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

by Blythe, Bianca

  “Ah, good,” he said. “Stables are—er—vital.”

  “Yes,” the footman agreed. “The previous Lord Tremont enjoyed the ability to travel.”

  Adam hoped his cheeks weren’t red.

  His cheeks felt red.

  He cleared his throat. But his primary emotion wasn’t embarrassment. If there were stables, then there were horses.

  His heart soared.

  “How many horses did Lord Tremont keep?” he asked casually.

  The footman furrowed his brow, as if he were counting. “I supposed there must be about eight or nine of them?”

  “Eight or nine?” He widened his eyes, and Isla coughed.

  Horses.

  He’d have horses. He’d be able to ride them and care for them and see them in his fields. His heartbeat quickened.

  It was too much.

  He should be insisting they drive straight back and he get on The Princess Sapphire when it sailed again in ten days. This wealth was meant for another man. Someone who’d had siblings and parents and grandparents to show him how to be a viscount, and someone who’d mastered even more than how to make small talk at a tea without offending anyone.

  The footman shrugged. “I suppose it’s a small number. You can buy more.”

  Excitement thrummed through Adam. “What other animals are there?”

  “Well, we have cows, chickens, sheep, and—er—various birds for shooting. Are you a keen hunter, My Lord?”

  “No,” Adam said simply.

  The footman nodded, but there was a doubtful look on his face.

  “Did the late Lord Tremont ever speak about the present Lord Tremont?” Isla asked suddenly.

  “Not very much,” the footman said, not making eye contact with either Isla or himself.

  A faint dread rolled through Adam’s spine, and he wished he’d been more reactive to Isla’s occasional coughs and warning glances.

  “I hope he didn’t say anything bad about me,” Adam said.

  “The late Lord Tremont was a gentleman,” the footman said.

  “Perhaps the late Lord Tremont worried the new Lord Tremont might not be a gentleman?” Isla ventured.

  The footman hesitated.

  Blast it.

  Perhaps he’d been going along this visit all wrong. Perhaps he should have demanded to see where the liquor was, and proceed by sampling all the bottles. Or perhaps he should have demanded to see the gun-room, or made certain a portraitist was on hand to create a portrait of himself to hang in the entry, preferably one of him scowling, so the servants could feel conscious of his presence even when he was busy doing other things.

  “There are always negative rumors about people, especially when they are not nearby to defend themselves,” Isla said in a soothing tone. “I am certain Lord Tremont has not been immune to them.”

  “Ah, that might be true.” The footman’s shoulders relaxed. “Would you like a tour inside now?”

  “Please,” Adam said.

  The footman nodded and then strode toward the building.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The days passed quickly. Isla had returned with Miss Grant to Brighton, but she’d returned yesterday, accompanied by her brother and his wife.

  After all, tonight was important.

  Tonight was Adam’s formal introduction into society. He’d invited his neighbors for a ball.

  Isla and Adam had switched to doing dance lessons in a real ballroom, and Thabisa and Dido had pursued the pleasures of rolling in grass. Dido, though, did not venture after Thabisa when Thabisa climbed the trees on the estate.

  Guests swirled happily over the dancefloor. Wolfe’s wife sat at the piano, flanked by men with violins who seemed bewildered at her skill.

  “Your sister-in-law is talented,” Adam remarked.

  “Indeed.” Isla smiled. “We McIntyres have good taste.”

  “Is that so?” Adam grinned.

  “I never lie,” Isla said.

  He gave her a hard stare, but his lips continued to turn up.

  “Seldom lie,” she corrected. “But I most certainly do have good taste.”

  “Have I shown you the curtains in this room?” Adam asked.

  “The blue brocade ones with the silver fringe?”

  “It’s quite fine to act less knowledgeable,” he said.

  “Is that so?”

  “Let’s examine them now,” Adam said, and his eyes sparkled.

  Isla followed him quickly. They wove through other couples until they reached a set of drapes. They were thick and long, draping pleasantly onto the floor, though Isla thought that Adam most likely did not want to speak about that.

  “The view is better on the other side,” Adam said.

  Isla nodded her head, even though it was dark outside. She stepped behind the curtain into a small alcove. Everything was dark. Adam followed her, and in the next moment his lips touched hers. Yes. This was exactly where her lips should be.

  In fact, she could also think of preferable places for the rest of her body to be. Wrapped in Adam’s arms was nice—very nice, but wrapped in his arms on bed, with no attire to separate their flesh, would be even nicer.

  She pulled away reluctantly, conscious her dress most likely was creased and her hair was less immaculate.

  No matter.

  Perhaps she’d placed too high a value on propriety.

  “The guests will wonder where you are,” she murmured.

  “You think it would be a breach of etiquette if I had the butler inform them I was kissing you?” he asked, pressing his lips against her neck.

  She laughed. Her heart felt light, and when he pulled her closer for another kiss, she didn’t protest.

  The music shifted.

  “It’s the waltz,” Adam said.

  “Oh?”

  “I believe you’ve saved it for me,” he said.

  “You believe correctly.”

  Adam led her from the curtain to join the rest of the ball. Women and men were already dancing. A few people seemed startled that she was striding so near the host, but in the next moment Adam bowed, she curtsied, and then they were waltzing.

  She didn’t need to hum. Wonderful music was already playing, and she didn’t need to imagine Adam dancing with anyone else, for he was dancing with her.

  There were many people she didn’t recognize.

  Many happy people.

  Adam had invited most people in the local area, and hey eyed the elegant ballroom with obvious awe.

  Adam stated he wanted to hold this ball every year. He wanted the tenants of the estate to see and enjoy the main home.

  Isla may have taught Adam etiquette, but it was Adam who could teach her much about it. There were things she’d never considered, that seemed obvious to him. Values of kindness and goodness that made her heart swell.

  Perhaps the world was a game to be won after all.

  He remembered just how to hold her as they swirled about the dance floor, weaving around the other couples, all of whom seemed to have enthusiastic expressions on their faces.

  It was wonderful.

  Everything with Adam was wonderful.

  He was not the best dancer. His form was still imperfect on occasion, and from time to time she thought he might even be counting.

  But he was confident in how he held her, and he met her gaze easily. He knew...her. He wasn’t only mesmerized by her beauty, something flattering, but not conducive to good conversation, and he wasn’t only giving her adulations because of her title. No one knew her better than he did, not even her brother.

  And even though some people were quick to deem her bad, Adam didn’t hold her in less regard. He didn’t divide the world into good and bad people, with the possible exception of the original viscount and the man who’d murdered him. He seemed to seek to understand everyone. Learning etiquette had been less about fooling people into believing he was one of them, than of functioning in society. It had been...polite.

  The waltz
finished, and they parted. Adam studied his list of dance partners. “I have to find Miss Braunschweig. I hope she doesn’t mind if I step on her toes during the quadrille.”

  “You won’t step on her toes,” Isla said.

  “I’m grateful for your confidence.” Adam inhaled and then wove through the crowd.

  Isla watched him for a while. He would be fine.

  She turned and made her way from the ballroom room. She didn’t have anyone reserved for this dance.

  People chit-chatted merrily on either side of her, expressing their enthusiasm for Tremont House, and above all, declaring their enthusiasm for Lord Tremont.

  A footman lowered a silver platter. “A drink, Lady Isla?”

  “Thank you.” She chose a glass of orgeat. “How is everything going?”

  “The people seem happy.”

  “You have enough food?”

  “Yes, thank you, Lady Isla.”

  She smiled, content.

  “There was someone looking for Lord Tremont,” the footman said. “Perhaps you know where the viscount is? The stranger said it was important.”

  “He probably desired to congratulate the viscount on the ball,” Isla said.

  “Most likely, Lady Isla.” The man’s face appeared a bit furrowed, and Isla did not immediately move away.

  “You’re worried.”

  The footman wasn’t supposed to be worried.

  He was one of the staff who’d stayed on after the late Lord Tremont had died. He didn’t know the current Lord Tremont well, and he hadn’t seen his awkward early handlings of etiquette.

  “It’s probably nothing, Lady Isla.”

  Isla didn’t move, and her heartbeat quickened. “You can tell me, and I can determine if it is important or not. You can then just concentrate on distributing these lovely drinks.”

  The footman smiled. “That’s very kind, My Lady.”

  Isla shrugged. She told herself there was no reason to be nervous. Most likely the footman had a worried nature, something that might drive him to be efficient and responsible.

  Obviously, this was going wonderfully.

  Any fears were distinctly unfounded.

  “The man said he was a magistrate,” the footman said. “But he must not live near here, because I didn’t recognize him. And his accent was...funny.” The man’s eyes widened, as if he’d realized it was impolite to characterize anyone’s accent in such terms. “I just meant, I didn’t recognize him. I don’t think he’s even from England. I know Lord Tremont lived abroad, but I—er—don’t know why a magistrate from there would be here. Wiltshire is pleasant, but it’s out of the way.”

  Isla’s heart raced.

  The footman was correct. It was most odd.

  The Cape Colony was a three-month’s ship journey from England, and India was no closer. One didn’t wander here accidentally. Even if the magistrate was simply an acquaintance, pleased for his friend, how would he even have learned of the ball? Ships landed in Brighton, Portsmouth, Southampton or London: they couldn’t land in Wiltshire.

  Hadn’t Adam said a magistrate had murdered the true viscount?

  Her chest tightened uncomfortably.

  She couldn’t let fear show on her face. She couldn’t let a servant think the viscount was in any manner a man pursued by magistrates, even the improper ones.

  “You’re right,” she said. “It probably was simply a friend of the viscount’s. Thank you for letting me know.”

  Tension eased from the footman.

  “But could you please point him out to me?” she asked.

  “Ah.” The footman frowned for a moment, scanning the room. Finally, he turned to her. “He is by the fireplace. He’s the person in the buckskin breeches, and the—er—glower.”

  “Splendid!” Isla chirped. “Thank you so much.”

  She hurried toward the fireplace, her heart beating wildly.

  Should I grab the viscount? She glanced toward him, but he was dancing merrily with Miss Braunschweig. She didn’t want to worry him. Not on this night.

  She slowed down.

  The man was tall and large, but she’d dealt with worse men.

  She just had to tell the man to leave. And if he refused, she’d deal with the matter.

  Simple.

  She marched up to him. “The footman informed me you desire to speak to Lord Tremont.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “What’s that to you?”

  “I am a friend of the viscount,” she said.

  The man snorted. “I’m busy, pretty lady.” He jerked his head toward her. “Unless you can tell me which one he is.”

  She stiffened. Now was not the time to lecture the stranger on appropriate ways to address her, but the temptation thrummed through her.

  Except... Wasn’t it odd the man did not know what the viscount looked like? Perhaps he only knew the viscount was not dead. Perhaps he thought someone had assumed Randall’s identity.

  It was essential he not meet Adam.

  She raised her chin. “He’s upstairs.”

  “Not at his ball?” The man grinned, as if she’d said a joke. It wasn’t a pleasant sort of smile. It was a smile that indicated all sorts of vile things.

  Isla didn’t want to contemplate what this man may have done in the past.

  “He’s preparing for a speech,” she lied.

  “Oh.”

  “But you can meet him in his chamber,” she said. “If it’s important, of course.”

  “It is important.” The man’s eyes gleamed. “I bet you’re in on this wicked scheme.”

  “What are you speaking about?” She forced her voice to sound innocent, thankful for her time spent in France during the Napoleonic Wars. “The footman merely told me you were anxious to speak to him. He said you were a magistrate. I thought it might be important.”

  “Ah.” The man’s eyes no longer gleamed in quite such a salacious manner. Instead, he gave a curt nod that did not differ from a nod any bureaucrat might give at a meeting. “That’s true.”

  “In that case,” Isla said authoritatively. “Follow me.”

  She swung around, sensing his presence behind her. She moved quickly. The last thing she wanted was for Adam or her brother to notice her.

  Her mind raced. She needed to get rid of the man. But this was no longer war. She couldn’t stab him and inform someone to leave his body in the nearest river.

  Perhaps...

  She gritted her teeth. The man might know the real viscount was dead, but would he expect Adam, Randall’s aide, to be posing as Lord Tremont?

  I’ll buy him off.

  She had the money. Adam had just given it to her.

  She marched more resolutely. Confidence surged through her.

  It will be fine.

  She’d give the man some coin, and then he could leave. It was a sacrifice, but one easy to make.

  If giving this man money would keep him from Adam, then of course she would do that. Once this man realized he’d not only found the imposter viscount, but he’d also found the man who’d witnessed him murder someone, he would feel compelled to act. And unfortunately, since Adam was in truth no relation to any Viscount of Tremont, he could not simply send this man to this region’s local magistrate. This stranger would be certain to say Adam was a fraud, and that was an impossibility.

  The thing was, Adam was good at being a viscount. He didn’t hold himself with the demeanor of a man who was confident in his superiority, simply because of his birth. He was thoughtful and caring. One only had to see how he adored Thabisa, how he adored Dido.

  She wound up the stairs, conscious of the man’s heavy breath behind her.

  Thankfully, the servants were gone, all occupied in the ballroom. The corridor was dark, and she lit a candle at the landing. Her hand trembled, even though quivering was not something to which she was accustomed.

  She’d been in dangerous situations before, but perhaps those hadn’t mattered because they hadn’t involved someo
ne she’d cared about.

  Someone she more than cared about.

  She hastened her steps, eager for this to be over. Her steps seemed to match the ever-increasing tempo of her heart.

  She opened the door to her room and grabbed the envelope filled with money Adam had given her for the etiquette lessons.

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  The man stretched lackadaisically. “You want a bedtime adventure.”

  “Er—no,” she said.

  His eyes flashed. “You sure about that? You seemed awfully eager to bring me here.” He gazed around the room, settling on her bonnet. “And this doesn’t seem like the viscount’s room.”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” she said. “It’s a different sort of proposition.”

  “Oh?” He grinned. “I’m listening, sweetheart. Maybe I can show you a new world after we finish talking.”

  “I don’t need to see a new world,” she said stiffly. “I want you to go away.”

  The man’s gaze drifted to the envelope for the first time. “What’s in that?”

  “An inducement,” she said.

  “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

  “You are,” she countered. “For this money, you will. And you will never approach the viscount again.”

  “He ain’t the real viscount, sweetheart.” His eyes glimmered, and he settled onto the bed, bouncing, as if to determine the vigorousness of positions the bed would sustain.

  She was silent.

  “But I bet you already know that.”

  “I am holding one thousand pounds,” she declared. “Imagine the sort of life you could have.”

  The man’s eyes widened.

  “You can have it, if you promise to never bother the viscount again,” Isla continued.

  “Sounds like a right powerful man, having a little girl do his dirty work for him.”

  “I’m not a little girl.”

  “No,” the man agreed. “You’re a pretty woman with some nice curves and a body I wouldn’t mind exploring.” He winked. “I just sailed from the Cape Colony. I’m rather in the exploring frame of mind now.”

  A chill shot through Isla’s spine.

  Perhaps offering him money hadn’t been such a good idea after all.