A Marriage Deal with the Viscount--A Victorian Marriage of Convenience Story

by Bronwyn Scott

  He directed his eyes back to the pamphlet with a firm scold. This had to stop. He could not continue obsessing about her. It was bound to be bad for business between them if he allowed her to affect his objectivity. He was becoming as bad as Hargreaves, sniffing out gossip. What did the state of her marriage matter to him? As they’d both affirmed, this was about business only. And yet his eyes kept slipping over the edge of his pamphlet to take in her face: the curve of her jaw and the pert snub of her nose, the tiny dimple on her left cheek.

  His mind slid to wonder all nature of things, not the least of which included the errant thought that if he had such a wife, he would not let her get away. If she were his, he would find a way to tame her—No, that wasn’t the word for it. She would not want to be tamed. She would want to be accommodated. He tried his thought out again. If he had such a wife, he would find a way to accommodate her. The word wasn’t perfect, merely better. Accommodation would be a place to start.

  A sixth sense told him she would want to be more than an accommodation. She’d want to be a partner; she’d want to be a man’s equal. Most marriages weren’t built for that. Hell, the legal system wasn’t even built for that. His parents’ marriage had been, though. Once, it had given him hope that it was possible to have more than the empty beauty of an Olivia de Pugh. Maybe it still was. Maybe somewhere there was a woman who aspired to be more than an ornament on a husband’s arm, who would want to build something with him from nothing. He just had to find her. Next year perhaps, or the year after that, once things were settled with the alpaca.

  The train made its first stop in Didcot an hour out from London, an hour closer to home. Even under the circumstances, the thought of home brought a smile to Conall’s face. He’d sent a message earlier in the week to tell his family to make ready. Right now, they’d be rushing around to put all the final pieces in order, to stage the greatest play of their lives; laying out the fine china he’d managed to wheedle out of a distant cousin since he’d sold the family china months ago, moving the good furniture into the public rooms and library where the Marchesa would see it, making up her bed in the Dower House with the last of the pristine Irish linen they kept carefully locked away in a cedar-lined trunk, laying in food worthy of a house party so their guest would never guess just how much he needed the money.

  Desperation did not breed confidence in an investor. However, part of him felt guilty over the deception, especially when it was being perpetrated on a woman whose home had been all but destroyed. Still, his more practical side argued, business was business. He’d offered last night to delay the trip and she’d insisted they keep the appointment. He had to be satisfied with that effort and, if the appointment was going forward, then he had to move forward with his plans, too. Time waited for no man.

  Conall rose and took the opportunity to excuse himself to the club car. He would have better luck reading and shaking this newfound obsession of his if he was surrounded by the manly presence of brandy and cigars. He wasn’t even sure La Marchesa heard him leave, so absorbed was she in her novel, making it clear she wasn’t plagued in the least by errant thoughts regarding her travelling companion.

  Her polite coolness was something of a novelty in itself. Conall usually had little trouble holding a woman’s attention—an innate talent that had both its assets and disadvantages. After all, he didn’t want or need every woman’s attention. But he found he wanted hers—a disturbing thought all its own. What would he do with that attention if he had it? Perhaps it was just the challenge of achieving it that had him provoked. It had been a long time since he’d been motivated in that regard and he was a man who didn’t take defeat lying down, although, he mused with a smile, sometimes he took victory that way.

  * * *

  His departure was a hollow victory. There was little to be proud of in it. She’d driven him from the compartment quite deliberately by being difficult. But it had worked. He’d asked his questions, as she’d known he would. What man with money on the line wouldn’t have? And she’d evaded him by going on the offensive, by turning each of his statements into an argument. Politeness would not have achieved her ends. If she’d given him an inch, he would have taken the proverbial mile.

  Sofia set aside her novel and stared out the window, watching villages slide by in a series of hills and valleys. She did not need to pretend she was reading now that he was gone. He had not shunned her. Quite the opposite—he wanted to know her. He’d been generous in that regard, too generous. Or perhaps it was just a ploy to win her approval.

  She could not afford to oblige him. Objectivity was crucial for making good business decisions. If that were to be compromised by liking him, the quality of her judgement would be compromised as well and that served neither of them.

  It wasn’t his good looks that threatened her objectivity. She was far too jaded to be persuaded by a handsome face. It was him: his genuine manner that made a woman feel comfortable in his company as if they were old acquaintances, the concern in those grey eyes. He had been worried for her at the wedding. He’d been willing to protect her with his social countenance, just as last night he’d been ready to defend her with his physical countenance. She would not easily forget the speed with which he’d drawn a weapon, searching her destroyed home for signs of a lingering intruder. Nor would she forget his tenderness as he’d lit a fire and warmed the pan of brandy. She’d been surprised by his efficiency. Since when did viscounts know how to perform domestic chores?

  He was attracted to her. She was used to recognising the signs and he had been from the moment he’d walked into the Cowden drawing room. It was there in the flare of his grey eyes, the way his gaze lingered on her face. And yet, she would wager all she had that at the end of the day, he was a gentleman far out of Wenderly’s league. Wenderly’s eyes had lingered on her and he’d immediately thought such beauty could be owned for a price. There was no respect in Wenderly’s wandering gaze. She was an object to him. She knew that sort of man well. They populated her husband’s circle.

  How much will you take for one night with her? She must be incomparable nude. I will draw her for you.

  There’d been no such crassness in Taunton’s gaze. It had lingered, appreciated, but it had not coveted, had not assessed her, had not sought to acquire her. Yet his gaze, the one he tried to hide behind his pamphlet, said the man in him contemplated the wanting of her. The gentleman in him had found the thought unseemly and so he’d removed himself.

  It was for the best. Taunton was a good man. But for all the respect he accorded her, she was not a good woman. She was an outcast by English standards, a woman of no virtue, of no standing. She had neither a husband nor children. She was the very worst of fallen women: a divorcee, a woman who had failed in the two tasks society assigned to her.

  The train chugged on towards its destination, making stops in Bath and Bristol as the morning fell behind her. The door to the compartment slid open as the conductor called out the arrival in Taunton. Conall Everard had returned, his presence dominating the compartment. He reached above her to take down the valises from the corded nets meant for luggage. He smelled faintly of tobacco and brandy as he stretched overhead.

  ‘I owe you an apology for this morning,’ he offered solemnly after the bags had been brought down. ‘I put my nose where it ought not to have been and I made you uncomfortable with my questions and my insinuations.’

  ‘I am not easily intimidated.’ Sofia rose and shook out her skirts. She was more discomfited by the apology, in truth, than she had been by their argument. When was the last time a man had begged forgiveness from her?

  ‘Whether you are or not does not excuse my behaviour. Perhaps we might start again?’ He smiled then, his eyes crinkling at the corners into their well-worn tracks. The train chose that moment to set on the brakes. Sofia lost her balance in the disruption. She fell forward, straight into Taunton’s quick arms and steady grasp, her face crushed again
st his chest.

  ‘Ow!’ She rubbed at her nose. Sweet heavens, the man was made of steel beneath his coats.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He steered her to her seat and sat her down before tipping her head up as he peered at her nose. ‘No blood, you’ve not broken it,’ he cajoled. ‘But perhaps I should send for a cold compress?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine in a moment. Besides, we’ve arrived. I don’t want to hold you up.’ She laughed, feeling faintly ridiculous over this handsome man staring up her nostrils. ‘Welcome home.’

  Taunton smiled, an unaccustomed warmth taking up residence in her stomach. ‘I will take that to mean “apology accepted”.’ He ushered her through the narrow corridor of the carriage, signalling for a porter to follow with their valises. At the door, he handed her down into spring sunlight nearly as bright as his smile. ‘Welcome to Taunton, Marchesa.’

  ‘Northcott,’ she corrected suddenly before she could think better of it. ‘My name is Sofia Northcott.’ She had not used that name for years. It was the name of her youth, before marriage, before she’d become the Marchesa. It was her name.

  The Viscount smiled. ‘Very well, then, welcome to Taunton, Sofia Northcott.’ He made a wide gesture with his hand towards a long-bed wagon where men were loading their trunks. ‘Come this way. Your carriage, such as it is, awaits.’

  And maybe more, Sofia thought. She shielded her eyes and took it in, her breath catching. The medieval tower of a church loomed at the far end of a neat kept street full of half-timbered Tudor shops. It might have been any of the myriad towns and villages that dotted England, but this one tugged at her heart. This one was where she’d make her fortune. Maybe this would be a place where she could reclaim the rest of her freedom.

  Chapter Seven

  The drive to Everard Hall was animated and pleasant. Conversation flowed easily around points of interest. Gone were the sharp tones that had edged their morning. Sofia had questions about everything she saw and Taunton had answers. This was the home of his boyhood and he was proud as he pointed out highlights. The town sported a hospital, he boasted proudly. He pointed out the medieval church she’d spied from the station as well as many other smaller, newer churches. There were schools, too, she was delighted to see, although not a school for girls. Not yet. But that was putting more than one horse before the cart. Before she could do anything, she had to gather her resources and decide if anywhere in England was safe for her now that Giancarlo was threatening. The mere presence of his threat put her grand dream on hold. She couldn’t very well go building schools and safe factory towns if she had to look over her shoulder every day to make sure the past wasn’t catching up to her.

  Once they were out in the countryside, Taunton’s animation grew. ‘We’ve had mills since the thirteenth century, thanks to the Tone,’ he told her, nodding towards the sparkling ribbon of river. ‘It’s good for fishing, too. I’ll take you one day.’ His pride was infectious and Sofia found herself enjoying every word of his recitation. ‘By the fifteenth century, we were exporting our wool all the way to France. But I am thinking alpaca wool can go further than France,’ he added. ‘There are markets to tap in Italy and Flanders, all the great weaving capitals of the Continent. Alpaca wool can create a luxury item sheep’s wool cannot aspire to. It can also create jobs, which we need a great many of these days in Taunton. Not everyone can be a farmer any more, not profitably anyway. The old life is fading. We are all affected by it.’

  Sofia was already thinking of ways to expand on his marketing plan. It was easy to get caught up in his excitement. It was too bad the Prometheus Club had not asked him to present. They’d have been stuffing cheques into his pockets before he’d even made it out the door. Then again, that was precisely why the club only reviewed offers in writing. She’d do best to remember that. Emotional attachment didn’t guarantee profits. Logic guaranteed profits. But there was logic here, too. She was impressed. The infrastructure was in place. There was a river and there were mills, and a convenient means of transport by rail to Bristol and from Bristol there were ships to anywhere in the world. Wool was also a proven market. Taunton and the Somerset region had thrived on the wool trade for centuries.

  The Viscount turned off the main road on to a narrower one. ‘We’re almost there. In a mile or so, the house will come into view.’ She heard the wistfulness in his tone. He was eager to be home. Pleased, in fact. She envied him that sense of place. After last night, she was literally rootless with nowhere to go, the security of the last three years destroyed. Another person would run home, but she didn’t have that option. Running home would be tantamount to running back to Giancarlo. Her family had knowingly sold her into a marriage she hadn’t understood. But Conall had it all—a home, a family.

  A thought occurred to her, underlain by a frisson of panic. ‘Is your family at home?’ Surely, he didn’t mean to take her home to decent folk, not after last night.

  Taunton nodded. ‘They are. My mother, my sister, Cecilia, and my younger brother, Alfred. We call him Freddie. You will be well-chaperoned.’

  Sofia looked at her hands, the old shame she’d fought so long to repress starting to surface. No one had concerned themselves with her reputation for a long time. Mostly because no one believed she had a reputation left to guard. Sofia gathered her courage. ‘It wasn’t my reputation I was worried about.’ She paused, hoping the implications of her words would make the problem clear. When he said nothing, she tried again. ‘I am not sure your mother and sister will find me appropriate company, or that you should find me appropriate company for them.’

  She met his gaze and he slowed the horses. ‘Why is that, Sofia Northcott? They don’t go about in society often. You needn’t fear they’ll have heard of Wenderly’s proposition. They know only that you’re a friend of Lady Brixton’s.’

  ‘I meant the divorce.’ He was making her spell it out.

  He smiled. ‘I thought divorce did not define you?’ He clucked to the horses. ‘You may put your concerns at ease. I have you lodged at the Dower House, although I think that will be horribly inconvenient between walking up to take your meals with us and going over my research.’

  She cut him off with a smile. ‘The Dower House would be lovely, although I don’t need a whole place to myself. An apartment over a carriage house would suffice.’ She wanted him to know she would not abuse his hospitality. The less time she was on the estate, the less damage she could do the family.

  The Viscount scoffed at the idea of the carriage house. ‘I am hardly putting you up in the carriage house apartment. Who knows how long you’ll stay? You may fall in love with Somerset and never want to leave.’ He gave her a grey-eyed wink.

  Sofia laughed, but she knew she would have to leave, no matter what the proposition she put to Taunton. With luck, she could come back time and again to check on the mill, but for the most part she’d have to direct business at a distance. At some point, no matter how appreciative of her money, Taunton would recognise his reputation couldn’t afford her. He would be glad for her alias.

  They came around a bend in the road and the house came into view, so quintessentially English with its Georgian façade and square portico, wings on each side flanked by towers from a bygone age. It was a delightful hotchpotch of architectural styles and history that made her gasp and then it nearly made her weep. How would she explain that a house had almost moved her to tears or that in the three years she’d been in England, she had not left Chelsea except for a few shopping expeditions behind a veil and a rare tea or two with Helena? She had no reason to move beyond the confines of Chelsea. Her business was handled through a solicitor who thought he worked for Barnham and by correspondence. There was no family to receive her and certainly no one in London who was interested in entertaining her. She was invited nowhere. And now, she didn’t even have Chelsea.

  ‘It’s exquisite,’ she managed to say as they drove beneath t
he wide, square portico. ‘Charming, really.’

  Taunton laughed and came to help her down, his hands firm at her waist, a reminder of his easy confidence. ‘It’s a lovely old pile. Charm leaks in the winter, but it’s home.’ More importantly, it was his home and, despite his protests, she could see he was proud of every inch of it.

  Up close, however, she could see the flaws he alluded to. The bricks were chinked in places and the heavy wood door at the entrance was faded and scarred with age. But the imperfections merely added to the character. Inside was much the same. Unlike the pristine marble-floored hall at Cowden House with its crystal chandeliers and polished banisters, this home was lived-in. Thick oak banisters marched up the square staircase with its comfortably worn runner. To be sure, Everard Hall was not without elegance. An intricate lattice-worked wainscoting lined the hall walls and a crystal-cut vase filled with long-stemmed gladioli in pinks and whites decorated the console. But Everard Hall knew what it meant to be lived-in.

  ‘Shall we go through? My mother will be out in the gardens.’ There was no avoiding it. She’d rather go to the Dower House and hide away with the research, but the Viscount had a light hand at her back, ushering her through the halls and talking affably about the home and his family. Taunton treated her as if she was an honoured guest instead of a business acquaintance, or worse. Outside, his family took their cues from him. His mother and sister greeted her with the same warmness, and she found herself relaxing in their company, able to lay aside at least one worry.

  * * *

  There had been no censorious looks, no coldness or polite reserve. Tea had been a lovely affair in wicker chairs set amid the rose garden, his mother and sister charming, feminine versions of the Viscount with their dark hair and grey eyes. Taunton had taken her on a tour of the extensive gardens, which he argued were the estate’s best features. She met Freddie at dinner and was coaxed into playing backgammon with him afterwards, beating Freddie soundly, which earned him a great deal of teasing from his siblings. It wasn’t until she’d looked around at the smiling faces that she’d realised how much she’d enjoyed the evening and it made her wary. She hadn’t enjoyed much of anything for a very long time. Not even her freedom. She spent an inordinate amount of time hiding away, constructing façades and lies to hide behind in order to protect that freedom. When she did go out, she was constantly on alert. That had not been the case tonight. Tonight she’d been part of a group.