The Secrets of a Viscount

by Linda Rae Sande

  What the hell am I doing? she wondered, not bothering to chide herself over the curse she used in the process. Why, if the daughters of the ton she was responsible to teach five days a week had any idea of her inner thoughts just then, they would certainly swoon from shock.

  She was about to step away, turn around, and begin running toward Jermyn Street when the black door suddenly reopened. The same butler, his voice kept low, said, “I’m to tell you to wait one moment as the gentleman retrieves his coat and hat.”

  Diana’s eyes widened. “But,” she started to protest, realizing just then it was entirely too late to make her escape. If the man was retrieving his coat and hat, then what did he intend to do? Before she could even consider the possibilities, he was suddenly standing in front of her.

  If she thought him handsome through the bow window, she didn’t know what word to use to describe him without a pane of glass and the reflections of the buildings lining St. James Street in front of him. He wore his nearly black hair cut quite short, a hint of gray highlighting his temples. His sapphire eyes were lined with black lashes and tiny crinkles, a testament to a life filled with amusement and perhaps a bit too much drink. The straight nose suggested he had never been punched at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon. His square jaw held a mouth with lips she could imagine saying any number of words and doing rather wicked things to a woman’s lips.

  And other body parts.

  A frisson shot through her and nearly had her allowing an audible gasp. Instead, she managed a curtsy.

  Realizing she was staring, she blinked. Before she could get a word out, though—she thought to simply apologize and claim she thought him to be someone else—the man said, “Oh, my sweeting, I apologize profusely. Do forgive me. I completely lost track of the time.” He turned and gave the butler a quick nod before placing his top hat upon his head.

  He offered her his left arm, and Diana placed her right hand on it without even thinking—it’s what she taught her students to do, after all—and found herself giving a shake of her head. “Uh... nonsense, darling. I just thought I had misunderstood the plans,” she managed before she heard the door click shut behind them. Faith! He obviously had her confused with someone else! She was quite sure she had never seen the man before in her entire life, and yet he was acting as if they were married!

  The man led her in the same direction she’d been walking before she became aware of his perusal. His attention occasionally darted her way before he returned it to the pavement. They were nearly to Jermyn Street when they both attempted to speak at the same time.

  “I apologize, sir, I merely—”

  “Thank you for saving me...”

  The two stopped and blinked at one another. The gentleman allowed a slight grin. “You go first, my lady,” he said, the crinkles on either sides of his eyes deepening with amusement.

  Diana regarded him a moment and wondered how she would explain herself. Honesty, although not always the best policy, seemed so in this case. Especially since she truly wished to know. However, she was curious as to what he meant when he claimed she had saved him. “However did I save you?” she countered.

  The gentleman suddenly took a look around, as if he realized they were relatively alone on the corner. “Where is your lady’s maid?” he asked. “Or your companion?” he added after another quick glance behind them.

  Diana swallowed, a hint of color touching her cheeks. “I... I didn’t bring her along today,” she answered, her chin lifting a bit. “I am quite capable of looking after myself.”

  “And who provides protection for you?” he countered, deciding he had better discover her marital status before continuing his flirtation.

  Inhaling as if she were about to answer but not about to admit exactly who held that responsibility, Diana was relieved when another gentleman suddenly called out, “Good morning.” The man before her redirected his attention briefly, and lifted a hand to wave to Lord Weatherstone as the older gentleman made his way in the direction of the men’s club. “So sorry I couldn’t stay long at your ball. Congratulations on the usual crush,” he called out.

  Lord Weatherstone tipped his hat and gave him a shrug before continuing on his way.

  When the viscount returned his attention to her, he asked, “Now, where were we?”

  Not about to say who provided protection on her behalf, Diana decided to go with her original question. “I merely wondered, sir, when I saw you in the bow window, what your... that is to say... the number... of how you found me? In appearance?”

  The gentleman regarded her for a moment, the expression on his face turning to one of bewilderment. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean,” he replied. “The number?”

  Her shoulders slumping with his words, Diana could feel a blush coloring her face. “I thought... I was under the impression that those who stood in the bow window did so because they liked to watch... and rank women as they walked by,” she managed to get out. Only after she’d said the words did she realize just how ridiculous the whole idea sounded. Why, didn’t the men at White’s have better entertainments available to them than watching women walk by? She was quite sure they played cards and placed bets. Smoked cheroots and drank scotch. Read The Times or The Morning Chronicle.

  Perhaps watching women walk by really was more entertaining, she realized.

  His brows furrowing, the gentleman seemed to deflate before her very eyes. “Is that why you walked by White’s today?” he asked, disappointment evident in his voice.

  “Oh, no!” Diana replied quickly, her head shaking from side to side. “In fact, I was about to turn around and go back in the other direction the very moment I realized I was in St. James Street. I make it a point never to walk in front of White’s and Brooks’ for that very reason, I assure you,” she claimed.

  The words seemed to appease the gentleman somewhat. “And this... number you referred to?”

  Diana sighed, the blush still pinking up her face to match the gown and spencer she wore. “I saw you watching me, and I decided I wished to know what you thought.”

  His brows furrowing so a fold of skin formed between them, the man responded with, “Truly?”

  She gasped at his response, her anticipation suddenly gone. “Well, I did at that moment,” she admitted sheepishly. “It’s silly, I suppose, but I figured, what do I have to lose?” Besides my self-respect.

  The gentleman sighed. “I find I must ask from whence you learned of such a practice?”

  The young woman gave a slight shrug. “From an article in The Tattler, I suppose it was,” she said before allowing a sigh of frustration. When she realized to what she had admitted, she rolled her eyes. “I rarely read the rag, but sometimes my students leave a copy behind—”

  “You’re a teacher?” he interrupted, this time only one brow furrowing as if he were disappointed at hearing she had an occupation.

  Well, far better than being a seamstress, or a milliner, or a governess, or... well, she couldn’t put thought to that other occupation in which nearly ten percent of her sex had to engage.

  Diana swallowed, realizing the man might have thought her a lady. Her manner of speech would suggest so, as would her clothes. “I am an instructor. At Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School,” she admitted.

  “You probably knew my new sister, then,” he murmured, the comment made in almost a whisper, his eyes darting off to the side as if he were considering options.

  “Your sister?” Diana repeated, hoping he might divulge her name. He certainly hadn’t divulged his. In fact, they hadn’t yet been properly introduced!

  The man shook his head. “Just acquired, actually.”

  Diana blinked, rather surprised by his terminology. How did one simply acquire a sister? Certainly his mother was too old to give birth to one—the man had to be around thirty years of age!

  “My brother recently took a wife,” he went on, his hint of a grin betraying his awareness of how she was attempting to rec
oncile his comment and probably doing the arithmetic in her head. “Lady Julia Harrington.”

  Suppressing her gasp of surprise at learning the man on whose arm she rested her hand was the brother of Alistair Comber, Diana stopped in her tracks. “You’re Adam Comber,” she stated in awe.

  And since she had no idea of what Adam Comber, Viscount Breckinridge, had just promised to do whilst at White’s only moments ago, she was completely unprepared for what he did next. In fact, she was left quite speechless as his lips suddenly descended onto hers—they were still quite open with her expression of awe—and kissed her at the corner of St. James and Jermyn Streets. Never mind that there were all manner of witnesses to his scandalous act. Never mind that several even paused in mid-step to gawk at them. The man simply kissed her as if it were his right to do so.

  When he finally pulled away and straightened, Diana was forced to open her eyes and stare up at him. Aware they were being watched, she was about to admonish him. She was even considering raising a hand to slap the man across the face. But he suddenly looked around, a huge grin on his face, and announced, “She said ‘yes’!”

  Those that paid them any mind either grinned and went on their way or broke out into cheers and applause.

  Diana did neither, for if there was ever a time she thought it appropriate for a young lady to faint, she realized this might be the perfect moment. And she might have done so, except the viscount returned his attention to her and gave her a huge smile as one of his arms moved to her back to offer the support he probably realized she required just then.

  “I do think you’ll make the perfect viscountess.”

  At which point, the heavens seemed to open up, and rain began to fall.

  Chapter 7

  A Desperate Man’s Reasoning

  One hour earlier

  Adam Comber, Viscount Breckinridge, regarded his friend for a moment, trying to decide if he should punch the man in his aristocratic nose, or burst into laughter. Felix Turnbridge, Earl of Fennington, had been his best friend at Eton and, later, at Oxford University. He had managed to extract Adam from a number of scrapes—a daunting task in that Adam seemed to get into trouble all the time—and he had done so without so much as a pence in recompense. Adam just knew his mother, Patience Waterford Comber, Countess of Aimsley, thought of Fenn as her eldest son’s savior and was always thanking him for his selfless acts on his behalf. So he couldn’t quite believe what the man had just said.

  “What the hell did you just say?”

  It wasn’t the first time he had cursed at the man. Wouldn’t be the last, he knew. Although Felix Turnbridge had managed to get him out of all manner of scrapes back when they were in school, he had sometimes helped Adam get into them. Felix was the more responsible one, though, and, given his father’s age back then, Felix knew he would be inheriting an earldom devoid of funds and a future of hardship. Even though he could carouse with the best of them, Felix was usually far more serious than his schoolmates. When he made a joke or found humor in a situation, it was rare. Adam knew all of this, so he knew the comment Felix had just put voice to hadn’t been made in jest.

  “I said I rather doubt there is a gently bred woman in this town who will deign to marry you,” the earl repeated, tossing a card onto the green felt. “One, please.”

  The dealer set a card in front of him as all the eyes at the table turned to regard the viscount. Then they exchanged curious glances with one another. Either this was a ploy to distract them from what could be a winning hand in the hands of Adam Comber, Viscount Breckinridge, or the two former best friends were about to come to blows.

  Adam couldn’t help the sudden anger he felt just then. Ever since their days at Oxford, Felix Turnbridge had become even more sober, if that were possible. More serious. Perhaps the strain of trying to prop up a financially destitute earldom had him lashing out. Or perhaps Felix was looking to start trouble, a rather unlikely scenario. He was usually the one to help rein it in. He had been the one who was left to clean up after Adam back in the day. “Why, in the name of everything that is holy, would you make such an asinine comment? And now of all times?” Adam countered. His eyes suddenly widened. His mouth followed suit. He gasped in shock. “It’s because you’re getting married!” he accused, a grin replacing his grim expression.

  Despite having told Adam just the night before that he would be marrying, Felix’s eyes suddenly widened. Did Adam know Felix had asked his father’s permission to marry his sister, Emelia? Mark Comber, Earl of Aimsley, apparently hadn’t even told his wife, for the gossip in Mayfair parlors certainly didn’t suggest a proposal was forthcoming. Perhaps in a week, if he could manage it. “I want to,” he agreed. “But you, more than anyone, know I cannot truly afford a wife,” Felix claimed.

  The words were a bald-faced lie, but he wanted Adam to believe them as much as possible. Between his burgeoning business—he was the publisher of a gossip rag that was doing quite well financially—and his decision to marry the man’s younger sister, Emelia—Felix didn’t want to lose track of what might cause him additional financial hardship.

  Gambling did that.

  Bad bets.

  Losing bets.

  Even if they were supposed to be sure things.

  Felix allowed a sigh as he rearranged his cards. “I’ll open,” he added as he tossed a coin into the kitty.

  The other players took their turns before Adam could form a response. He did so after he placed a coin onto the modest pile of bets. “I am not yet thirty. I’m in no hurry to be leg-shackled.”

  “Which means I stand to lose a good deal of money I cannot afford to lose,” Felix reminded him, his voice kept so low the other two card players couldn’t hear him. They exchanged glances, indicating their uncertainty as to whether or not the conversation was supposed to distract them from the card game.

  “Jesus,” Adam whispered to no one in particular. His best friend really expected him to get married. And right away!

  “I’ll call,” he said aloud. He placed his cards on the table, sure they were good enough to win what little there was to win. He ignored the curses of the other players, and then joined them when Felix slowly fanned out his cards to reveal he had beaten all of them that round with a straight.

  “Christ! You’re hiding cards up those ruffled and lace-edged sleeves of yours,” Adam accused with a bit too much annoyance.

  “You, more than anyone, know I do not cheat,” Felix countered, his glare a warning sign.

  Adam swallowed. “I apologize. I was just... I was sure I had that hand,” he replied as he pushed himself away from the table. It’s not as if he couldn’t afford to lose a hand or two of cards—he had a rather generous allowance, and apparently Felix could use the money more than him—but Adam found he no longer wished to play. The earl’s comment had him rather bothered.

  Rather incensed.

  Feeling rather... challenged.

  Not quite thirty meant he was almost thirty. At one time, way back when, he had expected to be married by thirty. He had even allowed his best friend to make a bet of it. Well, time had caught up to him. “Excuse me, gentleman. I do believe a look at the betting books is called for,” he said by way of apology. With that, the viscount took his leave of the card room.

  But Adam Comber didn’t make his way to where the bets were recorded for any member of White’s to review. Instead he made his way to the bow window, deciding a rare bit of sunshine was in order just then.

  Until last night’s ball, he had completely forgotten about the bet he had agreed to all those years ago. A bet designed to make it possible for Felix to win some much-needed blunt while ensuring the future Earl of Aimsley was married and settled with his future countess by the time he had been on the earth thirty years.

  Trouble was, there was no future countess.

  There wasn’t even a candidate for the position.

  And his thirty year mark on the planet was fast approaching.

  Adam hadn’t
courted a woman his entire time as a viscount. He hadn’t even looked at a woman with the thought she might one day be his wife.

  It’s not that he was particularly adverse to the idea of marrying—he always knew he would one day have to marry—duty required it. His mother and father had a rather congenial marriage, although he was quite sure it was because the Countess of Aimsley had her husband wrapped about her petite pinky. A rather powerful pinky, it seemed, since Mark Comber, Earl of Aimsley, seemed to do whatever he must to see to it Patience Waterford Comber was happy. But then, she seemed rather willing to put up with a man who was usually rather grumpy. Sour-faced and insolent. A complainer. A man who was never satisfied with what happened in Parliament.

  That is, until his mother had worked her wiles on the man and left him in a rather good mood, if only for a day or two.

  Adam frowned, wondering if his parents were happy with one another because they were happy in bed together. He quickly shook the thought from his mind, unwilling to even imagine his mother sharing a bed with his father. His entire body seemed to give an involuntary shudder at the thought.

  He concentrated on the problem at hand. A new crop of debutantes was being introduced at this Season’s balls, but the idea of marriage to someone almost half his age held little appeal.

  Adam gave his head a shake. No appeal, he amended.

  But whom did he know that might make a suitable wife? Someone he could at least get along with until such time as they might grow to love one another? Until such time as she had him wrapped about her proverbial pinky?

  Thoughts of every sister of every peer in the realm he personally knew flashed before his eyes.

  Good God!

  They’re all married! he realized.

  Well, not all, of course.

  Some were merely betrothed. Or about to be betrothed. There were obvious matches, of course, and he dared not seek a young lady when he knew she was destined to be claimed by someone else.