How to Catch a Wicked Viscount

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “I’m so, so sorry. What will your father think of me? I only meant to borrow a little ink. I didn’t think he’d mind.” Her words came out in a breathless rush as she began to dab furiously at the blotter. “And now I’ve ruined some of his papers. Oh, Lord, I hope they’re not too important.” She nodded at a dark splash marring the top of a document that looked a lot like a draft parliamentary bill. “What a disaster.”

  Her long black braid had fallen forward over her slender shoulder and it swayed with her movements, caressing the swell of one pert breast. A breast covered by nothing but threadbare cotton. It was cold in the room and her nipple pressed quite impudently against the fabric.

  Holy hell. Nate swallowed as his body tightened with longing. The sight was so distracting, he had to force himself to lift his eyes back to the girl’s.

  “I’m not sure it’s as bad as all that,” he lied. His father would be livid. On an impulse, he laid a hand atop the angel’s slender, ink-stained fingers to stop her frantic attempts to contain the mess. She stilled instantly, her breath hitching. And when she looked up at him, Nate’s breath caught too.

  At these close quarters, the lamplight illuminated the girl’s lovely face. Her eyes, as clear and blue as a midsummer sky, were ringed with a darker liquid navy and fringed by impossibly long, black lashes. When she dropped her gaze to his hand lying atop both of hers, they fanned across her cheeks where a bright red blush was beginning to spread almost as rapidly as the ink had. God, she was an innocent and he was behaving like a cad, but he was thoroughly enchanted and couldn’t seem to help himself.

  His voice, when it emerged, was embarrassingly unsteady. “You seem to know me, but I’m not sure that I know you, Miss . . .”

  “Brightwell. Sophie Brightwell,” she supplied in a voice that was also oddly husky. She clearly felt the sizzle of attraction between them too.

  “Sophie Brightwell,” he repeated, savoring the feel of her name on his lips. It suited her perfectly. The girl was about the same age as his sister, and a distant memory stirred. A cold winter’s day in Hyde Park. Three years ago. This was the awkwardly shy but pretty schoolroom chit that Charlie had introduced him to. “You’re Charlie’s friend. From the academy.”

  “Yes.” Miss Sophie Brightwell slid a hand from beneath his and pushed a loose strand of hair away from her flushed cheek. “Your father and Charlie . . . I mean, Lady Charlotte, have invited me to stay. For the Season. I know this looks terrible, my skulking about the library at the dead of night, but I couldn’t sleep. You know how it is in a strange bed. Honestly, I only meant to borrow a little ink.”

  “Yes, you said that before. But then I barged in and I startled you, no doubt. So this accidental spill”—he couldn’t resist lightly squeezing her hand—“is entirely my fault. And I shall tell my father so.” His father would believe him. It wasn’t as though this was the first mess he’d ever made.

  “No.” Miss Brightwell shook her head. “No, I can’t let you do that, Lord Malverne.”

  “I insist.” Removing his hand from hers, Nate pulled a silk kerchief from his coat pocket, then, rake that he was, he leaned closer. The heady scent of warm female laced with something delicate and floral—perhaps it was the soap she used—teased him, enticing him to do something unthinkable, like burying his face in her sweet neck. To inhale deeply and run his lips along her collarbone. To taste the silken flesh where her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat . . .

  Jesus Christ and all his saints, what was he thinking? Less than a month of abstaining from sexual congress had clearly addled his brain.

  He couldn’t seduce Charlie’s friend no matter the desire thrumming through his veins. She was a young woman alone with a known rake, late at night. The situation was highly compromising to say the least.

  Dangerous.

  Nate cleared his throat and said what he meant to before he’d been struck with the insane and completely inappropriate urge to kiss this intriguing girl. “I also must insist that you allow me to help you clean up.”

  Miss Brightwell eyed him with suspicion, as well she ought. She drew a breath and parted her full, sweet lips as though to speak—perhaps to declare that she could manage well enough on her own—but instead, all that emerged was a tantalizing gasp when he captured her chin with gentle fingers. Turning her face ever so slightly toward the lamplight, he then carefully wiped a black streak from her smooth-as-alabaster cheek before releasing her. “If you are to have a Season, Miss Brightwell, you can’t very well go about with an ink stain upon your pretty face.”

  She swallowed and another furious blush flooded her cheeks. “Th-thank you, my lord,” she stammered and took a step back. Lifting her ruined shawl, she grimaced. “At least the blotter will be all right. I can’t say the same about your father’s papers.”

  Nate righted his father’s inkwell and, with his kerchief, wiped the ink from Miss Brightwell’s small pewter inkpot. “If you don’t mind my asking, why were you down here looking for ink at such a late hour?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Not writing an illicit love letter, are you?”

  Miss Brightwell nibbled on her lower lip as though debating whether she should share a confidence with him or not. She reached for a horribly stained piece of parchment that lay to one side of the blotter and pushed it beneath her shawl. “No, nothing like that.”

  Nate quirked a brow. “Then why won’t you show me?”

  “It’s . . .” She gave a resigned sigh and withdrew the piece of paper, offering it to him. “It’s just a letter outlining the details of my manuscript.”

  “Manuscript?” Nate took it and propped his hip on the edge of the desk as he frowned at the neatly written script at the top the page. “Is it a diary of some sort?” He glanced back at her face. “Your diary?” Now wouldn’t that make for interesting reading?

  But Miss Brightwell was shaking her head. “No.” She raised her chin and crossed her arms across her chest in a defensive stance. “It’s a children’s book. The first in a series. Well, at least I hope there will be more books. I’m not certain if I’ll retain the title, The Diary of a Determined Young Country Miss, though. It all depends on what the publisher thinks. If I can find a publisher, that is . . .”

  “I don’t see why you wouldn’t. It sounds like an awfully clever idea to me. A series, you say?”

  “Yes.” She blushed, perhaps in response to his enthusiastic praise. “Actually, your aunt has kindly made arrangements to have my manuscript delivered to a publishing house tomorrow. Minerva Press. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. Although I imagine it will be some time before I hear an answer. Anyway, I thought to write a letter to the proprietor of Minerva Press, to accompany my submission. But then I ran out of ink . . . I’m sorry.” She sighed and rubbed ink-splotched fingers across her brow. “I’m rambling and I’m sure I must be boring you.”

  “No, of course not. I think what you’re doing is marvelous, Miss Brightwell. In fact, I’m in awe of your talent. You’ve written a whole book, whereas I can barely scrawl my name half the time. I had no idea Charlie had such an accomplished friend.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say so.” She took back her piece of paper and folded it in half. “I can only hope Mr. A. K. Newman—he’s the publisher—feels the same way.”

  There was something about Sophie Brightwell’s downcast expression that made Nate think she wasn’t used to receiving compliments. She clearly doubted his heartfelt praise, and for some reason he really didn’t wish to examine, the thought saddened him.

  Gathering up her shawl, inkwell, and quill, Miss Brightwell pressed them and the soiled page of her manuscript close to her chest. “At any rate, I probably should retire. Good night, Lord Malverne. Thank you for . . .” She broke off, blushing again, and Nate had the distinct impression she was recalling the moment he’d held her face in his hand and wiped away the ink. “Thank you for your assistance.”


  “You’re very welcome.”

  When she was almost at the door, Nate called after her, “I meant what I said before. I will tell my father that I’m to blame for this mishap.”

  She turned around, and when her blue eyes met his, he was struck by her incandescent beauty all over again. “Are you certain? It doesn’t seem right.”

  Somehow Nate suppressed the urge to laugh. Good God, the girl felt guilty about a bit of spilled ink. What a breath of fresh air she was. “Trust me, it will be better this way. We’ll make it our little secret.”

  She inclined her head. “Very well. Our little secret. Thank you again. And good night.”

  As the door shut, Nate blew out a sigh. Bloody hell. How inconvenient that Charlie’s friend was so damn divine. He’d been planning on a good night’s sleep, but now he rather thought he might be plagued by inappropriate dreams that involved seducing a black-haired, blue-eyed angel.

  He reached for his father’s brandy decanter. He’d best have a double nip. Then hopefully he wouldn’t dream at all.

  CHAPTER 5

  Four Disreputable Debutantes are spotted at a most prestigious tea shop famous for its pots of pineapple ices . . .

  They might be out and about, but will the ton forgive them?

  Or will they continue to receive the cold shoulder?

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  Berkeley Square, Mayfair, London

  April 2, 1818

  My goodness, it certainly is teeming down now, isn’t it?” observed Charlie as she and Sophie stood beneath the portico of Hastings House, contemplating the sheets of spring rain turning Berkeley Square into a lake. “One can barely see the plane trees in the park, let alone Gunter’s, from here.”

  Sophie worried her lower lip with her teeth as she peered up at the leaden sky; it didn’t look as though the rain would abate anytime soon. At least Lady Chelmsford’s secretary had arrived well before the showers had begun, so she knew her manuscript would have made it safely to the Minerva Press office.

  However, it was unlikely they would make it to the tea shop across the square unscathed. Even though they had umbrellas, they would both be soaked within a half a minute. “Do you think Olivia and Arabella will venture out?”

  Charlie secured the very top button of her smart, caramel brown pelisse of fine wool before pulling on her cream kid gloves. “They both sent word this morning that they’d love to join us. They are both dying to see you. And I believe Arabella is collecting Olivia on the way.”

  Sophie pulled on her black leather gloves as well, hoping that no one would notice the worn patches at the knuckles and near the heels of both hands. Unlike Charlie, she only wore a plain blue wool spencer over her muslin walking gown; her travel-stained pelisse was not fit to be seen. But then, what did fashion matter at a time like this? Darling Olivia and Arabella wouldn’t give a fig about what she wore.

  But first they had to make it across Berkeley Square.

  “Ladies, you aren’t seriously thinking of crossing the square in this downpour, are you? You’ll need a boat.”

  A deep male voice wound around Sophie, making her cheeks heat and her breath quicken. Lord Malverne was standing right behind her. She dared not turn around. She didn’t want him to know he’d put her to the blush. Again.

  She always turned into a peagoose in the presence of handsome men. Actually, if she were honest with herself, it was only this man in particular who reduced her to a state of breathless, flustered idiocy. Thank heavens Charlie never teased her about her silly tendre, an affliction that had only grown worse. Well, ever since that unexpected and altogether disconcerting encounter with Lord Malverne in the library last night.

  It was their little secret.

  Had he really covered her hands with his and gently wiped ink from her cheek?

  She’d tried to tell herself it meant nothing, that Lord Malverne was a notorious libertine who flirted with women all the time. But even so, she couldn’t deny he’d been chivalrous when he offered to take the blame for the ink accident.

  And his flattery—not only had he remarked she was pretty, he appeared genuinely impressed by her writing—made her feel hot all over and more than a little giddy whenever she allowed herself to recall those strangely intimate moments.

  Indeed, right at this particular moment, she was certain her face was bright red and she had to remind herself to breathe. As she battled to control her physical reactions to Lord Malverne’s overwhelming presence, Charlie simply snorted. “The weather isn’t that bad, Nate. Besides, we’ve promised to meet someone at Gunter’s.”

  Lord Malverne—or Nate—stepped forward, and from the shelter of her bonnet, Sophie chanced a glance at him. As always, he was dressed in an exquisitely tailored ensemble. His unfastened black wool garrick coat did nothing to hide his athletic physique. Gleaming black Hessians and buff pantaloons seemed to be molded to his muscular legs, a waistcoat of burgundy red satin was buttoned up neatly over his trim torso, and at his throat was a perfectly tied ivory silk cravat. In hand, he carried a matching beaver hat and a pair of dark brown leather gloves. Not a seam was out of place, nor a speck of lint visible. Not a splotch of ink upon his well-manicured fingers.

  Perhaps in an effort to provide a foil to such sartorial perfection, his too-long chestnut hair was artfully disheveled. Indeed, a tousled wing perpetually flopped over one eye, only serving to enhance his overtly rakish air, especially when he tossed his head back or ran a hand through his thick locks to clear his vision.

  At that precise moment, as if he’d read her thoughts, the wickedly handsome viscount did just that, raked his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his high, noble forehead. As a whimper of helpless longing threatened to escape her throat, Sophie promptly bit her lip again and whipped her gaze back to the rain-soaked square.

  Good heavens. She needed to build up some sort of resistance to this man’s charms, or she was sure to melt into a pitiful puddle at his feet. And to think she’d once harbored dreams of developing the demeanor of a sophisticated young woman . . .

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sophie noticed Lord Malverne putting on his hat and gloves, and then to her consternation, he moved to her side, his arm touching hers, the scent of his spicy cologne teasing her. “Well, if you are both set on this course of action, you must allow me to escort you. Miss Brightwell”—his large hand slid around the handle of her umbrella, and when his gloved fingers brushed hers, Sophie swore a jolt of electricity sizzled through her—“might I suggest I hold this for you so that you may pick up your skirts? To keep them out of the pond that was once Berkeley Square.”

  Inhaling a fortifying breath, Sophie forced herself to meet Lord Malverne’s dark brown eyes. “Of course you may, my lord,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

  Charlie shot her brother a narrow-eyed look. “That’s very gallant. And very unlike you, Nathaniel Hastings.”

  Lord Malverne opened the umbrella and held it above Sophie’s head. “I’m just trying to save your friend from a potential near drowning, dearest sister.”

  Charlie rolled her eyes as she put up her own umbrella. “Good Lord. Please don’t tell me you have designs on my friend. Because if you do, I’ll be forced to tell Papa about the article that appeared in the Beau Monde Mirror this morning. You know, the one that mentioned your return to town along with a detailed account of all your past escapades?”

  “All lies, I assure you, Miss Brightwell,” said Lord Malverne, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Everyone knows most of the salacious rumors that appear in those gossip rags are utter rubbish. I never read them myself.”

  Sophie cleared her throat, praying that when she spoke, her voice would sound relatively normal. “Yes. Of course. Absolute garbage.” Lord Malverne undoubtedly knew about her “escapade” three years ago with Charlie. He clearly didn’t think any
less of his sister because of the scandal. But given his reputation as a rakehell, perhaps scandal rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. She suddenly wondered if he thought any less of her . . .

  Charlie’s suspicious gaze settled on Sophie, so she forced herself to adopt a carefree smile. “I’m ready if you are, Charlie and Lord Malverne,” she said, picking up the skirts of her periwinkle blue gown with one hand.

  “Let us away then.” Lord Malverne’s smile was dazzling as he offered his arm. Ignoring Charlie’s frown, Sophie took it, and then they all descended the stairs into the deluge.

  Lord Malverne was the perfect gentleman and held the umbrella over Sophie steadily as they made their way around the square at a brisk pace, skirting the worst puddles on the pavement and steering clear of the splashes sent up by the wheels of passing hackney coaches. Within the space of a few minutes, they’d gained the shelter of Gunter’s Tea Shop.

  To Sophie’s mortification, she discovered her blue muslin skirts were soaked through and were now quite scandalously plastered against her legs, leaving nothing about her figure to the imagination. She prayed no one within Gunter’s would notice. She could see the salacious article in her mind’s eye now . . .

  Miss B., the notorious chit with a penchant for hard liquor, tobacco, and erotica, arrives at Mayfair’s most lauded tea shop, scantily clad in wet, all-but-transparent skirts. Once a hussy, always a hussy it seems . . .

  Protected by her wool pelisse, the skirts of Charlie’s dark russet silk promenade gown had fared much better, and it was impossible to detect any muddy splashes on her neat black kid boots.

  Lord Malverne, despite the fact that he’d not taken shelter beneath her umbrella, seemed to be hardly affected by the rain at all. Shrugging out of his garrick, he revealed a set of impossibly wide shoulders that seemed to ripple beneath his perfectly cut tailcoat of chocolate brown wool with lapels and cuffs of black velvet.