Forever Yours Box Set 3

by Stacy Reid

  The connecting door to the larger drawing-room opened, and a lady, if Marianne could call her that, framed the doorway, draped in a sheer peignoir. A mass of brown hair with streaks of red tumbled to the lady’s back in loose waves, her eyes had a limpid cast, and to Marianne’s utter shock, she could see the lady’s breasts through the sheer material. Even on the floor behind the lady, there were scattered unmentionables on the ground, and her gown, gloves, and hat were also discarded on the chaise longue. She shifted her gaze to the viscount. Good heavens, she had interrupted a tryst!

  “Darling,” the unknown lady drawled provocatively, tousling her hair. “How much longer must I wait?”

  Marianne glared at her. How unspeakably outrageous!

  Chapter 4

  Miss Ashbrook jerked as if she had been slapped, and as she stared at the viscountess’s lack of clothing, her eyes grew wider and wider.

  At least the pain had lessened, though he doubted her ill-concealed shock and outrage were better. It was the pain which halted his tongue earlier, and a fierce regret burned through him that a young girl was ruined. Michael himself had never bedded an innocent, and the lovers he’d taken over the years were worldly women with passionate appetites. If Thomas had made it known that the girl he wanted to marry was with child, perhaps the outcome might very well be different. Now it was too damn late to do anything.

  “Have you no sense of shame or propriety?” Miss Ashbrook demanded, glaring at the viscountess. “There is a child here, yet you flaunt yourself in such an unacceptable manner!”

  Michael’s admiration for Miss Ashbrook’s mettle soared, and he didn’t think it wise to point out a four-month old child would not have any recollection of this farce.

  Laura, really Lady Meade, narrowed her eyes. “Such presumption, daring to speak to me in such a manner! Do you know who I am—”

  “I do not give a fiddlestick who you are, and I will dare anything when it comes to my niece!”

  “Laura,” Michael said firmly, casting her a glance full of censure. “I will see you at the club later tonight. I apologize for not seeing you out.”

  Her cheeks mottled, and she nodded once before swirling away and slamming the door.

  Miss Ashbrooke swiveled her gaze to him. “You take your wicked behavior to your home as well, your lordship?”

  How scathingly and judgmental she sounded.

  “Whatever I do in my home, Miss Ashbrook isn’t your business.”

  She recoiled from his brusqueness. Then she frowned, looking worried. “Lizzie will need a nurturing and respectable home, your lordship, and from what I can see this is not it!”

  “I am not an ogre,” he said, his countenance admirably composed.

  “You are a libertine! It is the middle of the day, …and you were cavorting!”

  He decided to ignore this. “You may rest assured the child will be taken care of as is her due.”

  She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, clearly a nervous gesture. “Might…might I see her sometimes?” she asked, turning away her flushed countenance, and biting her lip.

  That he had not expected. And it was as he peered closer at Miss Ashbrook, he detected a storm of emotions brewing in her eyes. She appeared tightly drawn as if any moment now, she would shatter.

  “How do you propose to see her?”

  Her throat worked on a swallow. “I’ve recently accepted a post as a governess to Lord Sanderson. I shall be in town for the foreseeable future. Perhaps on my off day…I…could take her to the park? Or sit with her and read?”

  Her voice cracked on that last bit, but she held herself rigid, and Michael sensed she would soon be at the end of her rope.

  “I have no objections,” he said softly.

  The sheen in her gaze shined brighter. “Very well, your lordship. There is a valise with all her clothing inside, and a letter of instructions for her wet nurse. If that is all, I shall see myself out until next time.”

  It was impossible to read her countenance. She walked over to the child, bent over her, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Then Miss Ashbrook straightened, and without looking at him, hurried from the room as if the devil chased her.

  The need to go after her blasted through Michael. He could not explain it, but something about her fragility in the moment before she fled compelled him to follow her. He went after her, hoping to catch her before a carriage took her away. What he would say, Michael had no notion.

  He was unquestionably out of his senses.

  * * *

  Her heart felt as it was being ripped from her chest. Marianne rushed down the few steps which had led to the viscount’s elegant townhouse and took deep, cleansing breaths. It did nothing to calm the tangle of emotions which knotted her chest—pain that her family might never see Lizzie again, anger at Papa for refusing to think of another plan that did not involve giving her away, fear that the viscount’s wicked and licentious lifestyle might not be the best option for her niece. Could a man of his dissolute lifestyle even properly care for a child?

  Marianne turned left and walked with quick steps along the cobbled walkway, grateful to see the area empty. After taking a few steps, it hit her that she was leaving Lizzie behind. A flash of wild grief gripped her.

  It was Marianne who had cared for her these past several weeks for Lucy had sunk into a deep slump of melancholy and wept daily. It was Marianne who had bathed Lizzie, sang to her, took long walks with her in the woods, and it was Marianne who had convinced Papa Lizzie was too young to travel and to grant her a few more weeks at home.

  And now, she was walking away from her. A harsh, ugly sob broke from her throat, and she faltered, unable to take another step. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and her shoulders shook as pain clawed from her stomach and escaped from her throat in a ragged gasp.

  “Miss Ashbrook,” a voice said from behind her.

  She whirled around to see the viscount had followed her. “Your lordship!” Marianne tried to wipe away the evidence of her breakdown, to no avail.

  The viscount stared at her, his eyes darkly contemplative. “Is everything quite well, Miss Ashbrook?”

  To her frustration and humiliation, more tears spilled. Her stomach cramped; her eyes began to burn. “Lizzie…Lizzie…whenever she cries, if you would ask her nurse to sing to her, it will calm her,” she gasped. “And she must sleep each night wrapped in her yellow blanket. It comforts her. And you mustn’t be wild and wicked with her under your roof. You…you will have to adjust now that she is in your life. She will need a competent governess when she is much older, of course. One who will not demean her because of the circumstance of her birth.”

  The very idea of Lizzie suffering in such a manner made Marianne cry harder. “Her governess must be able to give instruction in the pianoforte, watercolor painting, arithmetic, needlework, and foreign languages. She should be loved and treated as if the circumstances of her birth were honorable. Lizzie should not suffer for the mistakes of her parents, but I fear the cruelty of society will not allow it to be so.”

  To her complete shock, the viscount took her hand and placed it atop his arm. “Walk back with me.” Then he took her valise in his other hand.

  Marianne did not understand why she followed him, only knowing she was too dispossessed of rational sense to arrive in such a state at Lord Sanderson’s home for their meeting in an hour. It was only a few steps back to the viscount’s house, and with discreet efficiency, he led her back to the drawing-room, past the butler and a few maids who gaped in an overly curious manner.

  A handkerchief materialized, and she took it, wiped her cheeks. “I am so very mortified. I assure you, I am not normally a watering pot. I am quite sensible with my emotions, Papa has always said so,” she said in a choked whisper.

  “Don’t be.” There was a significant pause, and he said, “Did you attend a finishing school, Miss Ashbrook.”

  Marianne clutched the handkerchief in a tight grip and stared at the viscount. “I beg you
r pardon?”

  He patiently repeated his question, and she stared at him as confusion twisted through her. “I have been most carefully educated by my mother, my father, who is the reverend of our parish, and my former governess Miss Robinson.”

  “And what were you so carefully instructed in?” he asked with an arched brow.

  “I…how is this of any relevance?”

  “Please, Miss Ashbrook, indulge me,” he drawled with a slightly crooked smile.

  She glanced away briefly, terribly uncomfortable at always noticing how handsome he was. “I was instructed in household management, pianoforte, Greek, Latin, French, and some Italian. Arithmetic, geography, and literature, of course.”

  “I would like to hire you to help me take care of Lizzie, as her governess. I should think you more than qualified for the post. You speak very well, you appear educated, and you are related to her. Miss Ashbrook, you will never be indifferent to her care and upbringing, that I am certain of though we have just met.”

  “That is absurd!”

  “Why?”

  “She does not need a governess until she is at least four years of age. Until then a wet nurse for feeding, and—”

  “And you. I have no knowledge of children, much less a baby. You forget I am the wicked, unprincipled rake who owns a gambling club of ill repute. What do I have to offer her other than my wealth? I daresay if any child needs a governess at such a tender age it is Lizzie. One who will protect her from any foolish mistakes I might make…say bringing home a lover in the middle of the day.”

  She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  Unexpected deviltry danced in his eyes. “Surely not with you as her governess. I shall compensate you well, of course. Two hundred pounds for the year, with two off days for the week. And whenever you need to leave for a respite, you only need to inform me.”

  His generous offer was twice what Lord Sanderson had made. Marianne gaped at the viscount as if he had grown horns and a tail. Why would he do such a kindness? “What will people say?” she whispered. “I…you are unmarried and—”

  “So is Lord Sanderson,” he interposed smoothly, stepping scandalously close to her. “and you had been about to start working for the man. Society would not dare to speculate on the relationship between any lord and his employee.”

  Marianne, emotionally wrecked by everything—her father’s anger, Lucy’s pain, her mother’s melancholy, the horrid journey, and the agony of leaving Lizzie made only a token of resistance before subsiding on to the viscount’s shoulder and indulging in a burst of tears.

  She was horrified at her lack of control but could not bring herself to stop crying. It took a few moments to realize that she was clasped in a comforting embrace with the man who had ruined her sister. Marianne jerked away from him, pressing a hand over her mouth. Never had she allowed another man so close to her person. When and how the viscount had sneaked past her defenses, she did not know.

  As she stared at him, a searing flash of awareness burned through her. He lowered his lashes briefly, a faint flush seeped across his cheekbones, but she had seen it, a dark burn of hunger, one she had to interpret as desire for it had been so profound.

  The viscount wanted her…the way a man wanted a woman. Marianne had never been the recipient of such a stare before…except for that night months’ ago outside his club when he’d wanted to kiss her. Way down in her stomach, she felt an unknown ache. Shock scattered her thoughts, and a soft breath shuddered from between her lips. She had allowed him to comfort her, to be held against his body in an intimate embrace. How easy it had been for the charming scoundrel to slip under her careful guard. It only took a moment to lose everything—one’s virginity, honor, and the trust and respect of her family. Lucy had fallen, Marianne would be an utter fool to allow the same fate to befall her, and by the same man!

  The rejection of his offer hovered on her tongue, only waiting to be voiced. Lizzie chose that moment to release a thin wail, and Marianne walked over to her and gently took her from the well-padded basket. She was wet and more than likely hungry. As she stared at her niece, a rush of love blossomed through Marianne. She closed her eyes, pained at the very idea of leaving sweet Lizzie.

  How can I not be here for you in any way that I can? No answer came, and Marianne stared at the viscount. “I accept,” she murmured.

  Something primal and entirely unsettling flashed in that dark-silver gaze of his, leaving her to wonder if she had just made the most perilous mistake a young lady of virtue could ever make—living unchaperoned under the roof of a man the newssheets called Viscount Wicked.

  Chapter 5

  Michael peered down at the laughing crowd, aloof from the general excitement which pulsed in the air. He scanned the faro and whist tables, the hazard, and the roulette wheel. It was a busy night, and every table on the floor was filled with ladies and gentlemen hoping to take home winnings from one of the tables or from the fights. Some climbed the staircase to the second floor and strolled with excitement in their steps toward the fighting club. There they placed even greater wagers on men who participated in the brutal sport of bare-knuckle brawling. He also had private rooms, where those with similar political affiliations could meet and have their vigorous discussion over cigar and brandy.

  Dozens of tables were sprawled in an organized fashion, and at each table either cards were sliced and shuffled with artistic expertise, or dice danced between the roulette wheels to the spectators, who were holding their breath. A cheer went up from a table, and a man he recognized as Mr. Percy Stanton appeared dazed. Michael glanced at one of his men placed in the club at strategic points to ensure order at all times, and that there was no cheating, or harassment of the ladies who served champagne, whisky, or brandy on golden salvers.

  One of his most ruthless enforcers—Dorian Martin—made a discreet signal with his hand. It seemed Mr. Stanton had won a fortune, at least one over five thousand pounds. No wonder the man appeared as if he did not know what to do with himself. It was unlikely he would ever see such a sum gained from his profession in his lifetime.

  Michael had opened only recently his establishment to ladies and gentlemen of the genteel middle class. While some had frowned at this unprecedented move, his gambling den was still considered one of the golden halls, and in the caliber of Brooks, White’s, and The Cocoa Tree, but because of the fighting den and the ballrooms, it had also garnered a reputation of wicked profligacy like many clubs in Soho Square.

  Michael lifted his head slightly, and Dorian moved through the tables with stealthy elegance for such a large man. He approached Mr. Stanton and pointed him to stare up at Michael.

  The man understood he was being summoned. Mr. Stanton appeared nervous as he climbed the winding grand staircase as fast as he could. When he reached Michael, he bowed.

  He straightened and tugged at his cravat. “Lord Worsley, you wanted to speak with me?”

  “I do. It is time for you to go home.”

  The man blanched. “Is it something I said or—”

  “You did nothing wrong, Mr. Stanton, but as I understand it, you just won a small fortune. I’ve seen many men win a sizeable sum, and before they leave and invest it wisely, they continue gambling and lose it all. Drink a celebratory drink and go to the office on the second floor for a draft of your winnings. Go home. Pay your bills. Buy your wife something pretty. Put aside at least a quarter to your wife’s portion or your child’s inheritance. Then you can come back with the rest of it, if you wish, and try your luck again.”

  The man stared at him in astonishment. “My lord…I do not know what to say, I—”

  “There is nothing to say, just do it,” Michael said, lacing his voice with steel.

  One of the greatest benefits he saw to his gambling establishment was the redistribution of wealth. Many men walked into his doors poor and struggling to survive within society and left with some measure of fortune to see them and their family comfortable for a few years. Many al
so came and lost thousands, and Michael had made it a policy to cut men off who gambled too recklessly whether they be influential dukes or a mere barrister.

  He did not want those who had lost everything to go home, place a pistol in their mouths, and blow their brains out. A dark feeling swept over him as the memory of how he had found his father in his library ten years’ ago blackened his thoughts. Brushing it aside, he turned back to observe the floor, while Mr. Stanton bowed and hurried away, a definite jaunt in his step.

  Dark blue and silver drapes to the left of the tables were drawn open to reveal a ballroom. A quick glance at his pocket watch showed it to be ten pm. The twenty-piece orchestra started the waltz, and many ladies and gentlemen, who had hovered watching others play, swept onto the dance floor, moving to the music in a far more scandalous manner than they would ever dare in a public ballroom.

  A dark blond head passing below a chandelier by one of the hazard tables drew his attention. Thomas. He watched as his brother flirted with a masked lady, before leading her onto the dance floor. Unlike the other patrons, he kept a respectable distance, even when the lady tried to close the space between them. His brother danced for a while, before making the rounds and greeting a few of his cronies. He glanced up, and upon spying Michael, Thomas lifted his fingers to his forehead in a pastiche of a military salute.

  A rush of exasperated affection twisted through Michael. Only seven years separated them in age, Thomas being three and twenty to Michael’s thirty. Yet at times he felt like his bloody father and not his older brother. He lifted his chin, indicating for his brother to meet him in the large office on the second floor.

  Michael arrived at the office he shared with Thomas and poured brandy in a glass as he waited for his brother to arrive. He sat behind his large oak desk, the second such desk in the room, and leaned back in a high wingback chair. It had only been yesterday Miss Ashbrook had barged into his life with baby Lizzie. And since then, at the oddest times, Michael was blasted with the oddest sense of panic, before he brushed it aside and drew upon the resolve which had seen him taking over a gambling den at twenty years old.