank down upon his chair again.
“Thank you,” St. Vire said. His tone was cordial, and Leonore realized with surprise that his voice had never risen above a conversational level. He returned his gaze to her.
“Now then. Your father told you I wished to marry you?” He smiled at her, almost sympathetically, she thought.
“Yes. But unlike you, I did not want to make a decision that would affect the rest of my life without seeing what I would be living with.”
St. Vire’s smile turned into a wide grin. “Fair enough.” He stood up and spread his arms wide. “You may look all you wish.”
Leonore felt a blush rising in her cheeks again, but she looked him over as purposefully and as assessingly as he had her.
“Are you satisfied?”
She gave him a level look. “Not yet.”
A low grumble came from her father. St. Vire gave him a sharp look, and Mr. Farleigh subsided. The younger man seemed to come to a decision and pulled the bell rope. “I think, perhaps, it is best if Miss Farleigh and I talk alone.”
“Leave her alone with you!” Mr. Farleigh exclaimed. “You said you’d marry her right and tight, and I’ll not have you tell me this night she’s damaged goods!”
Silence reigned for one tick of the clock on the mantelpiece.
“I think it is best if Miss Farleigh and I talk alone,” St. Vire repeated. The door opened, and the butler looked respectfully at his master. St. Vire nodded his head toward Mr. Farleigh. “Our guest wishes to wait in the parlor. Do provide him with some refreshment if you please, Samuels.”
“Very good, sir.”
Leonore’s face grew more heated with mixed shame and wonder as she watched her father follow the butler out the door. If she did not know her father better, she would have said he had been cowed into submitting to St. Vire’s wishes. She had never seen her father submit to anyone. How had St. Vire done it? She dared glance at him and found him looking at her again, seated and resting his chin on his hands.
“Interruptions are distressing, are they not?” he said.
A reluctant smile lifted the corners of Leonore’s lips.
“Ah, that is better. You have a most charming smile.”
“Are you relieved?”
St. Vire raised his eyebrows in question.
“That I am not an antidote,” she explained.
This time he laughed—a pleasant, husky sound. “Truthfully, I did not think about it, although I must say to be wed to a lovely woman cannot be unpleasant.”
Leonore’s smile faded, and she looked away, remembering the times that sort of comment did her harm.
“You do not like to be complimented upon your looks?”
She raised her eyes and found him looking at her intently. “Attractiveness is not a useful attribute in a governess.”
“Ah. Your father neglected to mention this.”
“My family is poor,” she said bluntly. “As the eldest, I thought it better I earn my way in the world than be a burden upon my family’s slight resources.”
“And a respectable way to escape, I imagine.” He pushed himself from the desk and leaned back in his chair, his expression contemplative.
Leonore looked at him in wary surprise. The man was perceptive; she needed to keep herself from displaying much of her feelings, lest it make her vulnerable in some way.
“Your father told me you are five-and-twenty. How is it that you are not married?”
“Quite easily: I am poor, have no dowry, and no entrée to the higher circles of society, despite my lineage. I am very much a creature betwixt and between.”
“And yet you are clearly a lady of good breeding and intelligence.”
She smiled wryly. “The first is of little worth when compared with the lack of other attributes, and the second is a liability, I assure you.”
“But not, I assure you, to me.”
Leonore blinked. To him? Of course. He wished to marry her. It was odd how she had been lured into talking with him as if she were actually considering it, responding almost automatically to his soft, sympathetic voice. Her intention had been to say little or nothing. Quickly, she went back through their conversation in her mind and realized she had revealed a great deal about herself, but he had said little of himself. How had he done it? She seldom spoke of her feelings, her thoughts to anyone. It had been his voice, perhaps, for it was deep and musical, lulling her into a comfort she seldom felt around people, dissipating the resentment she’d felt earlier.
“Why?” she asked.“Why do you want to marry me?”
There was silence as he watched his finger trace an aimless design upon the surface of the desk. Then he looked up at her.
“I need a wife. Soon. For … the usual reasons.”
She watched him, his pale perfect face and the faint shadows under his eyes. A tired expression crossed his features, then a c
ertain sad frustration replaced it. Clearly, he was not telling her everything. But she could guess, and pity for him rose within her. He was not well, it seemed. Perhaps that was why he wished to wed so quickly, to beget an heir before his illness overcame him. She shook her head, however. Regardless, he had no right to require that she marry him in return for her father’s gaming debts.
“No. I am sorry, but no. I do not know you, and though I understand your troubles must be grievous, I am not the one. I am sure you will find another young woman more than happy to become your wife.”
The frustration in his eyes grew, and he said, “May I ask why?”
“Simply this: I will not be sold.”
He hesitated, then said bluntly: “My dear lady, do not all marriage arrangements concern a certain trade of favors? However much a pair may proclaim affection for each other, one gives and the other takes, and vice versa. A woman may bear her husband children in exchange for a comfortable living. In return, the husband protects her from all harm. Sometimes property is involved. I am offering that same comfort to you and will extend the same to your family. I only ask that you be my wife and live with me for a year. In that respect, it is no different from what any other man might ask in a proposal of marriage.”
Leonore shook her head again. “I have no guarantee that you will deliver what you promise.”
“Come here, please, Miss Farleigh.”
She would have preferred staying in her chair, but she rose, nevertheless, and came to him. Lord St. Vire rose as well; he was tall, indeed. The top of her head came to his chin, and she had to tip back her head to look at him. Leonore felt suddenly small in front of him, and she did not like the sensation. She looked away from him.
A light caress circled her sore ear and then her chin, gently lifting her face so that she looked at him again. A fleeting expression of anger crossed his face, and Leonore took a quick step back.
“Your father hit you.” It was not a question.
Shame suppressed all her words and she turned away from him.
The Vampire Viscount Page 2