The Charity of a Viscount

by Sande, Linda Rae

  That is, if the older earl didn’t keel over and die before their wedding day.

  Unfortunately, he had waited until after eighteen years of marriage to manage that feat. Long enough for her to give birth to his heir and a spare. Although she loved them dearly—at least as much as a mother could love two spoiled rotten sons—she was glad the younger, Benjamin, was off to Eton for school and the older—Benedict, the current Earl of Wadsworth—had his own bachelor townhouse.

  Although Benedict could have claimed his late father’s mansion in Westminster, Benedict insisted Charity should continue to live there until such time as he took a wife. And since he wasn’t planning to do so until he was at least thirty, she had at least a decade before she would have to either relocate to the dowager cottage in Suffolk or move to another Wadsworth property and suffer the title of Dowager Countess of Wadsworth.

  “How is it I’m only learning of your... admiration now?” Charity asked, moving so she stood closer to him. The scent of his cologne—nothing special, but certainly not cloying or too floral—drifted past her nose.

  “Circumstances beyond my control, of course,” Marcus replied with a shrug. “University, marriage, Parliament, lack of invitations to the same social engagements.” This last was truer than he should have admitted. Having only served in the House of Lords for the past two years, and since the death of his countess, his social calendar was more like that of a bachelor who toiled as a clerk in a warehouse day after day.

  He had thought moving into the viscountcy’s townhouse in Park Lane would help, but he went about life in London much like anyone else. “If you haven’t promised the second waltz to anyone else, I would be honored to be your partner.”

  As if on cue, the orchestra played the opening strains of the supper dance, and Charity was forced to accept the man’s offer. “I have not,” she replied as she placed her hand on his proffered arm.

  He led her onto the floor where other couples had already begun to prepare for the elegant dance. Once a few started to move and they had merged into the circle of dancers, Charity regarded him with an expression of doubt. “You do know I am a widow,” she said.

  Marcus nodded, leading her into a turn and then under his arm for the pirouette. “For two years and four days now,” he replied. “Yes, I am aware.” He wasn’t about to apologize or give her his condolences. He knew perfectly well she had been in a loveless marriage. A marriage of convenience.

  A marriage of inconvenience, if anyone asked him.

  “You do know I am a widower,” he half-asked, deciding he should mention it just in case she wasn’t as aware of him as he was of her.

  Charity was about to step out of his hold, say her apologies, and hurry off to the lady’s retiring room, but there was something rather charming about a man who held her in such regard that he would know exactly how long she had been a widow.

  And not a merry one.

  “For two years...” Charity allowed the comment to trail off, unable to remember the particulars since she hadn’t been aware of Marcus Batey to the extent that he had apparently been aware of her.

  And was his regard honorable? Or did he think she was available as a mistress? A merry widow?

  Why was it aristocrats thought she would be an easy mark for illicit tumbles? That she would welcome their awkward advances, and act as if she should appreciate their lascivious attentions?

  “I suppose you expect me to fall into bed with you later this evening,” she accused, her body stiffening beneath his hold.

  Marcus almost lost his place in the dance. He stutter stepped a bit to get them back in rhythm, apologizing under his breath before adding, “I would never expect such a wondrous event, my lady,” he countered. “Even if I have prayed for it nearly every night for the past twenty years, two months, and three days.”

  That last part wasn’t entirely true. There were nights his thoughts were on his wife, especially if she was sharing her bed with him. They had a pleasant marriage. Passionless, but pleasant. His wife had been a friend since childhood, after all.

  Charity seemed to lose her place in the dance, but only for a moment.

  When she didn’t respond to his comment, the viscount sighed. “Oh, dear. Now I’ve gone and made you uncomfortable. I apologize. I—”

  “Nonsense,” Charity interrupted. “I find your manner rather refreshing,” she said. “Mayhap you’re a bit too enamored of me, though.”

  “Not possible,” he countered as he managed to guide them past a couple who seemed to have lost a shoe or two during a pirouette. Her words about finding him refreshing had his heart soaring just then. “My devotion is unmatched. As is my determination to see you happy.”

  “Happy?” she repeated in disbelief. No one had ever said they wanted to see to her happiness. “What do you suppose would make me happy?”

  Marcus angled his head just before he had her circling beneath his arm. When she was back in front of him, he asked, “What do you want more than anything else in the whole world?”

  Charity blinked.

  Apparently, no one had ever asked her that question before. She seemed to struggle to come up with an answer. “A... another child. A daughter,” she whispered.

  The Earl of Wadsworth had never gotten a girl on her. But then, he had at least one mistress he preferred and no desire to sire more children with her after the heir and spare had been born. Probably because he feared having to come up with a dowry for a daughter.

  “Just one?” Marcus countered, his eyes darkening.

  Charity swallowed. “I’ve thought these past two years that I might be too old to consider even one,” she replied, her chin coming up a bit higher than the dance required.

  “Nonsense,” he replied, using her word. “Why, you only need look at the Countess of Torrington or Her Highness, the Queen of England, to know that isn’t the case.”

  Charity regarded her dance partner for a moment before she was forced to break eye contact with him when she had to perform the pirouette beneath his arm again. When she returned to stand before him, she angled her head and said, “Well, now that we have the particulars sorted, I suppose you’ll be proposing next.” Although she wanted the words to come out sounding like a tease, they instead sounded sarcastic.

  Marcus furrowed a brow. “I was thinking I should court you for a time before I propose,” he replied. “Which is why I sent the invitation for a ride in the park.” He gripped her waist and her hand a bit tighter when she seemed to stumble. “Oh, and now I’ve gone and made a cake of it. You wanted me to propose right now, didn’t you?”

  Charity couldn’t help how her head swam just then. How dark flashes combined with bright sparks behind her eyes to have her blinking. Hunger had been gnawing in her belly since her arrival. The heat of the ballroom was suddenly so intense, she thought the room was afire. Dark gray surrounded her field of vision before she said, “I believe it’s time I take my leave. I have somewhere I need to be in the morning,” she murmured.

  “Perhaps I could drive you there,” Marcus offered. “Where do you need to be?”

  Her eyes widened in an attempt to clear the gray at the edge of her vision. “30 Oxford Street.” The address was out of her mouth before she could stop herself. She had recited the address at least fifty times in the last few days as she surreptitiously passed calling cards to unmarried seamstresses and servants, shopkeepers and costermongers. “Oh, I appreciate the offer, but my driver can take me,” she replied. “Good night.”

  She stepped out of his hold, curtsied, and made her way in the direction of the entry of Lord Attenborough’s mansion, all the while wondering what Lord Lancaster was thinking.

  The man seemed lost in his thoughts.

  Chapter 9

  A Conversation in the Gardens

  Now, Dear Readers, this is where we must remind you of our hero’s tendency to employ his vivid imagination. Marcus Batey, Viscount Lancaster, cannot seem to help but daydream when circumstances allow it
. Remember, we warned you.

  A few minutes later

  Out in the gardens, the autumn air cool and barely lit with Japanese lanterns, Marcus carried the prone body of the Countess of Wadsworth to a bench and settled her onto it. Her head ended up in the small of his shoulder, which meant his nose ended up in the mass of curls that her lady’s maid had pinned into place atop her head.

  The scent of her engulfed Marcus, and he took a deep breath in an effort to capture as much of the floral and citrus scents as possible. At any moment, she would awaken and wonder how the hell she had ended up in the garden with an almost complete stranger.

  He could tell her he had recognized the signs of an impending fainting spell in the way her eyes were suddenly unfocused. He knew for certain when he was forced to hold up her body when her knees seemed about to buckle beneath her.

  Expertly guiding Charity off the dance floor and to the back doors of the ballroom had been easy—her legs still seemed to work—but once they were just beyond them, she was in a dead faint. Hoping no one paid witness, he simply scooped her up in his arms—she was light as a feather—and hurried to the nearest bench.

  He didn’t have a vinaigrette, of course, and she didn’t seem to have one in her hand, so Marcus merely waited until she finally stirred before he said, “That’s never happened to me before.”

  Charity blinked awake and lifted her face to regard him in confusion. “And what might that be?” she murmured as she glanced around where they sat.

  Marcus allowed a wan grin. “A woman fainting on me during a dance. You did it so beautifully. Like you were a ballerina performing as if you were a swan about to swoon...”

  He knew his hold on her wouldn’t last long. He knew she would come to her senses and probably berate him for taking liberties or some such. So he was ready when she suddenly straightened and regarded him with a look of alarm.

  “Oh, no. What... what did I do?” Her eyebrows lifted and she once again glanced around where they sat. “What did you do?” Then her eyes rolled, and for a moment, Marcus thought she might faint again. “Did I say yes?”

  Marcus blinked, rather wishing he had asked the obvious question—or any other, for that matter. “Uh, I hadn’t yet given you the opportunity to respond one way or the other,” he finally replied, deciding she must be referring to the marriage proposal he had mentioned earlier. “I would ask now, but it wouldn’t be fair to you, seeing as how you’re still recovering.” He paused as he took a moment to gaze at her in the dim moonlight. “Tell me, though. It was the heat in the ballroom and not anything I said, I hope?” he half-asked. “I shouldn’t think just speaking of marriage would send you into a swoon.”

  Charity allowed a sigh, and wonder of wonders, her head once again ended up in the small of his shoulder. “The heat, of course, but your...” She straightened, as if she just then realized where she was, and with whom she was sitting, and propriety was paramount. She stared at him a moment before her shoulders slumped.

  “What is it?” he asked, his words quiet in the still night.

  “I really should go back inside,” she said, although she made no move to get up from the bench.

  “Supper is being served. Would you join me?”

  She seemed to consider his invitation for a moment before she finally gave her head a shake. “I should be getting home. I have to be at the office in the morning.”

  Marcus furrowed a brow. “Office?” he repeated. Then he remembered the address she had mentioned. 30 Oxford Street.

  Charity gave a shake of her head, as if she regretted her words. “I... I have a position. At a charity. ‘Finding Wives for the Wounded’,” she replied. “Tomorrow is one of the days I meet with potential clients.”

  The viscount seemed to consider her words for a time before he asked, “Isn’t that Lady Bostwick’s latest venture?”

  Nodding, Charity said, “Indeed. I am the matchmaker.”

  Straightening on the bench, Marcus regarded her with an expression of surprise. “You’re a matchmaker?”

  Charity angled her head, about to defend her position, but the air seemed to leave her body for a moment before she said, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “I... I won’t,” Marcus assured her. Truth be told, who would he tell? And who would believe him? No one would expect Charity, Countess of Wadsworth, to be employed in any sort of position. “May I ask how it is you became a matchmaker?”

  About to get up from the bench, Charity regarded him for a moment before one shoulder lifted. “I paid a call on the office five days ago, intending to apply. Seems I didn’t even have to interview with Lady Bostwick. I was hired on the spot.”

  “And how long have you been... matchmaking?”

  “Just a few days,” she replied. “But I’ve actually managed two matches so far. I have another pending, though. These things take time, you see, and they’ve only been accepting applications since Lady Bostwick started the charity at the beginning of summer.”

  Marcus nodded his understanding. “I didn’t realize the wounded required help finding wives.”

  “Oh, but they do,” Charity said earnestly, as she turned to face him. “These men have come back from the wars believing there isn’t a woman who will find them worthy.”

  “Why ever not?”

  She sighed. “Because they are missing limbs and think no one will have them. Or because they’re embarrassed by their scars.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and added, “Men can be so stupid.”

  Reeling, as if he’d been slapped in the face, Marcus stared at her. He was about to chide her for the comment, but then his brows furrowed. “It’s that obvious?” he asked, a hint of humor in his voice. “I thought we hid it rather well, but I suppose war brings out the worst in us. I’ve never been, nor was my late brother...” He paused as he fought the combination of sorrow and anger he felt every time he thought of Charles Batey.

  “How did he die?” Charity asked, her voice still a whisper. “Forgive me, I was living in the country at the time and only heard of it from a neighbor.”

  “The ague, of all things,” Marcus replied. “I would have thought him impervious to disease, given he was so unlikeable, but even he succumbed.”

  A battleground would have been a better setting for the sixth Viscount Lancaster to die. With his quick temper, determination, and reputation as a beast, Charles would have vanquished the enemy and shortened—or prevented—the final war against France. His poor widow, Elise, had been forced to put up with the philandering viscount who didn’t even get a child on her. At least she was now happily married to Viscount Thorncastle. They were still on their wedding trip, one that had been extended several times since their departure from London. There were some in Parliament who claimed Godfrey Thorncastle would return to the capital with an heir and a spare, both conceived in Rome.

  “I never expected to inherit the viscountcy,” Marcus said then. “I always thought Charles would sire a son.”

  “He would have had to...” Charity paused, clamping her lips shut.

  “What?”

  Her eyes darted to one side. “Nothing. It’s not important.”

  Marcus frowned. “Please, tell me what you were about to say.”

  Charity gave her head a shake. “You would have me speak poorly of the dead?”

  His eyes darted to one side. “I already know my brother was not a good man. I know he was an unfaithful husband.”

  Charity hesitated a moment before she whispered, “I was about to say that he couldn’t get a child on his wife because he was rarely in London. When he was, he was too drunk to bed her.”

  When she didn’t continue, and he thought she knew more, Marcus said, “Go on.”

  Sighing, Charity gave her head a shake. “He was always at his hunting lodge. With his mistress. I know this because... because my husband was usually there with them and the other whores they employed to keep them entertained.”

  The vehement manner in which she impart
ed her words had Marcus jerking back on the bench. He had suspected his brother guilty of all manner of debaucheries, but he hadn’t known of Lord Wadsworth’s participation.

  “Men are stupid,” he said then, his brows furrowing. Although he felt sorry for the dowager countess, he also felt relief on her behalf. By surviving a rake like Wadsworth, she could finally live the life she desired.

  Except she wanted another child. A daughter.

  “Come have supper with me,” he urged. “And then I’ll see to getting you home safely.” He had almost said, “See to getting a child on you,” but caught himself at the last moment.

  At her wide eyes and the hint of anger they contained, he added, “That is all I will do, I promise. At least, this evening.” He paused a moment. “Unless you...” When her eyes once again flashed, he sighed. “It was worth a try,” he said with a smirk.

  The widowed countess finally allowed a nod and stood up with him. “I will go in with you for supper,” she agreed. “But I shall be going home in my own coach. Alone.”

  Marcus lifted her gloved hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “Then I shall follow in my own until I am assured you are safely in your house.”

  Charity sighed but didn’t offer a rejoinder. She simply placed her hand on his arm, and Marcus led her back to ballroom.

  Just in time to see Lord Haddon bent over his daughter, seemingly just about to kiss her.

  Chapter 10

  Back in the Ballroom

  Now we return you, Gentle Reader, to the reality of the ballroom.

  “Pardon me a moment,” Marcus said to Charity as he pulled his arm from beneath hers and rushed over to where a young buck and Analise stood gazing at one another.

  “Unhand my daughter this instant,” he ordered, in a voice he struggled to keep as quiet as possible.

  “Father!” Analise scolded, although her eyes widened when she realized how she and the marquess’s son must have appeared to anyone paying them any mind. “Lord Haddon was just dancing with me,” she added.