The Spurned Viscountess

by Shelley Munro

The sky darkened when they drove through the avenue of trees leading to the castle courtyard. “I must arrange for a man from the village to trim the trees,” Lucien remarked.

  Rosalind recalled her initial arrival and the fright she and Mary had suffered. Her smile wavered as sorrow sliced deep. “Mansfield murdered Mary. She knew he was up to no good. She should have come to me instead of threatening him.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. We will remember her with fondness. She was a good friend to you.”

  The carriage creaked to a halt. Lucien tossed the reins to a stable lad and walked around to help Rosalind alight. His muscles flexed as he lifted her, despite the bandage with which she’d bound his arm earlier. Thank goodness it had been nothing more than a scratch, Mansfield’s shot going wider than he’d intended.

  Secure in his arms, Rosalind smiled at him and, when his solemn gaze met hers, her breath caught.

  Her husband.

  Charles sauntered from the Great Hall, a picture of elegance in dark gray breeches and a mauve waistcoat. “Rosalind! Lucien. Where have you been? Where’s Mansfield? We’ve searched the village and the castle high and low.”

  “It’s been a long night, and the story is even longer. Rosalind and I are hungry. Can we discuss this in the breakfast room?”

  Ten minutes later, they joined the earl and Charles at the table while Tickell plied them with buttered toast and saw their cups were full of chocolate and coffee. Rosalind bit the inside of her cheek to keep laughter at bay. The man’s ears were flapping so hard it was a wonder he didn’t take flight like a bird.

  “There you are,” Lady Augusta said as she sailed into the room. “We were worried.” She waited for Tickell to help seat her before turning expectantly to Rosalind at her side. “Where have you been?”

  “We’re sorry we alarmed you.” Rosalind gently squeezed the elderly woman’s hand, touched at the concern she perceived during the quick contact. Lady Augusta didn’t usually rise from her bed this early.

  Lucien started to explain.

  “Mansfield kidnapped you?” Charles’s voice held disbelief, despite the dried blood covering Lucien’s shirt.

  Lady Augusta rapped her knife against her china plate. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I do.” The earl sighed, looking older than his years. “It was because of me.”

  Pity filled Rosalind along with sorrow for the angry young boy and the misguided adult who’d hurt him. “Yes. He’s a bitter man.”

  “What nonsense are you babbling about, girl?” Lady Augusta snapped.

  The earl sighed again. “Mansfield is my son.”

  Tickell dropped a serving spoon. It clattered to the floor with a metallic clink. A choked sound came from Lady Augusta. Her face paled, and she slumped in her chair. “Say it isn’t true, St. Clare.”

  “It’s true.” Lucien wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and dropped it on the table. He looked at his father, ignoring everyone else in the breakfast room. Rosalind’s hand crept under the table to clutch his and took comfort from his warmth. “I’ve regained my memory, Father. While I was in Italy, Mansfield blurted it out to me one night after we’d drunk several bottles of wine and brandy. I didn’t believe him. We fought. He left the inn with Charles and the others while I stayed. On my way home, I met with Mansfield and was attacked and left for dead.”

  Tears filled the earl’s eyes as he stared at his son. His mouth worked, but no words emerged, so great was his emotion. It had Rosalind’s throat tightening, and even Lady Augusta surreptitiously wiped the moisture from her eyes.

  Charles shot to his feet. “Mansfield was responsible for that? I don’t believe it. Mansfield is family. He wouldn’t do that.”

  Lucien tensed, only relaxing when Rosalind squeezed his hand.

  “Everything Lucien says is true. Mansfield kidnapped me,” Rosalind said. “He intended to kill Lucien and force me to marry him.”

  Charles sank back to his chair, his face somber and concerned.

  Lucien knew they were shocked. But there was yet more, and it was best they heard it all. “Mansfield led the smuggling ring in the village.”

  “Mansfield was Hawk?” the earl asked. “Ah, that explains his absences. He skulked about as Hawk, letting us believe he was in London.”

  Lucien gave an abrupt nod. “He found it a useful way to fill his pockets and keep tabs on the coming and goings at Castle St. Clare at the same time. He explored the old caves and came across the tunnels. He decided to use them to his advantage.”

  “So he was responsible for the kitchen caving in,” Tickell said.

  Rosalind spoke up. “From what he told me, his men were extending the passages underneath the castle so they could move their goods inland without fear of discovery. I believe the old excise man retired six months ago, and his replacement is younger and more vigorous in carrying out his duties. The rumor in the village is of more excise men being employed to stamp out the illegal trading along the East Coast.”

  “They’ll find it difficult,” Charles said. “The local aristocracy are the smugglers’ biggest customers. Even the vicar buys tea from them.”

  “Mansfield is a fool,” Lady Augusta said. “We haven’t replaced all those servants yet. Good servants are difficult to find. The tunnels were probably an excuse. He was after the treasure.”

  “No, Lady Augusta,” Rosalind said, much more politely than Lucien thought his aunt warranted. “Mansfield wasn’t looking for treasure. He told me it was Charles.”

  Everyone turned to stare at Charles.

  “You?” Lady Augusta barked.

  Charles shuffled on his chair like a child being disciplined for wrongdoing. “Yes. I discovered several references in a diary I found tucked away in the library. The treasure exists. There’s even a map.”

  “A map?” Lady Augusta sniffed. “Rubbish!”

  “It is not rubbish, Aunt,” Charles said with quiet dignity.

  “Then why haven’t you found the treasure? Why have you kept it a secret?”

  Everyone continued to watch Charles. Ruddy color collected high on his cheekbones, and he obviously wished he was elsewhere. “A mouse has eaten part of the map,” he said finally.

  “That doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell us,” Lady Augusta said, accusation snapping in her eyes.

  “Because you treat me like an idiot,” Charles fired back. “Just as you are doing now.”

  “Where is Mansfield now?” the earl asked, butting in on his sister’s mumbling about stupid fools.

  “He was locked in the cellar at the King’s Head in Whittlebury overnight,” Lucien said. “The magistrate decided to move him under guard to Dover, since the facilities are better there. He didn’t want Mansfield’s cohorts to overpower his jailors in Whittlebury to set him free. He’s to go on trial in Dover for kidnapping, attempted murder and possibly smuggling.”

  “The magistrate probably buys brandy from Mansfield’s smugglers,” Charles muttered.

  Even if this was the truth, the magistrate knew better than to free Mansfield. Lucien ignored the comment and turned to the earl.

  His father made no pretence of eating, his plate lying untouched in front of him. He looked old and frail. “This is my fault. I was young and stupid, but I swear I never knew Mansfield was my child until Margery told me. By then, it was too late. I was married. Margery married soon after. I don’t think Gerald knew until later. We never spoke of it.” The earl’s faded blue eyes clouded as his mind drifted back to the past. “I never saw Margery or the boy until after Gerald died in the hunting accident. I tried to do my best for Mansfield, but he wanted more than I could give.”

  Lucien felt a twinge of sympathy. His father hadn’t acted honorably and now he suffered for it. “Father, Mansfield can’t hurt anyone now. Put it in the past where it belongs.”

  The earl turned to him, his emotions still close to the surface. “I’ve waited a long time to hear you call me Father. Glad you remembered.” He stood and Tickell h
anded him a cane. “I believe I’ll retire to my chamber.” He hobbled from the breakfast room. The cane tapped on the floor, highlighting his slow, pained progress.

  Rosalind placed her eating utensils down. “I intend to retire to my chamber as well. Last night was a long one.”

  “Would you like a maidservant to attend you, Lady Hastings?”

  Lucien stood and moved behind Rosalind. “Send hot water for a bath, please, Tickell. I’ll attend my wife.”

  Tickell barely blinked at the order. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Scandalous,” Lady Augusta said. Charles laughed, and she nailed him with a dark glare. She gave a haughty sniff. “This treasure business is stuff and nonsense. A tale. There are no jewels. Tell me more of this map.”

  Lucien took Rosalind’s arm. A sense of rightness accompanied the gesture. “I believe I’ll retire too,” he murmured next to her ear. “We’ll leave them to argue about the possibilities of treasure.”

  Her blue eyes danced with silent humor. “Yesterday was very tiring. I might sleep for two days.”

  “Good morning,” Lucien said, nodding at his aunt and Charles. They strolled down the Long Gallery. Lucien saw the portraits with new eyes. His ancestors.

  “It’s good to have family,” Rosalind remarked.

  Lucien stared at her, amazed at her uncanny timing. “I was just thinking that. I know their names.”

  “I know you do.” She smiled gently, but her eyes were suddenly wary. “The villagers believe I’m a witch.”

  “Rumors.”

  “Yes, but like all rumors, there is an element of truth.” Although he knew of her gift, he probably hadn’t considered the tribulations involved on a day-to-day basis. “My ability to mind read, for example. The reality is that it doesn’t allow for much privacy and that scares most people, especially if I speak out of turn and blab something I shouldn’t.”

  Lucien halted beside a rusty suit of armor and stared at his wife. “Can you read my mind right now?”

  “I could hazard a guess, but recall that I need to touch to get an accurate reading.” She peeked at her husband from beneath lowered lashes, suddenly craving physical contact with him so she could tell exactly what he was thinking.

  His dark eyes danced and a slow smile bloomed on his mouth. “I’ll have to remember not to touch you if I want to keep a secret.”

  The tight grip around her heart loosened, but still she wanted reassurance, to hear the words. “That’s it? That’s all you intend to say? Does my gift not frighten you? Appall you? It’s likely I’ll pass it on to our children.”

  Lucien heard frustration and bitterness in her voice. “You’ll help our children, should they inherit your gift,” he said, knowing it was nothing less than the truth. “Do you read my thoughts all the time?”

  “I can, if I concentrate. When we were first married, it was more difficult, but now we…we…now it’s not.” The color in her cheeks deepened to a flattering pink and her eyes lowered.

  Since they’d made love. Lucien grinned as smug male pride filled him.

  “I try to block your thoughts as much as possible because it’s like eavesdropping. It’s not a polite thing to do.”

  “Except when you’re investigating strange goings-on at the castle,” Lucien said. “Then you endanger yourself by using the gift.” They paused outside Rosalind’s chamber for Lucien to push open the door.

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  Lucien stared down at her bowed head. While her gift wouldn’t make their marriage an easy one, their relationship would be passionate and loving. Of that, he was in no doubt. Rosalind might be tiny, but she was feisty. He’d discovered he loved spirited women and this one in particular.

  A maid looked up as they strolled into Rosalind’s chamber arm-in-arm.

  “Leave us,” Lucien said, not removing his gaze from his wife. The maid giggled and Rosalind gasped. “Tell Tickell we’d like the bath sent to my chamber.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The door clicked shut behind the maid. The air throbbed between them. Lucien swept a hand down Rosalind’s soft cheek, his hand grazing the pulse point at her throat. Her breath caught, the pulse beating faster.

  “I love you, Rosalind.” He slid pins from her hair until long strands fell loose around her shoulders.

  Slowly her head rose and her gaze connected with his. A jolt of recognition seared his body.

  She smiled softly. “I know. I love you too.” She stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his lips.

  Lucien stepped away from temptation to strip off his crumpled black jacket. His blood-speckled shirt followed. “I’m not sure you do,” he said, his voice quiet and solemn. “But you will after the next two days.”

  The color in her cheeks heightened, but her gaze never wavered. “I like the idea.” Her blue eyes danced like a rippling Italian pool. “Show me.”

  One hand trailed lazily down his bare chest, while pure love blazed across her face. Lucien’s heart slammed against his ribs. “With pleasure, my lady. We have an heir to produce.” As he spoke, his hands busily undid laces and pushed fabric aside to reveal silken skin. He bent and pressed his lips to the tender place where her neck joined her shoulder. His teeth nipped lightly before soothing the bite with a gentle press of his lips. Rosalind made a soft sound of approval and arched her neck to give him better access.

  “Do you like that?” Lucien didn’t wait for an answer but whisked her dress down, baring her breasts. His breath caught as he smoothed the back of his hand across her plump curves. So beautiful. He had difficulty believing she was his wife.

  “I’m not only your wife, but I love you.” Her blue eyes twinkled up at him.

  “It’s going to take me time to get used to you reading my mind.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rosalind said. “I—”

  Lucien stopped her apology with a kiss. His lips slid across hers, nipping and tasting. Tormenting. Desire stirred, riding him hard. She was so sweet. His, and a second chance for love.

  He slid his hands down her shoulders and cupped her breasts before scooping her off her feet with a suddenness that made her squeak. He carried her over to the bed. After stripping off her remaining clothing, he yanked off his breeches, shoes and stockings and joined her. He drew her close, angled his mouth over hers and laced his hands into her long hair.

  “Ah, Lucien,” she murmured.

  Their naked limbs brushed together. Slowly, he explored her body with careful attention to detail. He touched her breasts, her shoulders, her belly, and her legs until she ached for his possession. Lucien wedged her thighs apart and surged into her body, kissing her fiercely at the same time. Rosalind arched into him. Frissons of desire spilled through her as they rocked together. The sensation built, growing bigger and bigger until the pleasure exploded inside her.

  For a long time after, Rosalind clung to Lucien’s powerful shoulders, savoring the closeness, the feeling of togetherness, of being one with him and no longer rejected. Instead, his actions told of his love and the way he treasured her. This was security, and she was finally home.

  She pressed a kiss to his muscular chest. The spurned viscountess had won the viscount’s heart.

  About the Author

  Shelley Munro lives in New Zealand with her husband. When she’s not writing, she loves to travel and frequently drags her husband off to far-flung parts of the world. Not that he argues much. Enduring memories include being almost sat on by a mountain gorilla in Rwanda, lazing on white, sandy beaches in India, whale watching in Alaska, helmet diving in Bora-Bora, camel riding in Egypt, talkin’ the blarney in Ireland, and dealing with ghosts in an English pub.

  Cooking is fun (since she enjoys eating), and she likes to take photographs of everyone and everything. No one is safe from her camera lens. Someone should probably warn the dogs and puppies Shelley and her husband are about to foster for the RSPCA. Readers beware! Cute animal photos ahead…You can visit Shelley at http://www.shelleymunro.com.<
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  ISBN: 978-1-4268-9058-1

  This is the revised text of a work first published as SECOND SEDUCTION by Medallion in 2005.

  Copyright ©2005 as SECOND SEDUCTION by Shelley Munro

  Copyright ©2010 as THE SPURNED VISCOUNTESS by Shelley Munro

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  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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