How to Catch a Wicked Viscount

by Amy Rose Bennett

So drunk he’d come into the wrong bedchamber. That had to be the reason for his outrageous behavior.

  Sophie let out a small sigh. She couldn’t let the viscount sleep here all night, and neither could she stay. All things considered, she really had only two choices: she could either try to wake Lord Malverne and pray to God he didn’t cause a hullaballoo given his inebriated state, or she could try to steal from the bed and enlist Charlie’s aid in quietly ejecting him from the room. Sophie barely suppressed a shudder at the thought of her friend’s reaction to all this. She’d be livid with her brother. Despite her warnings that he was marriage averse, Charlie might insist he save her from ruin.

  Dear Lord, Sophie hoped not. One thing was certain, the longer she stayed here with Lord Malverne, the greater the risk they’d be found together. She had to sneak out of bed. Now.

  Not daring to breathe, Sophie began to slide away from the viscount. But she’d barely moved an inch when his hand tightened about her shoulder. And then the unthinkable happened: he began to nuzzle her neck. “Sweetheart,” he groaned against her skin, making her traitorous body shiver in delight. “You taste like heaven. So fucking sweet. Like strawberries.”

  Oh, God. Did Lord Malverne really just say that?

  It was depraved. It was lewd.

  Yet it made her blood race faster and hotter. So hot . . .

  Before Sophie could summon the urge to push him away, Lord Malverne dragged his lips across her jaw, then swirled the tip of his tongue around her ear. A firestorm of wild desire flared to life inside her body, and without thinking, she moaned.

  But Lord Malverne didn’t seem to mind. In fact, the small sound seemed to spur him on. His hot, wet mouth slid down her neck until he encountered the edge of her night rail, and then she felt his fingers pulling at the ribbon tie securing the neckline. Cool air washed over her bared breasts.

  Stop him, Sophie Brightwell. Stop him right now.

  But she didn’t. Couldn’t. In all her twenty-one years, she’d never experienced anything like this. The sensation of his fingers kneading her bare flesh, gently rolling her tight nipple, was delightfully wicked. Intoxicating like the sweetest, strongest wine imaginable.

  She wanted to stroke Lord Malverne’s naked skin as well but she didn’t have the courage. Instead, she curled her fingers into the sheets and gripped them with all her might.

  Perhaps I’m asleep too, she thought in desperation as good sense continued its war with burning want. Perhaps this is all a sinful yet oh-so-pleasurable dream.

  But the press of Lord Malverne’s body against her side, the jut of something hard and decidedly male into the curve of her hip, the glide of his mouth, the rough scrape of his stubble across her collarbone and then lower, it all felt very, very real. And not at all unwelcome. Not one little bit.

  She had to touch him. Turning toward him, she slid one trembling hand over his lean hip, her fingertips brushing hard bone and hot sleek flesh. As the rigid shaft of his manhood jerked against her belly, Lord Malverne flicked his tongue over her distended nipple.

  Oh, dear Lord. Sophie gasped and her whole body bucked at the unexpected, entirely novel sensation.

  And her dream lover froze.

  Oh, no.

  “What the bloody hell?” Lord Malverne jerked away and Sophie scrambled from the bed in such a hurry, her hip collided with the bedside table. She yelped and something crashed to the floor. At the same time, Lord Malverne leapt out of the other side of the bed, dragging the counterpane with him

  “Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my bed?” he demanded in a voice rough with sleep and fury.

  Before Sophie could even draw breath to answer, the bedchamber door burst open, revealing Charlie in her night rail with a candle in hand.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed. Her topaz brown eyes were wide with shock as she took in the scene, her gaze darting from Sophie to her brother, then back to Sophie.

  Then she swiftly stepped into the room and closed the door.

  Her blazing gaze shifted to Nate again. “Nathaniel Hastings. You have a lot of explaining to do,” she hissed before she addressed Sophie in a softer tone. “Are you all right?”

  Her pulse racing, her mouth dry, Sophie moistened her lips. “It’s . . . it’s not what it looks like,” she whispered, even though it was.

  Charlie’s eyebrows snapped into a frown. “Then why is your nightgown undone?”

  Sophie gave a small squeal and yanked up the loosened bodice of her night rail. At the same time, Lord Malverne adjusted the blue silk counterpane so that it covered his lower half a little more adequately, although Sophie could still see the line of one lean hip bone and a fascinating trail of dark hair that arrowed downward from the viscount’s navel toward his—

  Don’t even think about that part of him, Sophie Brightwell.

  Charlie turned her ferocious gaze on her brother. “And why are you stark naked in my friend’s bedroom?”

  Lord Malverne scowled and raked a hand through his hair, a movement that only emphasized the bulging muscles in his upper arm and the impressive breadth of his wide chest. “What the deuce do you mean? This isn’t Miss Brightwell’s room. It’s my—” The viscount’s dark brown eyes swept over the chamber and then widened in dawning horror.

  “Oh, God,” he groaned before he took a few steps backward and collapsed into the bedside armchair. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, no?” snapped Charlie, advancing toward her brother, her eyes spitting fire. “It’s a good deal worse than ‘oh no.’ It’s appalling, Nathaniel. You’ve compromised my very best friend!”

  At that moment, a knock sounded at the door. “Lady Charlotte? Is that you? Are you all right?”

  Charlie deposited her candle on the mantelpiece, then rushed over to the door. “Yes, it is, Molly,” she said in a lighthearted voice as she gripped the door handle, possibly to prevent another intrusion. “And Miss Brightwell. We’re perfectly fine.”

  Charlie’s maid occupied a small chamber on the other side of her mistress’s room. “But I heard a cry. And raised voices . . .”

  Charlie squeezed her eyes shut as though praying for both patience and a miracle. “Miss Brightwell saw a mouse and took fright. But it scuttled away so all’s well now.”

  “Well, if you’re sure, my lady . . .”

  “I am. And thank you, Molly. Good night.”

  “Good night, my lady.”

  Sophie expelled a shaky sigh of relief at the near miss. The fewer people who knew about this, the better.

  Lord Malverne shook his head. “Dear God, what a mess.” His expression was completely guilt-ridden as his sorrowful brown eyes settled on Sophie. “Miss Brightwell. I am so very sorry. This bedchamber was once mine.”

  “Yes, five years ago.” Charlie’s voice was sharp with accusation as she added, “You’ve had too much to drink, haven’t you?”

  To his credit, Lord Malverne didn’t shy away from the truth. “Yes. I have. Much too much. I wasn’t thinking. This has all been a terrible mistake, Miss Brightwell. Entirely my fault. But I will do the honorable thing—”

  Charlie planted her fisted hands on her hips. “No, you bloody well won’t, Nathanial Hastings. You will not propose to my friend. She deserves better than someone like you for a husband, and you know it.”

  “Ouch, Charlie.” Lord Malverne winced. “But I won’t disagree with you there. Nevertheless, honor compels me to make an offer.” He turned his gaze—both solemn and pained in equal measure—toward Sophie. “Miss Brightwell—”

  “No. No, honor doesn’t compel you. You don’t need to do anything.” Sophie blurted out the words in a rush as panic flared. “I mean, nothing really happened. Honestly. My virtue might be a little smudged but I didn’t lose . . . I mean we didn’t . . .” A fiery blush stormed across her face as she struggled to articulate the fact that she was still a maid.
“If no one else knows about this, surely it can be just our little secret. We can pretend this never happened. And no harm done.”

  Lord Malverne gave her a considering look as he rubbed his stubble-clad jaw; perhaps he was recalling their original little secret. But Charlie shook her head. “While I agree we need to keep this between ourselves, I do not think we can forget about it. For one thing, Nate needs to make amends.”

  Sophie’s forehead knit into a suspicious frown. “But how? What are you proposing?”

  Lord Malverne quirked a brow in skepticism too. “Yes, what do you have in mind, dear sister?”

  Charlie crossed her arms, her expression deadly serious. “Nate, you are going to help Sophie find a husband. The man of her dreams. A love match. Or else I’ll tell Father what you’ve done, and then you will have to marry her. And I don’t think either of you wants that”—her gaze shifted between them—“do you?”

  “Good God, Charlie.” Lord Malverne wiped a hand down his face, but it didn’t conceal his pained grimace. “That’s a tall order.”

  Charlie’s fierce gaze was implacable. “Nevertheless, it’s one that you must fill.”

  Lord Malverne’s wide shoulders lifted with a heavy sigh. “Yes . . .”

  Charlie snorted. “Don’t look so glum, Nate. You will benefit from this arrangement too.”

  He cocked a sardonic brow. “Oh, please do enlighten me.”

  “There’s no need to be quite so sarcastic. You cannot deny that Father has not been happy with your behavior of late. And”—she gestured at his barely clad body—“this escapade is clearly a case in point.”

  Lord Malverne’s mouth twisted. “Go on.”

  “When he sees you chaperoning Sophie and me about town, escorting us to respectable ton events, he’ll believe you are at long last curbing your wild ways.” Tapping her chin, she gave her brother a considering look. “In fact, if he happens to hear you are courting a debutante as a gentleman should, so much the better. All you have to do is dance with Lady Penelope a few times at a few balls—or anyone at all, really—and he will be ecstatic.”

  “Very well,” Lord Malverne said with a deep sigh. “You’ve convinced me. I agree to the terms of the bargain.” All at once, his expression changed. Even in the weak light of Charlie’s candle, Sophie watched as the viscount’s face turned a sickly shade of pale green and deep lines bracketed his down-turned mouth.

  He lurched to his feet. “My apologies, ladies.” With the counterpane still slung around his waist, Lord Malverne bolted toward the door that led to the adjoining dressing room. And then the unmistakable sound of retching filled the room.

  “Oh, Nate.” Charlie shook her head, her disgust and exasperation clearly written upon her face. She closed the dressing room door on him, then gestured to Sophie. “Come, my dear. I think it’s best that we leave him to it. You can share my bed if you like.”

  As the sounds of violent vomiting continued, Sophie wasn’t about to disagree.

  She also tried not to dwell on the uncomfortable notion that perhaps just the thought of marrying her had indeed turned Lord Malverne’s stomach. However, now there was also no doubt in her mind that he had well and truly been foxed to the eyeballs when he climbed into bed with her. When he did all of those wicked things.

  Things I wanted him to do.

  Hoping her blush didn’t show in Charlie’s dimly lit room, Sophie climbed into the enormous tester bed and pulled the sheets and pale gold counterpane up to her chin.

  “He’s not a bad man, you know,” murmured Charlie, stroking her hair. “He’s just . . . He tries to soothe past hurts in ways that are not entirely healthy or wise. I’m sorry he frightened you.”

  If you only knew the truth. “He startled me. At first. And I believe you. I don’t know your brother all that well, but I sense he does have a good heart too.”

  As Charlie slid into sleep, Sophie stared at the dying fire, going over everything that had happened.

  Charlie was effectively blackmailing her brother. And Sophie wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It felt wrong somehow. And awkward.

  On the bright side, she would be spending an inordinate amount of time in Lord Malverne’s company. He would undoubtedly be able to open doors for her that had hitherto been shut. And considering he was acquainted with the who’s who of society, he would be able to scrutinize the bachelors she encountered. Offer insights into their characters, their suitability, their trustworthiness.

  And perhaps he could also quietly give her some advice on flirting. And as Charlie had said at Gunter’s, chasing rakes might even be fun. What did she have to lose?

  Perhaps her friend’s plan wasn’t so mad after all.

  The irony was, Sophie suspected that in her heart of hearts, the only man she really did want for a husband was Nathaniel Hastings. A man who didn’t want her, or any woman, for a wife.

  CHAPTER 8

  What are the latest debutante fashions guaranteed to turn his head this Season?

  A list of Mayfair’s top five modistes who will be sure to make you shine whatever the occasion . . .

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Essential Style and Etiquette Guide

  Conduit Street, Mayfair

  April 4, 1818

  Madame Boucher, modiste extraordinaire, clucked her tongue as her shrewd black eyes ran over Sophie’s attire. Sophie was sure the seamstress hadn’t missed the worn patches at the elbows of her red velvet spencer or that she’d attempted to hide the slightly frayed hem of her striped rose and ivory silk gown by adding a wide ruffle that didn’t quite match.

  “Mademoiselle Sophie,” she began in her heavy French accent, “you are such a lovely young woman, yet your apparel is . . .” She sighed heavily and gestured at Sophie’s gown. “Well, we shall fix this. You shall be the belle of every ball, as they say.”

  Lady Chelmsford—Charlie’s much-loved aunt Tabitha—gave a nod of approval that sent the black ostrich feather adorning her purple velvet turban bobbing. Ensconced on a gilt-legged settee, she looked for all the world like a queen holding court as she peered through her gold lorgnette at Sophie. “Excellent, Madame Boucher. Excellent,” she said in her deep, distinctly nasal voice. “We shall put everything on my account. Spare no expense.”

  Charlie, who sat beside her aunt, threw Sophie a bright smile, whereas all Sophie could do was gape like a ninny.

  “But, Lady Chelmsford,” she said when she managed to find her voice, “you cannot . . . I mean, I never expected. I’m grateful for your generosity, but what you are offering, it is far too much.”

  Lady Chelmsford gave a gentle huff of disagreement as she waved her lorgnette in the air. “My dear gel, I have so much money set aside in Drummonds, I sometimes don’t know what to do with it all. So if I want to spend it on a whole new wardrobe for my favorite niece’s best friend, I shall do so.”

  Sophie blushed. “Of course, my lady. I did not mean to offend.”

  The marchioness’s gaze softened. “And no offense has been taken, my dear Miss Brightwell. None at all. You gels need a little spoiling considering everything that you’ve all had to endure over the last few years.”

  “Yes,” agreed Charlie. The smile playing about her lips was nothing but sly as she continued, “And don’t forget, it won’t be long before the gentlemen of the ton will be paying you court. In my opinion, a new wardrobe is essential.”

  Madame Boucher clapped her hands, and several young women appeared as if from nowhere. The main room—or salon as Madame Boucher called it on their arrival—was essentially a display room for clients. Decked out in ornate, overstuffed chairs and other luxurious furnishings, which included a thick Aubusson carpet, plush blue velvet curtains, and a wall of gilt-edged mirrors, it could pass for a fine French boudoir.

  “Take Mademoiselle Sophie away to be measured,” she ordered. “And, Marie, bring Lady Che
lmsford and Lady Charlotte a tray of tea and petit fours, tout de suite.”

  Sophie was immediately ushered into a smaller but no less opulent room, stripped down to her shift, and after she’d been poked and prodded and measured, and spun around endless times by two of Madame Boucher’s assistants who spoke in French so rapidly, Sophie could barely understand it, she was permitted to don her stays again.

  As if by magic, Madame Boucher appeared. “Très bon, Mademoiselle Sophie. You have a beautiful figure.” She ran her cool hands over Sophie’s shoulders, down her arms, and then, after clasping her waist, turned her around again.

  If she was spun around anymore, Sophie thought she might be ill.

  When she’d completed her inspection, Madame Boucher declared, “Yvonne, fetch the shot silk ball gown in turquoise. And the one in azure satin avec the silver thread embroidery.” She clasped Sophie’s chin gently. “Mon petit chou, do not look so alarmed. This will be fun. I shall create the most spectacular ball gowns for you, all the young men of le bon ton will fall at your pretty feet. Just you wait and see.”

  Sophie exhaled slowly and tried to make herself relax. While she was excited at the thought of having a range of new clothes for the Season, she couldn’t help but feel a trifle guilty about how much money Lady Chelmsford was about to spend.

  And she also felt unaccountably nervous. She decided she disliked being the center of so much fuss and attention. How would she cope when she accompanied Lady Chelmsford, Lord Malverne, and Charlie out into society?

  At least she would look as though she belonged, even if everyone whispered nasty things about her behind her back.

  The young woman named Yvonne soon returned with the gowns Madame Boucher had requested, and Sophie gasped. They were exquisite. She’d never, ever seen such fine silk and satin, lace and ribbons, or such precise needlework.

  Yvonne and the other assistant helped her to don the turquoise silk gown, and when Sophie looked in the full-length oval looking glass, she gasped again.

  Was that really Sophie Brightwell staring back at her with bright eyes and flushed cheeks? The cut of the gown was perfect, accentuating her best features and minimizing her flaws. She looked slender as a willow, yet her small breasts swelled above the round neckline of the bodice, higher and plumper than she’d ever imagined possible. Earlier in the day, Charlie’s maid, Molly, had arranged her black hair into an elaborate style that consisted of a large twisted coil at her crown and a cascade of tight glossy ringlets around her face. If she stepped into Almack’s right now, she would not be out of place.