How to Catch a Wicked Viscount

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “I would too,” agreed Olivia. “While I have no urgent need to wed, I have been concerned for a little while now that my aunt and uncle might try to arrange a marriage for me. A union that would be to their advantage, not mine. And then there is the threat of fortune hunters. At least I know that these men”—she touched their list—“will not want me for my wealth alone.”

  Compassion softened Charlie’s gaze. “Oh, Olivia. As I said earlier, I will do whatever I can to help you. I hope you truly believe that.”

  “I do. And thank you,” she murmured.

  “Yes, thank you, Charlie,” agreed Sophie around the lump forming in her throat. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  Charlie’s eyes suddenly grew bright with tears and she dipped her head, hiding her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered at length before lifting her gaze to meet theirs again. “It’s my fault entirely that all of you never had the debuts you deserved. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t rue my foolish actions. And I will make it up to you, I swear it.”

  Sophie’s heart twisted at witnessing her friend’s bone-deep remorse, her suffering. “Oh, Charlie, you mustn’t blame yourself. We were all willing participants that night. We all agreed to become part of the Society for Enlightened Young Women. And we will all move on and lead wonderful, fulfilling lives, with or without rakish husbands.” On an impulse she reached out and clasped Charlie’s and Olivia’s hands in her own. “Whatever else happens, we will always have each other.”

  Arabella placed a hand on Sophie’s arm. “I couldn’t wish for better friends.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Olivia.

  Plans were made to reconvene with Olivia in a week’s time, and then after they bid Arabella a fond farewell and saw her and Olivia off in a hackney coach, Charlie and Sophie waded their way back across Berkeley Square to Hastings House.

  An hour later, wrapped up in a cashmere blanket on the chaise longue in the library, Sophie put aside her favorite book, Pride and Prejudice, and fell to watching the flames dancing in the grate. By virtue of her birth, she’d never be like Lady Penelope. But then, hadn’t Mr. Darcy fallen in love with Elizabeth Bennet even though she wasn’t from his exalted social sphere? Perhaps the seemingly impossible was possible. She needed her very own battle plan to catch a rake.

  She needed enlightenment.

  Leaning toward Charlie, she said softly, “I’m sorry to interrupt your reading, but do you have those illicit memoirs about Fanny Hill at hand? If I do read those memoirs, as you suggested, perhaps I will feel less gauche when we begin husband hunting in earnest.”

  With a grin, Charlie put aside her book. “Of course. I’ll find volume one right now.”

  “Thank you.” Sophie idly traced the letters on the cover of Pride and Prejudice and smiled to herself. One thing she had a talent for was studying. She would learn what Nate and other men liked. Learn how to flirt and all about amorous pursuits—at least in theory. Become more worldly-minded. While she would never be a “paragon of perfection,” she also didn’t have to be quite so prim and proper, or worse, boring and bland.

  Even though she mightn’t win Nate’s heart, that didn’t mean she shouldn’t try.

  Capturing his full attention—or indeed any rake’s—would certainly be a start.

  CHAPTER 7

  We all know scandal abounds behind closed doors—but which ones in particular?

  Discover where the rakehells of the ton play in the wee small hours.

  Editor’s Note: This article is not for the fainthearted. Read on if you dare . . .

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  The Pandora Club, St. James’s, London

  Midnight, April 4, 1818

  Lord Malverne, can I get you anything? Anything at all?” purred a sultry female voice from the velvet shadows of a secluded corner of the exclusive gaming-hell-cum-brothel, the Pandora Club.

  Nate put down his glass of cognac with deliberate care on the nearby polished kingwood table and tried to focus on the semiclad demimondaine before him. From what he could make out, she was a tall, slender blonde wearing a low-cut bejeweled bodice paired with some sort of voluminous trousers of a diaphanous fabric. With her bare midriff and kohl-lined eyes and a paste jewel adorning her pale forehead, her exotic costume brought to mind the Persian queen consort, Scheherazade.

  Her heavy, musk-laden perfume wafted about him as she leaned closer and ran a slender finger along the line of his stubbled jaw. “I am at your disposal, my lord,” she whispered. From this angle, Nate could see straight down her bodice. Her breasts as round and firm as ripe pomegranates with tight, dusky nipples beckoned to him, but he found that, for once, he had no appetite for what she was so clearly offering.

  And it is all because of that chit, Sophie Brightwell.

  He had no idea why, but he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the girl all night. And he really should. She was pretty, of that there was no doubt. And from what he’d seen, she was kindhearted with an amiable disposition and clearly an innocent despite the ridiculous scandal surrounding her expulsion from that priggish girls’ academy. Charlie certainly thought the world of her. Which meant Charlie would be after him with her fencing foil if he ever dared lay a hand on her friend.

  And he wouldn’t blame her in the slightest. Reprobates like him shouldn’t besmirch sweet young women like her.

  The demirep was still waiting for him to respond to her blatant invitation, so he summoned a smile, hoping that would be sufficient to keep her happy. “Another cognac is all I require, m’dear,” he drawled, or perhaps his words only sounded slurred because he’d had far too much to drink. Either way, the prostitute understood him. She fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly and murmured, “Of course, my lord,” before brushing past a set of plum velvet curtains and disappearing into the softly lit chamber beyond.

  With a groan, Nate slumped back into the pile of gold and rose silk cushions at his back and stretched his legs along the plush brocade settee. He didn’t want to close his eyes, because whenever he did, the room began to spin. He hadn’t been this foxed in a long time.

  On the opposite side of the semisecluded alcove was the Duke of Exmoor. Coatless, with his silk waistcoat undone and his cravat in disarray, he, too, was sprawled across a settee; his gentle snores mingled with the muted chatter and ripples of laughter of other patrons and cyprians.

  It seemed Max couldn’t hold his drink tonight either.

  As for MacQueen, Nate had no idea where the Scot had gone. The last time he’d seen him, he was at the hazard table. Or had it been faro? Although, by now, he also might be upstairs in one of the bedchambers, sampling the abundant feminine delights that could be had for the right price at the Pandora Club. He was vaguely surprised that Gabriel wasn’t here. After they’d all been to Limner’s to plan their next out-of-town boxing match excursion, the earl had disappeared. Although the horny devil could just have easily arranged another tryst with Lady Astley.

  Forcing himself to sit up straight, Nate had to hold his head in his hands as the world tilted for a moment. Dear God, he was an idiot. Now that Malverne House was closed up, he’d have to drag himself all the way back to Berkeley Square. Which meant he’d also have to skulk into Hastings House via the servants’ entrance because he didn’t want the night footman to feel obliged to help him to his room or, worse still, summon his valet when he arrived home. Davenport, who was his batman when he’d served under Wellington, wouldn’t dare say anything, of course. But Nate didn’t wish to see the look of quiet disappointment in the man’s eyes when he lost his balance as he undressed or he cast up his accounts; considering how heavily he’d drunk, both were possible outcomes.

  The demirep returned with his cognac but Nate had no stomach for it. After she’d placed it on the table and departed, he surged to his feet and then woke up Max by nudging hi
s trouser-clad calf. “Wake up, you dog. Time to head home.”

  Max’s eyes flew open, then he blinked a few times before emitting a groan. Dragging himself into a sitting position, he scrubbed a hand up and down his face. “How long have I been out?” he mumbled from between his long fingers.

  “About half an hour.” Nate tossed his coat at him. “I have no idea where MacQueen is, but I’m ready for bed.”

  Max squinted up at him, his eyes bloodshot. “God, me too. We really need to stop doing this.”

  Nate had to agree.

  They stumbled out to the street and Nate hailed a hackney. After he’d seen Max home to Grosvenor Square—both the duke and MacQueen resided in town houses at the same prestigious address—he directed the driver to take him to Berkeley Square. He’d contemplated walking the short distance from Max’s town house to Hastings House—it had stopped raining in the early evening, and the fresh air may have cleared his head a little—but he had an awful feeling he might actually trip, and the last thing he wanted was to be the headline in tomorrow’s Times. He could well imagine it:

  VISCOUNT MALVERNE KILLED IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT!

  RUN OVER BY A HACKNEY COACH ON MOUNT STREET.

  After surviving Quatre Bras and Waterloo, what a pathetic way to die.

  Better think of something else. As the hackney rolled along the quiet, rain-slick streets, Nate’s thoughts turned to Miss Sophie Brightwell once more. And not in a remotely appropriate way. Rather in a wholly improper way. Indeed, all bloody night he’d been half-hard whenever he recalled the sight of her delectable mouth as she ate her strawberry ice cream at Gunter’s this afternoon, the way her tongue had curled around her spoon and swiped the droplets of slick cream off her full lower lip. He wondered yet again if her nipples were the same pale hue of rose pink as the ice cream or a duskier shade. And would her skin be as pale and silky smooth as the dollop of cream that had adorned the iced confection before he’d dipped his spoon in?

  There was something else he’d like to dip into. And it had nothing to do with ice cream or spoons, and everything to do with his tongue lapping at the warm, honey-sweet nectar between her—

  The cab stopped and Nate swore. His groin was throbbing with arousal. But as he clambered from the carriage, he realized with a grimace that the reason he was in so much pain wasn’t solely because he was sporting a fierce cockstand. He really should have used the water closet back at the Pandora Club.

  Indeed, the need to relieve himself was so urgent, once he’d pushed through the side-gate to Hastings House, he was compelled to make use of a heavily shadowed corner by a high hedgerow, not far from the servants’ entrance at the back.

  Feeling slightly better in body, if not in mind—the world was still out of focus and his balance shot—he unlocked the door and then attempted to slink upstairs to the second floor where the bedchambers lay, as quietly as he could. He’d best not wake his father.

  The upper gallery was dark save for a wash of weak moonlight filtering in through a tall window at the far end—the servants had obviously forgotten to draw the curtains. To muffle his footfalls, Nate trod with concentrated effort down the center of the thick Turkish hall runner—or as close to the center as possible; at one point, he nearly collected a potted fern when he veered off course.

  The beginnings of a monumental headache had already started to throb in his right temple when he reached his bedroom door and pushed inside. The fire in the white marble fireplace was so low, he could barely see his hand in front of his face, but he didn’t need much light to strip. Discarding his coat and waistcoat onto the carpeted floor, he clumsily tugged at his cravat. He couldn’t wait to fall into bed.

  * * *

  * * *

  I adore you, Sophie, my darling.” Nate brushed his lips across her ear, making Sophie sigh and shiver in delicious anticipation. When his large hand slid to her breast, barely concealed by her almost transparent silk night rail, the place between her thighs began to ache in the most curious way. “And now that we are at long last wed,” he continued in a voice that made her very bones melt, “I’m going to make you mine. Right here, right now . . .”

  Curling her fingers into the rich satin of Nate’s waistcoat, Sophie wantonly pressed herself against the man she loved. She wanted to touch him. Run her hands over his wide shoulders. Explore his marble-hard chest. Discover every single thing about his glorious body. And to have him touch her in return. “Yes . . . yes please, Nate.”

  In the velvet darkness something stirred beyond the bed hangings, and Sophie turned her head on the goose-down pillow. Was that a rustle of fabric? The whisper of a voice, low-pitched and decidedly male, breaking the quiet stillness of the night?

  For a moment, she held her breath, listening. There it was again, but this time it was more like a muttered expletive, not fit for her ears.

  It was Nate. But why on earth was he cursing? A moment ago he was about to make mad, passionate love to her in this very bed. Frowning in confusion, Sophie rolled over and reached for her lover, chasing after the threads of her blissful dream. But he wasn’t there . . .

  With an effort, she prized open heavy eyelids, and a sliver of awareness penetrated her foggy brain. Blast, it was only a dream. She was alone in the guest bed of Hastings House. The posset Charlie had given her to help her sleep was conjuring up the strangest erotic visions she’d ever had. Of course, it probably didn’t help that she was avidly reading the salacious and quite shocking adventures of Miss Fanny Hill before she’d snuffed out her bedside candle. That, as she drifted asleep, her body had ached with a strange unsettled longing. A feeling of wet warmth in her most intimate parts—the same feeling she had now—had made her squirm with restless need. A need she was sure only one particular viscount would be able to satisfy . . .

  Drowsiness tugged at Sophie’s consciousness once more, enticing her back toward Nate and all the wicked and wonderful things they were about to do together. As her eyelids fluttered closed, she could just discern her newly wedded husband’s magnificent body, a dark and hazy silhouette against the soft glow of the coals in the fireplace.

  Sophie’s mouth curved into a smile. How beautiful he was. An Adonis come to life. Her sleepy yet appreciative gaze drifted over his disheveled hair, broad shoulders, bare lean torso . . .

  My goodness. Nate was in the process of removing his clothes. Every single stitch.

  A sizzling bolt of desire seared through Sophie when he pushed his trousers down his powerful thighs and she caught a glimpse of his bare buttocks. The flash of firm, bunched muscles and sleek flesh made her breath quicken and her pulse race. Should she look away?

  Don’t be a prude, Sophie. Nate’s about to introduce you to the exquisite delights of the marriage bed. Why shouldn’t you look your fill? After all, it’s only a dream.

  Only it wasn’t.

  The realization that she wasn’t asleep crashed over Sophie like a bucket of ice-cold water a moment later when Lord Malverne threw back the covers on the other side of the bed. Too stunned to scream or even call out his name, she could only gape as the viscount—apparently oblivious to her presence—flopped down beside her, burrowed his head into the pillow, and then emitted a soft snore.

  Oh, my God! She might have been invisible to Lord Malverne, but the large, masculine, naked body stretched out beside her was most definitely real.

  Sophie forced herself to swallow, to moisten her mouth so she could speak. To say something to wake Lord Malverne. To roundly scold him for this bizarre and inexplicable intrusion into her bedchamber.

  But she didn’t. Her voice refused to work, just as her body refused to move.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  Shouldn’t be happening.

  And what did it say about her that she was doing nothing to stop Lord Malverne?

  Not one single thing.

  Even now, it was excitemen
t fizzing through her veins, not terror, as he rolled toward her and one of his long muscular arms settled over her breasts. Clad only in her thin cotton night rail, Sophie’s nipples hardened in a most alarming way, as though she were cold.

  But she wasn’t. Far from it. Wicked desire warmed her suddenly too-sensitive skin, and moist heat pooled low in her belly. Propriety demanded she throw Lord Malverne’s arm off, pull away, and shriek at him to get out of her bed. She should flee from the room. But it seemed the only thing that had fled was every last shred of her common sense.

  In the quiet of the night, all she could hear was the mad beating of her heart and Lord Malverne’s slow, steady breathing. It was clear he was fast asleep. Practically insensible. If seduction had been on his mind when he’d entered the room, it certainly wasn’t his intention now.

  Long minutes passed in which Sophie tried very hard to stay as motionless as possible. She really couldn’t afford to make a monumental fuss. Because if others came running—the servants or, worse, Lord Westhampton—and discovered she was alone with the viscount in her room, it could prove to be disastrous. Although she was physically attracted to Lord Malverne, that didn’t mean she wanted to be forced to marry him because he’d compromised her. And rakehell that he was, he certainly wouldn’t want that either. He was sure to resent her rather than love her. It was bound to be a marriage made in hell.

  As Sophie continued to lie there, her mind awhirl yet her body frozen by indecision, another part of her was trying very hard to ignore the pleasant weight of Lord Malverne’s arm across her chest, the heat of his body, and the tantalizing fragrance of his spicy cologne. Was it sandalwood and bergamot? Or citron? She noticed other scents, too, like male musk, cigar smoke, and something alcoholic like brandy.

  Yes, she most definitely smelled brandy.

  That was it! Lord Malverne was foxed. Drunk.