The poor boy’s teeth were chattering so he could barely get the words out. He needed to get in front of a fire at once.
“I had them taken down. I didn’t like them.”
The first thing he’d done upon becoming Viscount Oakland was to relegate all the dark, cheerless paintings to the attics. It was bad enough having to walk the cold and gloomy halls without also having generations of dyspeptic—and poorly painted—ancestors frowning down at him. They’d given him nightmares as a boy. He’d used to pass them with his eyes trained on the floor.
He’d often wondered how his charming father, always cheerful and carefree with a ready laugh, had descended from such dour people. And while it was possible some of the artists had misrepresented their subjects—he was enough of a connoisseur to recognize clumsy, pedestrian brushwork when he saw it—he’d had his uncle as a living example of the breed’s stern, sullen temperament.
And it wasn’t just the stiff, unsmiling faces he’d packed away. All the pictures of dead birds, hunting dogs tearing into fallen stags, avenging angels casting sinners into hellfire—all had been carried off to the attics.
He had kept one painting, though—a bright, happy landscape of the Grand Canal that he’d found tucked in the back of his uncle’s dressing room. The moment Nick had seen it, he’d been transported back to Venice and his early boyhood, to the sun’s warmth, the shouts of the gondoliers, the splash of the water.
And then he’d looked at it more closely and seen his father’s mark in the lower left corner.
Why had his uncle hidden it away where only he could see it? More to the point, why had he kept it at all?
Perhaps there’d been a spark of joy somewhere in the man’s dark heart.
The painting now hung prominently in Nick’s bedchamber, on the wall across from the foot of his bed where it was the last thing he saw each night and the first thing he saw each morning. He’d thought of bringing it to London, but he hadn’t wanted to risk damaging it in transport. It was all he had left of his father.
And Nick needed it more here. It made Oakland almost bearable.
“Oh. And you don’t like Ch-Christmas either?”
He didn’t, actually. He’d liked it as a boy in Venice, with the masks and music and street fairs. But here in England?
No.
Well, perhaps that wasn’t completely fair. He likely didn’t know what a proper English Christmas was. Here at Oakland, growing up with his stern uncle, Christmas had been a religious holiday only, meant to be spent in prayer and repentance.
But the boy wouldn’t know that. “Why do you think I don’t like Christmas?”
“There’s no gr-greenery.” Edward wrinkled his nose. “It doesn’t smell like Christmas.”
Hmm. Greenery. Mistletoe . . .
Neither Livy nor Polly nor Fanny needed a vegetative excuse to pucker up—or to do anything else of an amorous nature—but Caro . . .
It might be fun to see if he could find some mistletoe.
“It’s not Christmas Eve yet. We’ll hang some greenery then.” He’d had no intention of decorating, but since it looked as if the boy would be stranded here for the holiday, Nick should try to make things festive. He didn’t want to turn into a killjoy like his uncle.
They finally arrived at his rooms.
“Here we are.” He pushed open the door.
The boy gasped and looked around, his mouth hanging open for a moment before his teeth started chattering again. “It looks like a palace.”
The room was large—and drafty, a huge waste of space. He’d much preferred his little room in his father’s house in Venice, with its bright, white walls and view of the sea.
“It’s hardly a palace.” He went over to the hearth to wake the fire. The baby, still howling, wasn’t far behind. The faster he got the fire going, the sooner the infant could be fed—and their hearing saved.
The boy followed him. “D-do you have it all to y-yourself?”
“Yes.” Usually. He had entertained Livy here last night.
Or he’d tried to entertain her.
His stomach twisted, and he bent down to examine the fire. If anyone observed him now, he hoped they’d ascribe what he suspected was his heightened color to his proximity to the glowing embers.
He’d planned to put Livy in what was nominally the viscountess’s bedroom that adjoined this one, but Mrs. Brooks hadn’t thought to have it made up.
Well, perhaps she had thought of it and decided against it on the grounds that it offended her sense of decorum or moral rectitude. He’d considered taking the matter up with the woman when he’d discovered the problem, but he’d been too drunk on Christmas spirits—alcoholic spirits—to discuss the issue. By morning, reason—and sobriety—had reasserted themselves.
Asking Mrs. Brooks to countenance a Christmas orgy was bad enough, but forcing her to put a light-skirts, even a superlative one like Livy, in what had once been Lady Oakland’s room would likely be more than she could tolerate. He certainly didn’t wish to push the woman to quit. Finding a new housekeeper here in the country, especially if he’d managed to alienate the local people, would be extremely difficult.
And she’d likely prevail upon her husband to leave, and then he’d be out a butler as well.
He honestly didn’t want to upend Mrs. Brooks’s life. She was a good sort. She’d grown up on the estate and had been a chambermaid when he’d been a boy here. She used to bring him sweets when she came back from visiting her family. She had a brother around his age.
Not that his uncle would let him play with the boy or with any of the other local children. Oh, no. It wouldn’t do for his heir to rub elbows with the lower classes, especially given Nick’s deplorable—in Uncle Leon’s view—pedigree. Not only had Nick’s mother been Italian, she’d been a lowly baker’s daughter.
And it hadn’t mattered about the room. Livy was just steps down the corridor, and in any event . . .
Eh, it might not reflect well on him, but he’d taken a great, twisted pleasure in inviting Livy into his puritanical uncle’s bed.
He grimaced. Thumbing his nose at his uncle’s ghost had been the only pleasure he’d taken last night.
Livy had kindly blamed his, er, lack of spirit on the vast quantity he’d imbibed, but drink had never affected him that way before. And earlier today in the sitting room, before Caro had arrived, his cock had again been completely unmoved by Livy’s invitations.
His stomach twisted again. I’m only thirty-two. I’m too young to give up sexual congress.
It must be the curse of Oakland. He hadn’t had this problem in London. Once he got back to Town all would be well.
And yet . . .
If he were being brutally honest, there’d been too many times of late when sitting home reading a good book appealed more than going out raking.
Of course it did. He wasn’t a randy boy any longer. He was just selective in his bed partners.
You selected Livy and still couldn’t rise to the occasion.
Bleh! Well then, his current, er, droopy mood must be due to Oakland and the bloody English cold.
“Lord Oakland.”
He started. That was Caro’s voice, sharp with impatience and coming from directly behind him. The infant’s screaming must have drowned out the sound of her footsteps. Was she going to urge him to hurry along with the fire just as she’d pushed him to set off on the rescue mission?
He’d grant she’d been right about the rescue, but some things couldn’t be rushed. Coaxing this fire back to life was one of them.
Making love was another . . . .
Ha! Last night he couldn’t coax his poor cock to do anything, fast or slow.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Just let me be certain the fire is going well, Miss Anderson, and then I’ll leave.”
Caro dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. “I can tend to the fire. What we need now are some blankets and towels. Mrs. Dixon and Edward should get out of their w
et clothing as soon as possible.”
“Right.” The fire was burning nicely now, so he stood and—
Where the hell am I going to find extra blankets and towels?
He’d no idea where to look. He’d just arrived yesterday—
No, he could have been here for years, and he still wouldn’t know where the extra linens were kept. Linens and blankets and counterpanes had always just appeared on his bed.
“Milord?”
Thank God! Mrs. Brooks was at the door. He felt like falling on her neck, he was so relieved to see her, but he restrained himself and simply smiled.
At least the boy and his mother were now standing by the fire and not shivering, so he didn’t look completely incompetent. Even the baby had been lulled to silence by the heat.
Or perhaps she was just gathering her strength to start wailing again. In any event, it was easier to think without the piercing noise.
“Mrs. Brooks, you are just the person we need. Mrs. Dixon and her son, Edward, require towels and blankets and perhaps a rack to hang their clothes to dry before the fire.”
“Of course, milord.” She smiled at the woman and her son. “Just come with me. I’ll get you both settled in your own room and make you comfortable. The men are back with your bag, Mrs. Dixon, so you and your son can change into something warm and dry at once.”
Mrs. Brooks looked at him as Mrs. Dixon and Edward walked past her. “Milord, after I attend to Mrs. Dixon and her son, where would you like me to put our other new”—she swallowed—“guests?”
Lord, who were they taking in? Not that he had any choice in the matter; he couldn’t bar the door and have the poor souls freeze to death. He just hoped one of them didn’t make off with his valuables.
Though perhaps he should fear more that they’d steal his peace and sanity. His Christmas orgy was definitely ruined—not that it had shown much promise before their surprise guests’ arrival.
“Put them wherever seems best to you, Mrs. Brooks. You know the rooms better than I.”
She nodded—and looked at Caro.
Oh, no, Mrs. Brooks wasn’t taking her away. He needed Caro to tell him about their surprise company.
“And then please come back and let me know where things stand. Miss Anderson and I will await your return here.”
He heard Caro give a small squawk of surprise or disagreement, but it was quickly drowned out by Grace’s far louder and more insistent squawk from the corridor.
Mrs. Brooks was already in motion. “Very well, milord,” she said, and then closed the door behind her.
“Lord Oakland—”
He held up his hand. “Miss Anderson, please. I need you to help me sort out whom I’m taking under my roof.” He gestured for her to take one of the wingchairs facing the fire.
She stayed standing and frowned. “I-I don’t know anything about them.”
“You know more than I do. You, at least, were in the coach with them.”
“Yes, but—” She pressed her lips together, swallowed, and then said, a distinct quaver in her voice, “It’s not p-proper for me to be h-here.”
He felt his brows shoot up and his jaw drop. Not proper? This was the first sign he’d had that the woman who’d burst into his house, berated him in his own entry hall—even after she knew he was the viscount—and spent several minutes with three light-skirts without resorting to a fit of the vapors, gave a fig about propriety. She was no wilting wallflower.
The Caro he’d known hadn’t given a fig for propriety.
He remembered the first time he’d met her—the first time he’d come home with Henry. Uncle Leon had dumped him at school at the beginning of second term. He’d been the only new boy there and, with his dark hair and eyes, clearly not one hundred percent English. Henry had been one of the few to befriend him.
Henry really had been a capital fellow. I shouldn’t have let our connection break.
So, when he’d gone home with Henry that first time, he’d been surprised by Caro. She’d been around the same age as his cousin Maria, but she’d been nothing like Maria. Maria had liked lacy dresses and dolls, hated mud, and run screaming from frogs and spiders. Caro, on the other hand, hadn’t thought twice about pulling on one of Henry’s old shirts and a pair of breeches he’d outgrown, tying back her hair, and going exploring through fields and woods whenever she could sneak past her mother. She’d been strong and fearless and determined.
She couldn’t be afraid he was going to attack her, could she?
Shock—and yes, affront—surged in his breast, quickly followed, he was embarrassed to admit, by a tinge of relief. If that was her fear, it could not have been his lamentable lack of bedroom vigor Livy had been describing when he’d come back with Mrs. Dixon.
“I’m afraid proper wasn’t invited to this party, Miss Anderson. Surely, you’ve discerned Livy’s and the other women’s profession?”
“Yes. Of course.”
That was better. Now she sounded annoyed rather than alarmed.
“You have my word I will not harm you. I wouldn’t harm any woman, but unless I miss my guess, you are Henry Anderson’s sister. We knew each other as children, did we not?”
She didn’t look surprised, so she must already have made the connection.
“Yes, but we are not children any longer.”
True. And women, as the weaker sex, were at a physical disadvantage. Perhaps she would feel more at ease if she had some sort of weapon at hand with which to defend herself. He glanced around....
His eyes fell on the marble statues on either side of the mantel clock. One of those would do splendidly. He grabbed the nearest one, hefted it—it was heavy, but not too heavy for her to manage, he hoped—and handed it to her.
She was strong. She took it from him without any difficulty.
“What’s this for?”
“To brain me with if I suddenly forget myself.” He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Now, please do take a seat. May I pour you a glass of brandy?”
Chapter Four
“Oh, very well.”
Caro dropped into the chair rather gracelessly. She was annoyed with herself. She didn’t care if Nick’s guests were proper or not, and she certainly didn’t care what anyone thought of her own actions. She’d never been one to dance to Society’s restrictive tune. But now that she was a mature woman, living among other women who had been forced by circumstances or their own choices to step far, far outside Society’s ballrooms, she saw propriety for what it really was: Society’s whip to keep women where it wanted them—subservient and powerless.
No, she’d foolishly let fear ambush her simply because she was alone with a strange man in a secluded situation without her knife. In all the hubbub, she’d forgotten to get it out of her cloak pocket.
Nick is not a strange man. He won’t hurt me.
She hoped. She hadn’t seen him in years—so many years that she hadn’t recognized him at first. He’d been a boy then; he was a man now.
A very handsome man.
Yes, and an irresponsible one, remember?
She’d admit to having had a schoolgirl crush on him years ago, but she wasn’t a schoolgirl any longer.
So why have you scoured the papers for any mention of Lord Devil all these years? And why were you so disappointed that he was hosting an orgy?
Oh, all right. Perhaps it was more than a schoolgirl crush, but that made it even more foolish. She wasn’t usually one to build air castles. She couldn’t afford to. She dealt in concrete matters—hops and malt, pounds and pence.
Except for your dream to sell Widow’s Brew in London. That air castle was bigger than a London brewery.
Defeat settled heavily on her heart, but she quickly pushed it aside. She didn’t have the luxury of curling up for a good cry. She needed to move forward, to look for the silver lining in this dark cloud. At least this unfortunate journey would cure her of her ridiculous London plans and this silly infatuation. That was good. Pa
inful, but good.
In any event, the point was she had read every mention of Lord Devil she’d happened upon in the papers—and she’d never seen any accusations that he’d forced himself on a woman. And now Livy had said the poor man was a bit of a gelding. A . . . What was the word? Eunuch. Not literally, but functionally, which was all that mattered.
So why have a Christmas orgy?
Excellent question. Perhaps he wished to throw people off the scent. She hadn’t seen any hints in the papers, but there might well be rumors circulating through the ton about his . . . problem. In her very brief time in London, she’d seen how the ton loved to gossip.
She felt a stab of sympathy. Men took such ridiculous pride in their amorous prowess. To be unable to perform at all must be extremely lowering.
Lowering—ha!
And to be an impotent peer must be the biggest curse of all. That sort’s main purpose was to procreate so they could pass their titles and wealth on to the next generation.
Perhaps the affliction runs in the family. Nick’s uncle was childless.
She felt the last bit of tension drain out of her shoulders. She put the statue Nick had given her on the table next to her chair. How nice not to have to worry she was going to be assaulted at any moment.
She frowned. At this moment. There was still the Weasel and the other men to consider. They’d likely be snowbound for days. Nick’s home was large, with far too many isolated spots. She’d remember to keep her pocketknife with her from now on, but she’d rather not have to stab any of the other guests—or have to be constantly on her guard.
What can I do?
An obvious, if outrageous, solution presented itself.
If Nick’s willing, I can pretend we have a liaison.
It would ruin her reputation, but then her reputation—her social reputation—had been ruined years ago. Even people who hadn’t heard the sorry tale of her time in London assumed the worst of her, given her advanced age, her unmarried state, and the fact that she lived at the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children.
The Merry Viscount Page 5
