How to Train a Viscount (Wedding Trouble, #4)

by Blythe, Bianca

  Adam had never dressed so finely, nor been as uncomfortable. He was now in possession of all manner of clothes, and he even had a bed to go back to: unfortunately, it was in a duke’s town house. Adam didn’t want to contemplate what Thabisa might be doing to it now.

  Even worse, the butler had suggested he attend a ball where apparently all the best people in Brighton would be. Captain Fergus had loved the idea, though Adam was rather less enthusiastic.

  Adam gazed warily at the building.

  “Go on, My Lord.” Captain Fergus grinned. “You’ll meet all sorts of fine folk there.”

  Adam tilted his head. “I—er—mentioned I’d only just become a viscount?”

  The captain chuckled. “I think that’s obvious.”

  Right.

  Adam returned his attention to the building. At least it wouldn’t mock him.

  It wasn’t the most imposing building he’d ever seen. That had been the Pavilion, which they’d passed on their way here.

  It was, though, the second most imposing building he’d ever seen. It was taller than the duke’s home, and it was certainly not the sort of building Adam should be contemplating entering. Though Adam’s father had worked in an imposing building when Adam was young, before he’d succumbed to the temptations of drink, Adam had always favored working with animals, and animals were rarely found in a building like this.

  Adam’s cravat unraveled, swept by the forces of the wind, and helped by the ineptitude of his knot. Perhaps the reason men tied such complex looking cravats was less an attempt at fashion than an attempt to stay put.

  The captain’s eyes widened. “I ain’t never seen that before.”

  “Oh?” Adam gave a forced laugh and hastily retied it. He patted the rest of his attire.

  Evidently the Duke of Belmonte was not as tall as he was, a fact that may have been useful to the duke when he ventured below decks, but which held no current benefit to Adam.

  Adam bent and pulled up his stockings. His tailcoat was too tight, and he moved awkwardly. The last thing he desired to do was to return the duke’s clothes with tears in them.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll join me?” Adam asked, despising how hopeful his voice was.

  “Oh, no,” the captain said. “This is a real fancy party. You’ve gotta make some friends like yourself. I know it ain’t fun to be new to a country. Besides, I’m going to the tavern. And they’re waiting for you. The butler sent a message to the hostess.”

  Right.

  Perhaps it was good the captain wasn’t going to join. Perhaps that meant Adam could sneak from the ball. He wouldn’t even have to enter into conversation with anyone. No one knew him, so who would miss him?

  He turned to the captain and thanked him before strolling inside. He ascended a staircase, knocked on a door and waited until the door opened.

  Adam regretted not dashing away at once.

  Adam had thought the duke’s house emanated elegance, even though it was one of many of the man’s homes. The servants in that house had been intimidating, clothed in black suits and crisp starched shirts.

  Those had been servants. Well-dressed, well-fed servants, but still servants. The people behind the butler were not servants.

  The women glittered.

  Their gowns gleamed, as if they’d used gold and silk thread. Perhaps they truly had used gold and silk thread.

  Jewels sparkled from alabaster necks and wrists. This might be the coast, but the women seemed to have never stepped into the sunshine before.

  His own skin was decidedly of the sun-kissed variety due to the practically never-ending sun, and he was suddenly self-conscious, even though he thought it would be his manners, and not his appearance, that might make him an obvious intruder.

  “Sir?” A man with silvery hair interrupted Adam’s musings. He stepped in the middle of the entryway, as if to guard it, as if his thin, slightly stooped figure might in any manner mask the sumptuous surroundings behind him.

  No doubt this was also a butler.

  Perhaps all English people employed people simply to answer the door.

  Adam knew he was capable of speech, but his mouth felt dry, as if he were a fish scooped onto a deck by the sailors and left to lie in the scorching sun.

  “If you’re not a guest, I must ask you to leave,” the butler said.

  Adam’s heart thudded.

  The butler crossed his arms, and one of his feet tapped against the floor slightly, and not in rhythm to the music. “Do you have an invitation?”

  “I—” Adam managed one sound, but it was hardly enough. He swallowed hard, unsure even what he should say. Should he apologize and leave? Could he simply leave? Would the captain still be outside? He wouldn’t put it past the man to spot him.

  The butler jerked his head in the direction of another servant who approached. The man set down a silver platter that gleamed under the light of tall flickering candles that filled the room, as if the hostess desired it to appear like daytime and had allocated vast sums to maintain that illusion, even though she could have simply moved the ball to the day, when it was light and no candles were required.

  “This is an intruder,” the butler said. “Come to gawk at the guests.”

  The other man frowned.

  Unlike the butler, this servant was muscular.

  Not as muscular as Adam, but most men here were not.

  “Perhaps he’s the new guest Mrs. Hollins mentioned,” the other man said. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m—er—the Viscount of Tremont,” Adam said.

  The butler’s face sobered, and for a horrible moment Adam thought he might accuse Adam of deception and order the footman to send for the magistrate.

  Though at a fine festivity like this, perhaps the magistrate would even be here.

  It was the sort of luck Adam seemed to be experiencing.

  If only Randall hadn’t been so despicable.

  If only someone hadn’t murdered Randall.

  And if only that man had never entered the room and started threatening to kill Adam.

  Adam’s heart hammered. He’d been content in the Cape Colony. He’d known what to do there. Here, everything was uncertain.

  The butler widened his eyes, and Adam braced for a torrent of curses and inched from the door.

  “Do forgive me, Your Lordship,” the butler said. “I must extend my utmost, deepest, sincerest apologies to you.”

  “Indeed.” The other servant lowered his torso into a deep bow, that the butler soon attempted to replicate, despite his obviously advanced age and the fact that sudden, deep torso movements most likely were not encouraged by his doctor.

  “Please come in,” the butler said. “Let me announce you.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right,” Adam said hastily.

  The butler gave him a curious look, and Adam stopped. He had the impression his accent was not what most people here expected. Perhaps it would be better to be silent.

  Well.

  Adam could be silent.

  And then he could leave.

  Simple.

  The butler cleared his throat. “The Viscount of Tremont.”

  Adam paused, wondering if the butler was going to add anything. Instead, the butler gestured to him, and Adam realized he was supposed to enter the room. At least the process of walking was familiar.

  Adam was less accustomed to the quantity of stares suddenly fixed on him. Some people whispered to one another, and then a woman rushed toward him.

  “My dear Lord Tremont,” the woman said. “I am Mrs. Hollins, your hostess. I am so delighted to have you here at our simple gathering.”

  This was a simple gathering?

  Mrs. Hollins gestured to the servant. He glided toward them, this time holding a silver platter adorned with food above his head.

  Adam liked food and he hadn’t eaten since the ship. For all his generosity, Captain Fergus hadn’t made time for them to dine.

  Eating would be a good i
dea.

  The footman swept the platter down. Food sat on the platter in perfect rows. Unfortunately, none of the rows of food were items he recognized.

  Adam took a piece gingerly, unsure how to eat it and wishing the room were lighter.

  “I am so delighted to have you here, Lord Tremont,” Mrs. Hollins gushed.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

  She widened her eyes slightly, and he cleared his throat hastily.

  He’d said the wrong thing again, he was certain. He inhaled and put the appetizer in his mouth, eager to do something, anything.

  The piece of food crunched in his mouth, and he chewed with greater force.

  It seemed odd that food would require such effort.

  The food didn’t even taste pleasant. Perhaps it was not some strange vegetable, but a form of seafood.

  He avoided Mrs. Hollins’ gaze. His stocking slid down, and he pressed his leg against a sideboard to cover it.

  The footman narrowed his eyes.

  The room was too hot, and Adam placed his hand on his neck, before realizing he didn’t want his cravat to be in any more danger of unraveling.

  He continued to crunch the food in his mouth, attempting to avoid Mrs. Hollins’ ever widening eyes. Finally, he swallowed it, conscious of sharp pieces irritating his throat. The footman handed him a glass, and Adam gulped it hastily, swishing away the unpleasant taste in his mouth.

  The drink was not water. There was a definite taste of alcohol.

  It was just not any form of alcohol he’d ever tasted before.

  It didn’t have bubbles like ale. It tasted sweet and vaguely of...fruit.

  He stopped drinking and gazed at the glass. Yes, there was certainly fruit in there.

  How very curious.

  Perhaps they’d fallen into the glass?

  “Are you quite well, Lord Tremont?” Mrs. Hollins asked.

  “You don’t seem well.” The footman’s cheeks grew a ruddy color. “Forgive me, My Lord, that was impertinent.”

  “No, you’re quite right, Matthew,” Mrs. Hollins said. “I’ve never seen anyone tackle shrimp in precisely that manner.”

  “I’m well,” Adam said hastily.

  Mrs. Hollins and the footman still eyed him skeptically.

  Adam moved his gaze around the room. Most of the guests seemed rapt in their own conversations. They laughed about things he’d never heard of, merrily ate foods he’d never seen, and danced in synchronized steps to melodies he’d never heard.

  And now both his hostess and her servant stared at him intently, as if he’d already done something disastrous.

  They mustn’t discover I’m an imposter.

  “I’m fine,” he said smoothly. “Some fruit must have fallen into my glass. I was—er—startled.”

  Mrs. Hollins blinked, and her gaze slid to the silver platter the footman held.

  All the drinks had fruit in them.

  Was this what wealthy people did? They mixed their liquor with fruit? After forcing themselves into tight undergarments? He’d have thought they were using replacements for hair shirts, but the people didn’t seem to have other religious tendencies. No cross hung on the wall, and none of the paintings that adorned the ballroom depicted Biblical scenes.

  He moved his gaze around the room.

  And then he saw her.

  A woman so beautiful it made his chest tense and made him understand why the ballroom had such a prevalence of mirrors rather than paintings. No artist could have depicted anyone more lovely.

  The woman sat in a corner of the room, beside the fireplace. Perhaps she was cold. He instantly despised she might be cold.

  She was clothed in a dark green dress. It was bolder than the other dresses in the room, even though he suspected dark green was not a color people enthused over.

  Evidently, all people were mad.

  They certainly seemed to be displaying an abundance of those tendencies at this event.

  The woman’s dark hair shouldn’t have been remarkable, and yet he found it difficult to look away. It piled high above her head in glossy curls that gleamed beneath the flickering glow of the fire. Her dress curved in an intriguing manner, and jewels sparkled from her neck.

  It wasn’t her neck, though, that captured his attention, even though it was long and delicate and certainly more enticing than other necks. Neither was he transfixed by her locks, despite the immaculate hairstyle, or her dress, even though it appeared nicer than any other dress.

  It was her face.

  Her face was exquisite.

  Wide-set eyes observed him. They were green, the same color as her gown. Her lips were small, and for the first time, he understood why people rapturized over rosebud lips.

  He wondered what they would taste like.

  His heart sped, as if seeing this woman had cast it off center and it had to work harder to right itself, and he turned to Mrs. Hollins and the footman, conscious his thoughts were inappropriate.

  “Lord Tremont?” Mrs. Hollins asked.

  He jerked his head toward her. “Yes?”

  “Would you like another shrimp?” she asked tentatively, and the footman’s lips curled.

  Adam was certain the footman’s lips weren’t supposed to resemble a sneer.

  “No, thank you,” he said abruptly and moved into the room.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Isla hadn’t supposed she would find any amusement in sitting beside the fireplace.

  She’d taken the last seat, and tomorrow her lady’s maid would undoubtedly struggle to remove the ash that seemed intent on fluttering outside the screen which seemed to have been selected more for beauty than its ability to keep sparks from soaring through the room and attempting to light the wooden planks of the ballroom floor.

  Mrs. Hollins fussed over the new arrival. She’d been less excited to see Isla, and Isla surveyed the newcomer.

  I don’t recognize him.

  Isla frowned slightly. She recognized most people of the ton.

  Perhaps the man had been overseas. The war had ended several years ago, but men were still arriving back, coming from the remoter regions of the world.

  He seemed to be of the bumbling variety of men, and from his appearance, he’d failed to acquire the services of a good valet. A good valet was essential, and no doubt the man failed in many other tasks.

  Isla turned her attention to her companion instead. Chatting about Miss Grant’s latest efficiency techniques was of greater interest than some bumbling man. Most things were of greater interest than bumbling men, no matter if nature had bestowed them with pleasant visages.

  And then the man moved. He walked and tilted his head upward, as if to inspect the chandeliers.

  She frowned.

  He did look as if he were inspecting every chandelier.

  Isla did not have a habit of staring and she refused to succumb to such disgraceful behavior now. And yet, despite her years of not staring, the effort to not let her gaze linger on the man was substantial.

  It shouldn’t have been substantial.

  Men were hardly a novel concept. Half the people in the world were men, and she’d been raised with three boys close to her in age.

  And yet...

  Something about this man made her desire to observe him, as if she’d mistaken him for a painting or sculpture by some Italian master.

  In truth, there shouldn’t have been anything remarkable about brown hair and brown eyes. They were the most common color of hair and eyes. Yet, somehow his eyes seemed warm, imparting a strength like coffee, a strength that made her giddy and made her remember the taste long after. Strands of his hair were light, as if he’d spent time in the sun and was unaware of the existence of hats.

  He met her gaze, and she jerked her head away, conscious of warmth inundating her cheeks. She forced her gaze to her lap and folded her gloved hands, as if the action were more interesting than speculating over whether his hair was closer to caramel or chestnut.

 
; There was something wrong about the man.

  He wasn’t polished.

  In fact, he was most odd.

  No doubt, what Isla had mistaken for attraction was simply the natural curiosity she might feel after a sighting of a novel insect. Certainly, the Duchess of Belmonte was always raving about the varieties of fish she saw when she used her underwater apparatus.

  This man was human and certainly deserved more attention than a fish.

  The man’s hair was longer than fashionable, and more tousled than even the most devoted Corinthians who seemed to always strive to maintain their hair as if they’d just undertaken a gallop through windswept wildflowers.

  The man moved gingerly about the room. He gawked at every one of Mrs. Hollins’ pieces of lackluster furniture, though Isla had the odd sensation he found the items fascinating, when anyone with any actual taste would have known that gilded furniture had fallen out of style ever since the French peasants had set about chopping off the heads of everyone who owned it.

  One of his stockings slid down, and he rubbed his other leg against it, as if to pull it up.

  Isla attempted to not smirk.

  The man was the first genuine amusement at this event, for all the effort the musicians seemed to make, moving their violin bows fiercely as they followed every note precisely of some German’s composition that possessed a definite disposition toward the overly dramatic.

  The stranger darted his gaze toward the window repeatedly. Well, Isla didn’t blame him. The sea was beautiful, even in its current inky state. Even the dark sky couldn’t mask the ivory crests of the waves, glinting under the faraway moonlight.

  Various couples still stood before the window, as if transfixed by the waves.

  The man moved past her, and Isla remembered she wasn’t supposed to stare.

  It didn’t matter.

  She was a spinster and she didn’t need to impress anyone with an ability to maintain a ladylike state. She didn’t need to impress anyone with marriageable qualities, least of all this man.

  She rose rapidly.

  “Lady Isla?” Miss Grant stared at her. “Can I fetch anything?”