A Cinderella for the Viscount

by Liz Tyner

  “I’m sorry I did not get there sooner.”

  “You saved my life. Don’t apologize.”

  Rachael smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “The marriage would have been called off anyway, even if Tenney had not been so malevolent. I would never have been able to disrobe in front of him.”

  “A man worth his salt wouldn’t care about the marks.”

  Devlin didn’t care if the scars were hideous except for the part of them that hurt her.

  “Thank you for your kind words.”

  “Honest ones.”

  “Delivered with kindness.”

  She reached to the lapel of his coat. “I must thank you. You are a rake on the outside, but a knight on the inside.”

  “I would say there is a lot of night, but not the kind you are thinking of. Do not place too much store in me. If Tenney loved you, he’d just be thankful you are alive.”

  He was.

  The knowledge lodged in him with such strength his breath caught.

  This would not do. She was not a woman for a rake and he had learned his lesson.

  Author Note

  The idea for the missive Rachael receives in this book originated after I read a letter written by a man who died in the 1800s. He was writing to his intended. They never wed. I really couldn’t grasp the words at first, just as Rachael couldn’t in this story.

  I’m not certain about what happened to the woman who received the letter, but I’m convinced that the dissolution of the betrothal was the best thing that happened in her life. One source said she later married and had a large family.

  Writing this book was an opportunity for me to imagine her happily-ever-after.

  LIZ TYNER

  A Cinderella for

  the Viscount

  Liz Tyner lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her, visit liztyner.com.

  Books by Liz Tyner

  Harlequin Historical

  The Notorious Countess

  The Runaway Governess

  The Wallflower Duchess

  Redeeming the Roguish Rake

  Saying I Do to the Scoundrel

  To Win a Wallflower

  It’s Marriage or Ruin

  Compromised into Marriage

  A Cinderella for the Viscount

  English Rogues and Grecian Goddesses

  Safe in the Earl’s Arms

  A Captain and a Rogue

  Forbidden to the Duke

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Excerpt from A Marriage Made in Secret by Jenni Fletcher

  Chapter One

  The night was a success, in spite of his beloved aunt’s pianoforte song, which she’d composed just for the occasion. The supposedly short piece had been the opening music and had lasted just shy of one hour—or that was how long it had felt to Devlin.

  Now the guests gathered for the La Boulanger. His mother always ended her events with a dance easier for tired feet.

  Devlin stood at the edge of the room, knowing the wide circle of dancers would likely take up most of the area. He noticed Miss Albright standing at the other side. One woman he’d not partnered. She seemed content to stand behind everyone. Almost hiding near the curtains by the window.

  Their eyes met as he caught her stifling a yawn and her cheeks coloured. He acknowledged her with a nod to say he understood and took no offence, before he glanced around the room so she would not feel singled out.

  He should have spoken with her during the soirée, but he’d just not seen her earlier—which seemed impossible. Perhaps she’d arrived late. Or maybe she’d spent the evening wandering in the gardens.

  Now she touched her necklace, pulled it to the side, then returned it to the position where it had originally rested at the top of an extremely demure bodice. She stared off into the distance, absently rubbing a ring, a bauble that overwhelmed her finger. Not what he would have chosen for her. Not what she would have selected for herself, he wagered.

  He imagined she was thinking of a man now and whoever the man was—he wasn’t in attendance. Possibly the one who’d given her the jewel.

  Priscilla Tremaine twirled by Devlin, covering him in a cloud of perfume and interrupting his perusal of Miss Albright. Priscilla danced with her beau, Baron Bomford. The Baron took her hand as he stumbled, chuckled loudly and then almost tripped over his own boots. Priscilla laughed, her bosom quivering. Her partner paid more attention to Priscilla’s chest than he did his feet.

  Devlin put his glass on the table, his attention riveted on the couple as they finished their rotation around the room.

  The dance needed to end sooner rather than later. Priscilla and the Baron were likely to embarrass themselves. Bomford was hearing a different song from the one the musicians played.

  Then Bomford turned in the wrong direction and Priscilla reached out to correct him, shoving him into the steps. The Baron jumped a few feet to catch his balance, but stumbled, his arm splayed towards Miss Albright.

  Miss Albright caught his sleeve, trying to keep him upright, but he took another step, reached with his free arm and grabbed a side table, pulling a scarf which covered the tabletop.

  A lamp on the table wobbled, its flame flickering. Devlin couldn’t hear the music or comprehend anything else in the room but the flame inside the glass globe, the oil and the dislodged fabric under the base.

  Then the table stopped moving. Devlin’s shoulders relaxed. The lamp rested completely immobile. Safe. The oil inside burning softly.

  Everyone in the room watched Priscilla and her partner, including the musicians. The room echoed with silence.

  The Baron noticed everyone had ceased talking. ‘My apologishes.’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow, then took a reverse step, bumped into the table, reached out his arm and this time knocked the lamp askew. It rolled off the table and Miss Albright’s skirts fluttered as she stepped aside.

  Devlin saw all the flammable fabrics. The scarf from the table. The curtains. Miss Albright’s skirt. The lit wick. All too close to Miss Albright.

  He darted forward as the globe shattered, its glass collapsing into shards. The bowl of the lamp cracked, oil leaking into a puddle. Flames flickered at the wick, which would be easily extinguished with a stamp of his boot. Not yet igniting the oil.

  Then Bomford turned, grabbing a glass from Lord
Wilberton’s hand. ‘No,’ Devlin shouted, lunging as he spoke. But it was too late. The Baron flung the alcohol in the glass on to the flames, splashing wide of the curtain, across the oil and over the wick, and sending the now-burning oil on to Miss Albright.

  Devlin was already across the room when the liquid splattered across the flame and reached Miss Albright’s skirt, igniting the flicker into a flash.

  He knew what was about to happen before the flame began to take the light silk that covered her body. In two strides he had ripped the curtain from the rod, tackled Miss Albright and threw himself forward. He thrust the heavy fabric around Miss Albright to extinguish the fire. He wound the material tightly, forcing her into the wall, suffocating the flames, and slid her down to the floor. One of her arms splayed out. The other wrapped around his neck and her fingers grasped a handful of his hair. He pressed the curtain even closer, using his body as a shield, ignoring the other guests, only minimally aware of the people behind him.

  He found himself in an awkward position in a hushed room, one knee on the floor, his hands holding curtains firm around Miss Albright’s skirts as she kept one hand clasped on his hair and her other hand reaching out to steady herself against the wall. The smell of burnt silk hit his nostrils and the side of his face pressed into an amazingly soft bit of femininity with a heartbeat close to his ear. He took in a breath and let the scent of her skin replace the singed cloth.

  For an instant, he was frozen. He held too much in his arms, and emotion overtook him. He could feel life in his hands and the seconds before could have changed so much.

  ‘Did you put her out?’ His mother’s voice rang in his other ear. He preferred listening to the racing heart, but he pulled away, Miss Albright still clutching his hair. Their gazes locked, a second that lingered, then she released him.

  ‘The fire’s gone.’ He again tucked the curtain firmly around her, took her hand and put it on the fabric to hold it in place, then helped her stand. He made sure the burned spots displaying an appealing bit of beribboned chemise were covered.

  ‘Oh, my. My dear.’ His mother brushed past Devlin and took charge of the accident. ‘Are you hurt, Miss Albright?’

  Devlin’s eyes connected with Miss Albright’s still-dazed ones.

  ‘I’m fine. But I don’t know...’ she whispered, wincing. She touched the curtain, slim fingers trying to arrange the cloth into a skirt.

  No one seemed to know what to do next.

  His body took over again and he sidestepped around his mother and slipped an arm under Miss Albright’s knees and slid his other at her back. He watched her eyes, making sure the pain on her face didn’t increase, and lifted her with all the gentleness he could muster. She gasped and now her arm rested loosely around his shoulder. He heard a second gasp which might have been his mother’s, or her mother’s. ‘I’ll take her to the sofa in the library so you ladies can care for her and I’ll have the physician summoned.’

  His face rested against her tresses and the strands brushed his cheek. The smell of freshly laundered clothing overrode the scorched scent and she wore a soft flowery perfume.

  ‘Are you injured?’ He spoke no louder than a whisper as he wove through the stunned observers.

  ‘Yes. I think...not much.’ The now husky timbre of her voice reassured a pleasant spot in him.

  He put the guests behind him and shortened his stride as he reached the library. ‘If you have need of anything...’ his lips touched her hair ‘...be sure to let me know. It will be taken care of.’

  He tensed his body so he could lower her on to the sofa without jostling her more than necessary.

  Two ball gowns fluttered around him and he knew the mothers were on either side.

  ‘I’ll reassure the guests.’ He kept his eyes on the sofa while he straightened his cravat.

  Miss Albright looked at him as her mother stepped up to her and his mother pushed at his chest to nudge him further from the room. He felt a second determined prod.

  He left, his steps swift to return to the guests with a reassuring expression on his lips. But he could still feel her in his arms.

  * * *

  Devlin opened his eyes in the darkness and twisted his head on his pillow. He pressed at the support behind his head. Sleep was impossible.

  Before she’d retired, his mother had whispered, averting her eyes, that their guest had a few small burns on her...leg.

  So, they were to be having visitors for the next two days while his mother reassured herself that Miss Albright recovered nicely. It simply would not do for the girl to be jostled in a carriage.

  He slung the covers from his body. Stood. Pulled on the trousers he’d tossed over a chair and the shirt he’d worn earlier, ignoring the waistcoat.

  He needed a cigar and a splash of brandy. Or maybe more than a splash. He kept thinking about Miss Albright.

  The rug cushioned his bare feet and he glanced down the deserted, meandering hall, feeling alone in the house.

  Devlin navigated the hallways easily in the dark, running a fingertip along the wall for direction as he found the library.

  The door stood open and he saw the flickering light. His heartbeats increased as he imagined Miss Albright sitting inside. He needed to reassure himself she was fine.

  Disappointment plunged into him when he stepped into the room. Instead of Miss Albright, his cousin, Payton, sat on the sofa, reading a book, brandy in one hand and a swirl of smoke at his head.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’ Devlin asked.

  Payton stifled a cough and quickly pulled himself into a dignified pose. He placed the book on the table at his side, as if he didn’t know who the novel belonged to.

  ‘Bit of a cramp in my leg. Had to get comfortable.’ He put his hand over the title of the story. ‘Best toddle off to bed now. Thank you for inviting me to spend the night. B’lieve I shall.’ He stood, stretched wide and grunted a manly groan.

  Devlin reached for the cigar box, helping himself. ‘You can’t leave behind half a glass and half a cigar. Finish your reading and I’ll try to amuse myself by annoying you. Mother will be so impressed you’re reading the same stories she does.’

  Payton examined the cover. ‘I picked it up by mistake, thinking it was another of your father’s books of pirate stories. Bloodthirsty men.’ He mimicked a seafaring growl. ‘Yes. Pirates. I’m sure I’ll find one in it somewhere. Need to make certain I’ve not missed one.’

  His cousin plopped down, took the book again and glanced over the top of it while he reached for the glass. ‘Please stay. In case I catch on fire. But if I do happen to get myself aglow—do not graciously—’ he stared at the ceiling ‘—lift me gallantly into your arms to rescue me.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Payton sniffed. ‘I say, if Baron Bomford had managed to get a bit of a burn, you’d have let him walk to the physician.’

  ‘Yes, but she has a much better shape than he does.’

  ‘So does a sow.’ Payton frowned. ‘Everyone talked about her after you whisked her from the gathering. She has a beloved, so don’t get any ideas that her gratitude would stretch far. If it weren’t for her father being in trade, she’s the type of woman that a mother wishes for her son to settle with.’ His exaggerated half-cough, half-choke filled the room. ‘I’ll wager she has her embroidery needles named.’

  Devlin lit a cigar, using the candle. ‘You’ve got your decanters named.’

  Payton gave a brief shrug. ‘Makes it easier for the servants.’

  ‘So, what does her father do?’

  ‘Sells silver wares, mainly. Shiny trinkets, too. Jewellery. But Father says if you’ve seen one of the shops, you’ve seen them all.’

  Devlin nodded. His mother had mentioned the family a few days before, but he’d not paid close attention. ‘Thankfully Miss Albright seems relatively unscathed from the soirée.’

&nbs
p; ‘Everyone counted the evening as a success. The ladies swooned.’ His cousin’s lip curled up at the side, his hand rose in a wave and his voice became high pitched. ‘Did you see what big strong arms Devlin has? He can set my skirts on fire any time he wants.’ He returned to the pages of the book again, shaking his head. ‘Was blasted embarrassing to listen to all the babbling about you. Those ladies spoke improperly. I was shocked.’

  ‘Jealous?’ Devlin sat, then, with his foot, he hooked the upholstered footrest and moved it into place so he could prop his feet on the woven fabric.

  Payton spoke under his breath. ‘No. I’ve my hands full enough now.’ Again, he stared over the top of the novel at Devlin. ‘I don’t have to let someone else start the flames for me. Once they get sight of me, they melt.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘I suppose you have been keeping her a secret because you know that she’d never notice you if I am in the room.’

  ‘I’d never met her before the soirée. Mrs Albright happened to be at Hatchard’s a fortnight before and Mother remembered her from a childhood friendship and invited the family. They’re related to someone in the peerage whom Mother knows well. I can’t remember who.’

  Devlin grimaced. ‘I hope Miss Albright doesn’t now regret that fate put her mother on the same path as mine.’ Then he reflected. ‘Miss Albright must use some special pomade on her hair or something. She smelled rather like a jonquil.’

  ‘Jonquils don’t smell. Do they?’

  ‘They do. The red ones.’

  ‘Jonquils aren’t red.’

  ‘The pink ones, then. You know—’ he waved his hand ‘—the ones with the little petals.’

  ‘Primroses.’

  ‘I don’t know. A thistle bloom or something. Nice. Flowery.’

  ‘You’re thinking with your thistle.’ Payton stared at the print. ‘So, will you be going with us tomorrow, or will you be staying here, alone, hoping for a miss to mistake you for your handsome younger cousin?’

  Devlin paused. ‘I don’t have a handsome younger cousin.’

  ‘Sad. To be losing your sight at twenty-eight.’ Payton paused. ‘So, are you going with us to Cosgrove’s hunting box? We’ll all be stalking our prey—at the card table.’