SABRINA JEFFRIES
Married to the Viscount
Contents
Prologue
Spencer Law, the fifth Viscount Ravenswood, drained yet another redware…
Chapter 1
The bride-to-be was here. The groom-to-be was two hours late.
Chapter 2
When Spencer saw Miss Mercer’s usually rosy complexion pale to the…
Chapter 3
Judging from how he gaped at her, Abby had shocked…
Chapter 4
The morning after the dinner fiasco, Spencer sat at the…
Chapter 5
Although Abby could almost smell Lord Ravenswood’s alarm, she stood…
Chapter 6
Spencer drummed his fingers impatiently on the curved arm of…
Chapter 7
In an instant, Abby forgot about the cruel gossip and…
Chapter 8
Spencer had spent the entire morning in the office of…
Chapter 9
Torn between awe and fear, Abby surveyed Lady Tyndale’s modest…
Chapter 10
When Spencer brought Abby over to meet the Blakelys, his…
Chapter 11
Spencer paced the edge of the ballroom, too frustrated to…
Chapter 12
Abby probably shouldn’t have encouraged Spencer to kiss her. What…
Chapter 13
The afternoon after the ball, Abby surveyed Spencer’s dining room…
Chapter 14
Irritated that he had to return home in the late…
Chapter 15
Abby could hardly contain her pleasure. Surrounded by babbling children…
Chapter 16
Abby had relaxed while Spencer was with the children, but…
Chapter 17
A week and a day after her disastrous encounter with…
Chapter 18
Spencer’s eyes narrowed when he saw Abby head toward him…
Chapter 19
Night had already fallen by the time the crowd of…
Chapter 20
Curious to see his response, Abby held her breath.
Chapter 21
As Abby lay with Spencer draped across her in a…
Chapter 22
Early in the evening on Monday, only two days after…
Chapter 23
Abby’s pleasure vanished when she caught sight of Evelina pacing…
Chapter 24
Spencer’s next few hours passed in a blur. After taking…
Chapter 25
“Heaven’s Scent is a decided success,” Clara told Abby as…
Epilogue
Spencer sat in the hall, dandling Belinda on his knee…
About the Author
Other Books by Sabrina Jeffries
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Philadelphia
Early December 1821
Spencer Law, the fifth Viscount Ravenswood, drained yet another redware mug of hard cider. It didn’t help. He could still remember what he’d come to the noisy American tavern with his younger brother to forget.
He was going back to England in the morning. Back to the disordered Parliament and disgruntled populace. Back to his demanding duties as undersecretary to the Home Office in his country’s time of turmoil. The weight of his responsibilities, which had miraculously eased during his sojourn in America, already began settling heavily upon his shoulders again.
What he needed was more hard cider.
When he called for it, a laugh erupted from Nat, who lounged on a wooden bench across the table from him. “Perhaps you should slow down, old fellow. You’re getting foxed.”
“That’s the general idea.”
“The great Ravenswood drowning his sorrows in strong drink? Astonishing! Usually you’re too busy running England to overindulge. And too dignified.” Nat planted his elbows on the sturdy oak table. “Though I must admit you haven’t been yourself since we arrived two weeks ago.” He cocked his head to examine his brother. “It’s Dr. Mercer’s daughter, isn’t it? She’s the one making you act so strangely.”
Spencer barely mustered one of his steely-eyed glances. “Don’t be absurd.”
But just that quickly his mind conjured up the image of Abigail Mercer, whom her father called “my wild rose.” A fitting appellation for a woman with leaf-green eyes and petal-soft golden skin and a glorious scarlet bud of a mouth…
“You hummed an aria for her yesterday,” Nat pointed out.
“I told her about seeing The Marriage of Figaro this year, and she wanted to hear some of it. What’s your point?”
“I’ve never heard you hum anything in your life.”
“I never had occasion to do so.”
“You never felt the urge to do so,” Nat said dryly. “Until you met Miss Mercer, that is. Now you spend all your time conversing with a pretty colonial lass—”
“What else is there to do while you discuss business with her ailing father?” Spencer stared down into his empty mug.
“True. And she does seem easy to talk to.”
Exactly. Easy to talk to and artless and utterly American. Unlike all those English misses raised to worship a title and an estate, Miss Mercer treated him as if he were her equal in station.
The woman even had the audacity to tease him whenever he grew too serious. No Englishwoman had ever done that. They were too aware of his position—or too cowed by his sober manner—to be at ease in his presence.
Nor did Englishwomen debate him about politics and such. But Miss Mercer plunged right into every argument with all the fervent optimism of her fellow countrymen. It was maddening.
It was fascinating.
“Mind you,” Nat went on, “I’m delighted that you and Miss Mercer are friendly. It can’t help but soften her father toward my proposal.” He steadied his shoulders. “And speaking of that, have you thought any more about advancing me those funds?”
Since his own mug was empty, Spencer reached across to steal his brother’s. He wasn’t foxed enough yet to deal with this. “You mean, so you can pursue your foolish plan to become a partner in Dr. Mercer’s enterprise?”
“It’s not foolish,” Nat protested. “I know you had reservations about the Mercer Medicinal Company, but you’ve seen the doctor’s records on how well his tonic sold seven years ago—you must admit the numbers are phenomenal. If he hadn’t taken ill, he’d be rich by now instead of hounded by creditors. All he needs is someone like me to rejuvenate the company while he’s incapacitated.”
“Not incapacitated,” Spencer corrected. “Dying. The man’s dying, Nat.”
“But that’s precisely why he might sell to me. I already own the shares I won in that card game. And even you must have thought the business a promising investment or you would never have accompanied me to America for a look.”
Spencer slumped against the wall behind his hard bench. “You said you’d go without me. Couldn’t let you do that, given your past record with other occupations.”
Nat bristled. “Must you always throw my failures up at me? Never mind that I was only doing what you wanted. I told you I’d be no good at the law, but you insisted I study for it, so I did.”
“Apparently not very hard, since you failed your exams. And let’s not forget the navy. After that fiasco, even my influence couldn’t keep you in.”
Nat winced. “I wasn’t cut out to be a navy man. I can’t even steer a carriage straight. I only agreed to try because you went to all that trouble to gain me the berth.” He leaned forward, his voice growing fierce. “The thing is, I know I can do this. I’m good at numbers. That’s why I’
ve always won so much at the gaming tables.”
“Always?” Spencer finished off the cider in Nat’s mug. Where the bloody hell was that tavern maid?
“All right, so I got cocky one night. And you had to pay for it.”
“Quite a lot of money, as I recall.”
“I know, I know. But this is different. The old man is in a bind—he won’t leave the Mercer Company entirely to his daughter, because he thinks she lacks the business sense to pull it out of debt. But if he doesn’t find someone to be her partner, he’ll have to leave it to some relative he hates. So I can step right in.”
The sour-faced tavern maid plunked down two freshly filled redware mugs, and Spencer seized his with a vengeance. Now he had something else to drown out—the unsettling image of Miss Mercer working with his brother.
He mustn’t think of that, mustn’t think of the mischievous smile she’d be flashing at Nat instead of Spencer. It wasn’t as if Spencer could stay here while his brother tried out his fool scheme. A summons from the Home Office mustn’t be ignored, and with the sudden resignation of the old home secretary, Spencer was badly needed at home. So like it or not, he had to accept that his pleasant idyll in America was over.
Not that anything could ever come of Spencer’s association with Miss Mercer anyway, no matter how cheerful and appealing he found her.
He scowled. Half the women in England would happily settle for a position as Spencer’s mistress, yet none of them tempted him. No, his idiotic mind had to seize on the respectable Miss Mercer for its lusty thoughts, a woman who’d take nothing less than marriage. So since he couldn’t marry her or anyone else, it was probably just as well he was leaving tomorrow and would never see her again.
Bloody hell.
He drank deeply of his cider, then set the mug down. “How does Evelina feel about all this? Or have you even bothered to tell your future wife about your plan to partner a business halfway around the world with the beautiful Abby Mercer?”
Nat eyed his brother speculatively. “Evelina will understand. It’s only temporary. Once the old man dies, I’ll buy his daughter out. Miss Mercer will have enough money to support herself, and I’ll own Mercer Medicinal.”
“You don’t know how to run a business.”
“You didn’t know how to be a soldier all those years ago when Father bought you a commission in the army, but you learned. You’re good at that sort of thing.”
“I had to be,” he growled, resenting his brother’s freedom to do as he pleased. Spencer had lost that freedom when their eldest brother died unexpectedly.
“And I have to be good at this. What’s left for me? The church?”
They groaned in unison. Even Spencer could see that would never work.
“Besides, I’m not going to run it,” Nat went on. “I’ll hire a manager for that. I just want to own it.”
The growing buzz in Spencer’s head hadn’t turned him into a complete idiot. “And you want me to give you the money for it.”
Nat had the good grace to flush. “Not all of the money. I’ve kept some of my allowance aside. And in the past two years, I’ve lived responsibly. I won’t need much.”
With a roll of his eyes, Spencer reached for his mug again, but Nat stayed his hand. “Soon I’ll be married, which is why I want to do something useful with myself, something I want to do, not something you choose for me.” A wan smile crossed Nat’s face. “I know I can make a go of this. So what do you say? If I get Mercer to agree to my plan and I need money, will you send it to me?”
Spencer was still trying to forget Miss Mercer’s kissable lips. The ones he would never, could never kiss, even if he wasn’t leaving. He drained his mug. “Write to me in London, and I’ll do what I can.”
Nat’s face lit up. “Capital, old fellow, capital! I knew you’d come through for me.” Done with his business, Nat attacked his own cider. While he drank, he watched his brother through narrowed eyes. “So you find Miss Mercer beautiful?”
The buzzing in Spencer’s head formed the words, “‘She walks in beauty like the night/Of cloudless climes and starry skies.’”
“My God, now you’re quoting poetry.”
Had he said that aloud? Bloody hell. Spencer brandished his empty mug at his brother. “I always quote verse when I’m foxed.”
“You must be very foxed to quote that idiot Byron. Or very impressed by Miss Mercer’s looks.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” And exactly when had he started slurring his words?
Nat fiddled with his mug. “Some men might find her coloring too dark.”
“Some men are idiots.” Spencer lifted his mug, remembered it was empty, and frowned.
With a chuckle, Nat pushed his own over. “I’m just saying I’m surprised that her being half Indian hasn’t put off the great Ravenswood.”
“Stop calling me that.” Accepting his brother’s full mug, Spencer ignored Nat’s intent stare. “Besides, half Indian or no, she’s of good stock. Her father’s family is prominent in Philadelphia, and her mother’s father was chief of his tribe. The Seneca, I believe.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“She told me herself.”
“Ah, yes. During all those conversations. And is that all you did? Talk?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” A burst of raucous laughter from a nearby table made Spencer’s head pound, and he rubbed his suddenly throbbing temples.
“Yes, you do. You lust after the woman—admit it. You get that look in your eyes whenever she enters a room, as if you’d like nothing more than to sheathe your sword in her scabbard.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.” And devil take the scoundrel for noticing so much.
Nat watched him closely. “Considering her background and the likelihood that she’ll never marry, perhaps you should coax her into becoming your mistress.”
Spencer managed a laugh. “That determined American optimism of hers would drive me mad inside a month.” He stared down into the dregs of his cider, only to see Abby Mercer as his mistress. All that cheerful eagerness focused on pleasing him and wanting him and writhing about with him naked in his bed…
Ridiculous thought. Gently bred women did not agree to be mistresses. Anyway, he was done with having a mistress. Being a woman’s protector was too much a parody of the marriage he couldn’t have. Better to have the occasional random liaison when he had the time for it. Which wasn’t often these days.
“So I suppose marrying her is out of the question,” Nat said smoothly.
“Absolutely.”
“She seemed well-bred to me, but I suppose she’s not refined enough for you.”
“Got nothing to do with it. Even if I wanted, I couldn’t marry her.”
“Because you have your eye on somebody else?” his brother probed.
“Certainly not.” Spencer lowered his voice. His head thundered when he spoke too loudly. “Can’t marry her, can’t marry anyone.”
“Of course you can. You have to marry someone. And soon, too. You’re already thirty-seven. You ought to settle down with a wife.”
“Can’t.” Damned nuisance to have his words coming out all fuzzy. “No marriage for me.” He caught Nat’s scowl and added, “That ought to make you happy—you or your son will inherit it all.”
“I don’t want to inherit it all.” Nat sounded panicked. “Evelina and I will be perfectly content with whatever you settle on us, so don’t think you’ll get out of siring an heir. I’ve no desire to gain the title and be responsible for tenants and houses and all that rot. I ran a ship aground while I was in the navy—what do you think I’d do to an estate?”
“But you can run a business?”
“Own it, not run it. I told you.” Nat scowled. “All right, so perhaps I just don’t want to run an estate. It doesn’t interest me.”
“Didn’t interest me, either. But a man does his duty. Yours will be siring an heir.”
“By God, you’re serious. You really don’t intend to
marry.”
Spencer nodded, feeling rather wobbly. “Plan to be a bachelor till I die.”
“Why? It’s got nothing to do with Dora, I hope. Just because Father and our stepmother made a hash of their marriage is no reason to think you will.”
There was more to it than that, but Spencer dared not explain. Instead he gazed morosely into the glazed red hollow of his empty mug. Nat called for more cider, and Spencer lifted his reeling head. “Shouldn’t have any more, you know. I’m foxed.”
“Not foxed enough.” Nat flashed him a grim smile. “Let me enjoy the novelty of my perfect brother’s exhibiting the same weaknesses we mere mortals possess.”
“Not perfect,” Spencer muttered. “Not a’tall. That’s the trouble, you see.”
“No, I don’t see.” Two mugs magically appeared, and Nat shoved both at Spencer. “Perhaps it’s time you explain it to me.”
Chapter 1
Even the finest butler may blunder when announcing a surprise guest, but he should use the occasion to learn the correct styling. One never knows when a surprise guest may become important in his employer’s household.
Suggestions for the Stoic Servant,
by the Butler to a Very Important Gentleman
London
April 15, 1822
The bride-to-be was here. The groom-to-be was two hours late. As betrothal dinners went, this one qualified for fiasco of the season.
Spencer, reluctant host of the fiasco, surveyed the immaculately appointed dining table in his London town house and sighed. How soon could he call an end to this painful ordeal and retreat to his study and his cognac? Probably not for at least another hour. Anything less would rouse suspicion among his twenty-six guests.
Thanks to his quick thinking and talent for lying, they didn’t even know the dinner was a fiasco. And until he found out why Nat had disappeared, he had no intention of letting them in on the secret.
Married to the Viscount Page 1