Married to the Viscount

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “In any case,” Lady Brumley went on, “I think you’re going about this Mead business all wrong. This shouldn’t be a tonic at all. It’s wonderful as a—”

  “Good evening, Lady Brumley,” Spencer said coolly as he walked up with two glasses of punch. Handing one to Evelina, he held the other out to the marchioness. “Have some refreshment, madam. I believe I shall dance with my wife.”

  Though Lady Brumley accepted the glass, she scowled at him. “Now see here, Lady Ravenswood and I were in the midst of a conversation. You can’t always be whisking her off whenever I have the chance to talk to her.”

  “Ah, but I can.” Spencer’s eyes gleamed. “It’s a husband’s prerogative. Now if you’ll excuse us…”

  Giving Abby his arm, Spencer guided her toward the dance floor. Abby could only shrug helplessly at Lady Brumley, but in truth she was relieved. Talking to Lady Brumley was like navigating a strange house in the dark—one never knew when one might send a vase crashing to the floor.

  She glanced up to find Spencer smiling at her. “Thank you for the rescue,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.” He led them to the center of the floor. She watched curiously as the other dancers moved aside, forming a space around her and Spencer. “But it wasn’t entirely a rescue, my dear,” he went on. “I want to dance with you. They’re waiting for us to lead off the first waltz.”

  As the music swelled up from the orchestra, she panicked. “No, we can’t,” she whispered. Dear heaven, everyone was watching them.

  “Why can’t we?” Placing one hand on her waist, he held the other up with an expectant smile. “They think we’re married, remember?”

  “I don’t know how to waltz,” she hissed.

  His smile faded. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I have no clue what the steps are or how to move or…or anything.”

  Casting a furtive glance around, he lowered his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you never asked.”

  His jaw grew taut. “But surely you’ve seen it done enough to manage a reasonable approximation.”

  “I’ve never seen it done and I’ve never danced it. So if you persist in a waltz, you’ll only make us both appear foolish. Unless you can carry me about the room without anybody noticing.”

  Dropping his hands to his sides, he cursed under his breath, then said curtly, “Wait here,” and strode off toward the orchestra.

  “Oh, no, what now? Mortified to her toes, she stood there alone on the floor. The music abruptly stopped, and every eye in the ballroom fixed on her with malicious interest. She wanted to sink right through the floor.

  She’d nearly decided to make a mad dash for the retiring room when the orchestra struck up a different piece of music, something she recognized from balls in her girlhood.

  Acting as if changing dances at the last moment was perfectly natural, Spencer approached to offer her his arm. “You can dance a reel, can’t you?”

  She nodded. Thank God he hadn’t chosen something else she didn’t know.

  As he led her to the lines that were forming, he asked, “How could you not know the waltz? You had a dance master, and you said you attended balls in your youth.”

  “Yes, in my youth. Before the waltz reached America. By the time Philadelphians were dancing the waltz, I was spending all my time in Papa’s sickroom. I told you, it’s been years since I attended a social event of any kind. And I’ve never learned to waltz.”

  “I see.”

  But his rigid face showed that he didn’t see at all. Her temper flared. “It’s not as if I didn’t warn you. Last night in the carriage—”

  “Yes, you’re right.” His tight jaw softened. “I suppose I should have listened. I’ll be more careful in the future, all right?”

  “All right.” But as they approached the head of the lines, she felt a moment’s panic. “I hope you dance the reel the same way here as we do in America.”

  “I can’t imagine why we wouldn’t.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And if the music should confuse you, just stop and I’ll have them play something else. It might take a few tries, but eventually we should hit on one that works.”

  Horrified by the very idea of enduring such humiliation twice, she started to protest. Then his smile gave her pause. With a wink, he left her to cross over to the other side to take his place, and the truth hit her.

  Spencer—the sober-minded statesman—was actually teasing her. And after she’d shamed him before all his friends, too. Would wonders never cease. Just when she thought that the haughty viscount had completely buried the friendly gentleman she’d known in America, he did something to flummox her.

  When the dancing commenced, he flummoxed her again. Spencer was quite an accomplished dancer. She never would have guessed it—the reserved Lord Ravenswood light on his feet? Engaging in frivolity? Astonishing!

  Yet his smooth skill put other dancers to shame. He even effectively covered the few slips that she made, which was nothing short of amazing. After a while, she relaxed and let the music carry her through the steps.

  Thank heaven they resembled those she’d danced in her youth. Besides, her partner made it easy, his sure steps clearly mirroring what she was to do. His hand guided her in the turns with a deft security that carried her through as if he held her aloft. As if they were truly married.

  Dear heaven, not that again. She could manage not to yearn for him to be her real husband when he was his remote and lordly self, but when he let down his guard like this, her heart flipped over. Every touch seemed a prelude to an embrace, every smoldering glance a promise of kisses so fierce and demanding and frankly male that just anticipating them set her blood to pounding.

  By the time the reel was over, she’d forgotten the embarrassing aborted waltz. She’d forgotten her own name, completely absorbed by the heat of his arm beneath her hand as he led her from the floor, the citrus scent of his shaved jaw as he bent to whisper, “There are some people I want you to meet.”

  That certainly dispelled her pleasantly sensual haze. “You shouldn’t introduce me to so many. It’ll make it that much harder to explain my disappearance when this is over.”

  “Ah, but the Blakelys are my good friends. Blakely and his wife will stand by me no matter what happens. Besides, they already know the truth about us.”

  “You actually told somebody the truth? After all your insistence that scandal would fall on your head if you didn’t maintain this farce?”

  “I had to tell Blakely. He’s my subordinate, and I needed him to help me deal with Nat. And since his wife would have wrangled it out of him eventually, I saw no point in his not telling her.”

  Abby tensed, partly because a waltz was playing again, prompting people to shoot her smug looks as they took the floor. And partly because she hated having his friends know the truth. “They must think me a very wicked creature for agreeing to this.”

  “Don’t worry, they won’t blame you—they’re used to my schemes,” he said dryly. “As long as you are your usual cheery self, Lady Clara will adore you. You’re exactly the sort of woman she likes.”

  What did he mean by that? “And her husband?”

  A sudden inexplicable gleam shone in his eyes. “I expect he’ll have much the same reaction. Once he eats a little humble pie, that is.”

  Chapter 10

  Memorize Debrett’s. Failing that, always keep a copy handy for reference.

  Suggestions for the Stoic Servant

  When Spencer brought Abby over to meet the Blakelys, his eager anticipation wasn’t even dampened by Evelina’s presence. So Blakely thought Abby a fortune hunter, did he? Spencer couldn’t wait to see how rapidly she turned the fool’s suspicions around.

  After introducing the couple to Abby as Captain Blakely and Lady Clara, he added, “Blakely is one of my oldest friends. I met him when he was in the navy and I was charged with obtaining dispatches from certain captains.”

  “I see,�
�� Abby said. “I thought you might have grown up with his lordship, the way you did with Evelina and her family.”

  “I didn’t grow up with Lady Evelina and her family,” Blakely said, perplexed.

  Just as Spencer caught Abby’s slip, Evelina said gently, “I believe, sir, she was speaking to her husband.”

  “But that means she called me—” Blakely winced when Spencer glared at him. “Oh, I see.”

  “I did it wrong, didn’t I?” Abby said, her fingers clawing into his arm.

  “No, no,” the men both responded in unison.

  Lady Clara glared at them. “Being polite won’t do her any good, you idiots. I’m sure she wants to know the correct rules.” She smiled warmly at Abby. “My husband is not generally addressed as ‘lord’ or ‘lordship.’”

  Abby cast her a grateful look. “I-I assumed he had a title, since you’re called ‘Lady.’ I figured his military status was just more important, so that’s why he’s called ‘Captain.’ Captains do something useful, after all, but what do lords do?”

  Blakely smothered a laugh. “Hear that, Ravenswood? Your wife’s a very astute woman. What do lords do indeed?”

  Evelina and Spencer both scowled at him as Lady Clara said sternly, “Morgan, stop that. You’re embarrassing his lordship’s poor wife.”

  “Wait, I thought I was his lordship,” Blakely teased, then when his wife jabbed him in the ribs, added to Abby, “Sorry. It’s nothing to do with you, Lady Ravenswood. It’s just that I can never resist the chance to poke fun at your husband.”

  Abby was no more immune to Blakely’s roguish charms than any other woman. She relaxed her talonlike grip on Spencer’s arm. “I understand completely. I can never resist that myself.”

  “All the same, please ignore my scamp of a mate,” Clara said. “He understands perfectly well how easy it is to confuse our English titles and manners of address. He didn’t grow up in England, either, you see.”

  “And I was none too happy to be learning it all at thirteen when I started my formal schooling in Ireland,” Blakely put in. “I threw Debrett’s at the schoolmaster’s head and got caned soundly for it. It took me years to grasp all the fine points. When my brother, who did grow up in England, first brought me into society, I insulted a baroness. Nobody ever told me how to address women possessing titles of their own.”

  “Women can have titles? Is that why your wife is called ‘Lady’ but you’re not called ‘Lord’?”

  “Not exactly,” Lady Clara responded, then began to explain.

  Meanwhile, Spencer cursed himself for not preparing Abby better. The waltz, her stumbling over titles…all of it could have been prevented. Instead of rushing to head off a scandal, he should have listened to her fears. What had happened to all his skills of strategy? Why hadn’t he realized he couldn’t simply toss her into an ocean of complicated rules and expect her to swim?

  Because she’d thrown him off his game. Thank God he hadn’t known her during his days as a spymaster, or England would have lost the war. He’d never met a woman with such a cursed ability to distract him.

  Glancing over, he winced to see her shove her fallen curls out of her eyes. Again. Perhaps the maid had been right about her hair—perhaps there was such a thing as hair that didn’t take a curl. This wife business got more complicated by the moment.

  “I shall never keep all the titles straight,” Abby was complaining.

  “Yes, you will, as long as Spence takes the time to help you.” Now even Evelina was leaping to Abby’s defense. The girl flashed Spencer a chastening glance. “You can’t expect Abby to learn in one day what it took you and Captain Blakely half a lifetime to learn.”

  “Of course he can,” Abby retorted with a hint of bitterness. “Don’t you know? Lord Ravenswood can command anybody to do anything he pleases. Or so he tells me.”

  “Now, Abby—” he began.

  “Lord Ravenswood does have the most annoying tendency to push people around,” Lady Clara said, joining the fray.

  “Indeed he does,” Evelina remarked. “You should see how he’s always laying down the law to Nathaniel.”

  Lady Clara nodded. “And you should hear how he manipulated Morgan and me three years ago. You would never believe it.”

  “Oh, I think I could believe almost anything about my husband.” Abby’s eyes gleamed impishly. “But don’t chastise him too severely. He only does it because he knows so well what’s best for us all. God forbid we should rule our own lives or make our own decisions when we have the all-knowing Lord Ravenswood to guide us.”

  This rapidly grew annoying. “Are you ladies finished sharpening your tongues on my hide?” Spencer said irritably. “Perhaps you’d like to flay Blakely here for a while. He has flaws, too.”

  “Ah, but mine aren’t nearly as entertaining as yours,” Blakely said jovially. “I have boring flaws, like my tendency to snore and my inability to take anything seriously.”

  “Spencer certainly never suffers from that flaw,” Abby quipped. “Even his jokes are serious affairs.”

  “Lord Ravenswood tells jokes?” Lady Clara exclaimed. “I should very much like to hear that.”

  “My wife has never heard me tell a joke,” Spencer said dryly. “That was probably her point.”

  “I’ve heard Ravenswood tell a joke,” Blakely said with suspect enthusiasm.

  “You have?” Evelina cried. “Oh, do tell us what it was.”

  Blakely grinned like some maniacal clown. “All right, let me see…When James I came into England, an old priest blessed him thusly: ‘May Heaven bless you, and make a man of you, though it has but bad stuff to make it of.’ That was Ravenswood’s joke.”

  “Just as I told you,” Abby said triumphantly, “even his jokes are serious.”

  “And not terribly funny,” Lady Clara added.

  “To be fair,” Blakely said, “he did tell some funny ones, but they were all too bawdy to repeat in polite company.”

  “Why, Spencer, you naughty man!” Abby cried in mock horror.

  Spencer glared at his friend. “I’ve never told a bawdy joke in my life.”

  “Yes, you did. You’ve forgotten it because you were drunk at the time. Remember that night in Paris when we finished off a bottle of Madame Dupuis’s best brandy?”

  Spencer scowled.

  Rubbing his chin, Blakely added, “Though come to think of it, that’s the only time I’ve ever seen you foxed. Hmm. The only time I ever heard you tell a joke is also the only time I ever saw you foxed. What am I to make of that?”

  “Clearly my husband only has fun when he’s drunk,” Abby teased, eyes sparkling. “He tells jokes and quotes poetry—”

  “Ravenswood quotes poetry?” Lady Clara put in. “This gets better and better. Whatever does he quote?”

  Abby’s smile faded abruptly. “Oh. I-I didn’t actually hear him quote it. I just…that is…”

  “Byron,” Evelina said. “I heard that he quoted Byron: ‘She walks in beauty like the night of starry climes and cloudy skies.’ He was referring to Abby.”

  “Was he indeed?” Blakely exchanged a glance with his wife. “Ravenswood, you old devil. I’ll have to ply you with drink more often.”

  Abby blushed furiously, but Spencer shot Evelina a searching glance. “How did you know about that?”

  Evelina shrugged. “Nathaniel told me.”

  “You’ve spoken to Nathaniel?”

  A look of panic flashed over Evelina’s face that was gone so quickly Spencer wasn’t sure if he’d seen it at all. “Of course. When he first came back from America. He told me about the night you were intoxicated.”

  How strange. What else had Spencer told his brother that night to make it memorable enough for Nat to mention it to Evelina? A gentleman never talked about another gentleman’s inebriation to a lady. It wasn’t done.

  Then again, since when had Nat followed any rules?

  “Well, he shouldn’t have told you,” Spencer said. “Some things are priv
ate.”

  Abby’s face grew solemn. “Everything seems to be private with you, Spencer. Maybe if it weren’t, you wouldn’t be so serious all the time.”

  Beleaguered on all fronts, Spencer stiffened, then turned to his friend and changed the subject. “By the way, have you told your brother the good news yet? What does Templemore think?”

  “He’s delighted, of course.” Blakely slid his arm about his wife’s waist and stared fondly down at her. “He likes acquiring nieces and nephews almost as much as he likes siring sons and daughters.”

  Devil take it, he’d meant the news about the pistol design. But before he could correct Blakely, Evelina said brightly, “Oh, Lady Clara, are you enceinte?”

  Lady Clara blushed. “Yes.”

  Abby broke into a smile. “Is it your first?”

  “Our second,” Blakely put in with the beaming smile of an expectant father. “We’ve got a little girl, Lydia. She’s nearly a year old.”

  Just what Spencer didn’t need tonight—talk of children.

  “That’s wonderful,” Abby breathed. “I adore babies. I’d love to see her.” The rapt envy on her face was like a punch to Spencer’s gut.

  “I’ll bring her to visit sometime,” Lady Clara said, then caught sight of Spencer’s pained expression. She gave a weak smile. “When your husband’s not around. Lord Ravenswood isn’t terribly fond of children.”

  “Hogwash.” Abby cast him a questioning look. “How could anybody not like children?”

  “Oh, bachelors and newly married men never do,” Lady Clara said dismissively. “But that’s because they don’t have any. They don’t know what to do with them. You should have seen his lordship the first time I tried to hand Lydia to him. He recoiled as if she were a snake.”

  “I was afraid I’d drop her or something,” Spencer lied through his teeth.

  Lady Clara laughed, unaware of the torture she inflicted on him with every word. “Or you were worried she’d get spittle on your fine coat. That’s a man for you—Morgan was much the same until he had his own child.”