The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  Nick grinned. He was going to violate another of Uncle Leon’s rules—if he could just manage to figure out where the kitchen was.

  “Are we going to the kitchen?” Caro said rather tartly.

  At least she’d got back her prickliness.

  Something Polly had said in the bedroom just now had called up an emotion in Caro other than defiance or determination. He thought he’d seen tears shimmer in her eyes before she’d blinked them away.

  It was probably just his imagination or a trick of the candlelight. The woman frowning at him now would scoff at the notion that she’d succumb to anything as weak or sentimental as tears.

  “I’m afraid I’m not sure how to get there,” he admitted.

  Her eyes widened.

  Well, yes, he supposed it did seem odd that he didn’t know where the kitchen was. She and her brothers had roamed every corner of their house, and she must know her way around the place she lived now. What had she called it? The Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children.

  Is she happy there?

  Regret nudged him again. Why didn’t I seek her out when she first came to London to warn her about Dervington?

  The answer came back quick and unpleasant. Because you were too busy being a drunken, whoring, irresponsible embarrassment to your uncle.

  He grimaced. Sadly, that rang true.

  “You could ask him,” Edward said, pointing farther down the corridor to where a young footman had suddenly appeared.

  The footman wouldn’t know if Caro was happy—

  Oh, right. Ask him where the kitchen was.

  “Good idea. You, there,” Nick said, heading toward the fellow.

  The footman looked startled and a bit alarmed. “Y-yes, milord?” He tugged nervously on his waistcoat. “Mrs. Potty sent me up to see if Mrs. Dixon needed anything, milord, but I’m not certain which room is hers.”

  “Ah. Mrs. Potty?” Who the hell was that?

  “The cook, milord.”

  “Right.” By the time the snow melted and the roads were passable, he might finally have learned all his servants’ names.

  You’re the lord of the manor. You should already know them.

  He pushed that thought—and the guilt—away.

  He was doing an awful lot of that these days.

  “We just came from looking in on Mrs. Dixon. She and the baby are resting. Polly, however—” How should he refer to a London whore when speaking to a country footman?

  That etiquette question was beyond his ability to answer. Best to err on the side of formality.

  “That is, Miss White, one of my, ah, friends from London—”

  Of course, this man knew precisely what sort of friend Polly was—and likely had a definite opinion on the matter of whores and orgies at a peer’s country estate.

  Is he shocked? Disgusted?

  More guilt seasoned with a dash of shame nudged Nick, and he pushed it away yet again. It didn’t matter what the fellow thought. It wasn’t important....

  And Uncle Leon’s very dead opinion is?

  Bloody hell.

  “Miss White is keeping an eye on them both,” Nick said rather sharply and gestured at the door.

  The footman’s eyes widened at his tone, though the man quickly recovered and reverted to a bland, suitably respectful expression.

  Oh, Lord. I’m just making matters worse.

  Nick forced himself to smile and say more pleasantly, “You might see if she needs anything.”

  “Very good, milord.” The footman moved to step around them, likely eager to be on his way.

  “But before you go, ah . . .”

  The man understood Nick’s problem. “Thomas, milord.”

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Nick filed the name away, determined to remember it. “Before you go, could you show us how to reach the kitchen? Edward here is hungry, and Mrs. Brooks is meeting me there shortly to report on how our new guests are settling in.”

  Thomas glanced toward Mrs. Dixon’s door and then back to Nick. “I can take ye, milord.”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary. I was there once, years ago. If you’ll just point me in the right direction, I believe I can manage.”

  Thomas looked rather relieved that he wouldn’t be required to spend any more time with a man he must think an irresponsible and unpredictable master.

  “Very good, milord. If ye just continue down the corridor, ye’ll come to the stairs.” He frowned and eyed Caro’s skirt. “They’re a bit worn and uneven, madam, so ye’ll want to take care. When ye reach the bottom, turn right, and follow the corridor round till it ends. That’s the kitchen.” He glanced toward Mrs. Dixon’s door again and then back at Nick. “Are ye certain ye don’t wish me to show ye the way, milord?”

  “Perfectly certain. It sounds simple enough, now that I know where to begin. I think I can recognize a kitchen.” He grinned. “And if we get lost, I’ll just shout for help. I’m sure someone will hear me.”

  Thomas stared at him, clearly appalled at the vision of Viscount Oakland standing in the middle of some dingy service corridor, yelling.

  “Don’t worry,” Caro said. “I know how to find a kitchen.”

  “And I do, too,” Edward added.

  Nick laughed. What else could he do? It was embarrassing, but there was no arguing with the truth. “So, you see, I am in excellent hands.”

  Thomas still looked a bit doubtful, but must have concluded that as long as Nick didn’t wander out into the snow, he couldn’t get into too much trouble. He bowed. “Very good, milord.”

  Thomas set off for Mrs. Dixon’s room as Nick turned in the other direction.

  “Lead the way,” he said to Edward. “And don’t bother to wait for us.” Surely the boy could stand to burn off a little energy after his journey, the stress of the stagecoach accident, and his worry for his mother.

  And I’m going to burn off a little energy, too, as soon as I see Felix, the blackguard.

  Felix might well laugh at him, and Nick would admit he’d not been the model of responsibility himself in many respects. But on this point, he had no doubts.

  Children needed parents. Plural. A mother and a father.

  Nick would grant that Mrs. Dixon seemed to have done a good job so far with Edward, but they still had a very rough road ahead of them. And now she had Grace to care for as well. Felix needed to face his responsibilities.

  Edward was looking at Caro as if asking her permission.

  “Go on,” she said. “You can be our scout.”

  Nick choked back a laugh as Edward took off at a run. “But we will follow him,” he said when the boy was out of earshot.

  Caro frowned at him. “W-what? Oh!” She laughed, too. “Henry did try to use that ploy to get rid of me, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did.” It hadn’t worked after the first time, though. Caro had caught on quickly. Even then, she’d been nobody’s fool.

  They started down the corridor after Edward.

  Nick hadn’t minded having Caro join him and Henry when they were children. She hadn’t fussed about getting her clothes dirty or held them back—Henry would have left her behind if she had. On the contrary, Caro had often been the first to do everything—climb a tree, balance along the top of a stone wall, cross a stream on a fallen trunk. She’d been fearless.

  He’d not really thought of her as a girl.

  He glanced down at her. There was no overlooking the fact that she was a girl, now.

  His memories—old and childish as they were—overlay the face and form of the woman at his side, making him feel...

  What? He already felt desire. That had been a constant, familiar thrum from the moment she’d pushed back her hood in the entry. But now he felt something else as well, something unfamiliar.

  In some odd way, it felt as if the memories of their shared childhood adventures deepened and broadened his reaction to her.

  Well
, to be blunt, it was extremely odd to feel anything for a woman who wasn’t a light-skirts. Since he’d decided long ago that he wasn’t going to produce an heir, there’d been no point in wasting any thought on females whose price for bed play was a meeting at the altar and an exchange of until-death-do-we-parts. And, from his admittedly limited observation, Society girls, especially, struck him as silly and superficial and boring.

  Caro’s not silly or superficial, and she certainly isn’t boring.

  Nor was she available for bed play without a church blessing, unfortunately.

  He felt surprisingly regretful about that. He almost wished he were the marrying sort.

  Edward must have found the stairs. He’d disappeared from sight.

  “I’m surprised you don’t know where the kitchen is,” Caro said. “Didn’t you grow up here? I mean I know you were born in Italy, but weren’t you ten or eleven when you came to your uncle?”

  “Eleven.”

  And that was another reason he’d sworn off marriage. He’d seen the way well-bred women looked at him. He might have been a viscount’s heir—and now a viscount—but he still had his mother’s Italian, plebeian blood flowing in his veins. The few times he’d ventured into Almack’s hallowed halls, the best families had kept their daughters away from him as though he were an unwashed beggar. The less exalted—or just more desperate—ones had choked back their revulsion, held their collective noses, and hoped his title and income would settle their collywobbles.

  No, thank you.

  Caro had never seemed to care about Mama’s family.

  True. But then why would she? She’d been just a girl—a country girl at that—and he’d been just her brother’s schoolmate.

  Though Henry hadn’t seemed to care, either. He’d been one of the few boys at school who’d befriended Nick. And as for Mr. Anderson—even a mixed-blood viscount was still a viscount.

  “Uncle Leon had very strict ideas about what was appropriate for a future Viscount Oakland. Visiting the kitchen was not on the list of approved activities.”

  “Oh.” A line appeared between her brows. “That’s . . .” She shook her head, and her frown deepened. “I was going to say it was odd, but it’s more than that. It’s rather dreadful.”

  It would seem dreadful to her. Her family’s kitchen had been almost as warm and jolly as his grandmother’s.

  “Yes. Everything about my uncle was rather dreadful.”

  And there I go, sharing feelings again. Hell!

  He tried to lighten his tone. “I assure you I was very happy to be able to escape him by coming home with Henry.”

  He hadn’t thought about those visits in years. He tried hard not to dwell on the past at all, but Caro’s appearance had apparently unlocked those memories.

  It was true that holidays spent with her family had been the bright spots in a dark time. They’d got him through until he could defy his uncle and live on his own.

  Though even then I was still living on Uncle Leon’s shilling, wasn’t I?

  They’d arrived at the stairs. Nick could hear Edward’s heels rapidly clacking down the stone steps a flight or two below them. He must be running, but then, he was seven—almost eight. Boys that age ran everywhere.

  They would take their time. The footman—Thomas— had been correct. The steps were worn and uneven, but at least they were wider than usual for servants’ stairs. They could walk two abreast.

  “Here, take my arm,” he said. “And you might wish to hold up your skirt so you don’t trip.”

  Caro grumbled, of course. Clearly, she was just as unwilling now as she’d been as a girl to admit her gender constrained her in any way.

  She took his arm, and he got a whiff of her clean, light scent. She lifted her skirt, and he got a glimpse of her well-turned ankle.

  Ahh.

  “It’s terribly unfair that women are forced into dresses, you know. We should be able to wear breeches as men do.” She grinned up at him. “I’d wear breeches in the brewery, but I’m afraid it would give Albert, my elderly assistant, heart failure.”

  “Um.” Nick felt as if he might be on the verge of heart failure. He’d swear all the blood in his body had just rushed in one great wave to his cock. Her scent and the sight of her ankle had combined to create an all-too-vivid image in his suddenly randy mind of her long legs encased in breeches—and then the delicious next step of sliding those breeches down over her rounded rump, revealing the sweet, secret place at the junction of her—

  He stumbled, and her hold on his arm tightened.

  “Perhaps you should take my arm.” She laughed at him—but then must have discerned, even in the flickering candlelight and shadows, the heat in his eyes, because her face stilled and she looked away.

  Don’t be afraid of me, Caro. I won’t hurt you.

  Instead, he said, “Perhaps I should take your arm,” and was relieved that his voice wasn’t thick with lust.

  If I annoy her enough, she’ll forget to be uncomfortable.

  He dropped his voice so his words wouldn’t reach Edward’s tender ears, though from the clattering coming from that direction, Edward’s ears were safe from all but the loudest of shouts. “Don’t you think men would be too distracted to accomplish anything if women wore breeches?”

  Caro snorted and shot him a quick look of disgust before turning her attention back to the stairs. “Nonsense! Women manage to function very well, and we have to look at men in breeches all the time. Why can’t men do the same with women? It’s not as if you don’t know what we have under these layers.” She lifted her skirt higher to emphasize her point—and revealed a shapely calf. “Legs, just like you.”

  No. Not at all like mine . . .

  This conversation might be making Caro more comfortable, but it was making him decidedly less. His cock and ballocks had hardened further and were now threatening to explode.

  “If men can walk around with their legs clad in separate, er, sleeves, as it were, women should be allowed to do so, too.”

  “Erm.” Think of something to say, you idiot!

  It was hopeless. Like a dog that had found an exotic scent, his imagination would not leave the sweet, intoxicating vision of Caro’s legs, no matter how hard and how often he jerked on its lead, trying to haul it away.

  Hard. Jerked.

  Oh, dear God, this was ridiculous. He was a man of thirty-two, not a boy of sixteen. He’d seen women’s legs before and had been between quite a few of them.

  And why the hell couldn’t my blasted cock have been this enthusiastic last night with Livy?

  It must be just that he’d known Livy—in all senses—for a long time, while Caro was new. . . .

  No. Caro wasn’t some new, alluring light-skirts, a challenge to seduce. She was Caro. Henry’s sister. His childhood friend.

  Though they had agreed to pretend to a grand passion. No one was going to believe they were lovers if he didn’t show some desire for her. He wasn’t a shy schoolboy or a bloody poet, worshiping his muse from afar. And he wasn’t trying to fool a collection of nuns and monks. He didn’t know about the stagecoach passengers, but his invited guests had come to Oakland for an orgy. It was good that he could feel—and thus show—some lust for Caro.

  As long as he remembered he was acting . . .

  Zeus, it would help if his emotions weren’t in such a complete, befuddling jumble.

  “You don’t agree?” Disdain dripped from Caro’s voice.

  “Ah . . .”

  “Mark my words, if men were forced to wear dresses for just one day—ha! for just one hour—dresses and related feminine whatnots would be consigned to the sartorial trash heap.”

  They’d reached the bottom of the stairs where Edward was waiting for them, so Nick was saved from having to respond.

  “I can hear and smell the kitchen,” Edward said excitedly.

  Nick could hear and smell it, too—the clatter of dishes, the scent of . . . Could that be the same sort of seedcake he’d had
the last time he’d visited the Oakland kitchen? He rather hoped so. It had been quite good—though, of course, he’d been only eleven, with a boy’s unsophisticated tastes.

  “Yes, indeed,” Nick said. “It must be very close now.”

  Edward nodded and took off. Nick followed with Caro, though she’d dropped his arm the moment her foot had cleared the last step.

  He missed her touch, the feel of her much-maligned skirt brushing against his leg, the occasional press of her hip against his. She was the perfect height for him—not too short nor too tall. She’d fit against him—

  Remember—this is only a game. A charade to fool the other men. Don’t fool yourself.

  He looked around, trying to redirect his unruly thoughts. The corridor, plain with pale green, unadorned walls was quite narrow. The ceiling seemed low, too.

  “It’s smaller than I remember,” he said with surprise.

  Caro laughed. “It’s just that you’re bigger. As I recall, you were rather short and scrawny when last I saw you.”

  He nodded. “I grew late.” Being small hadn’t helped him at school either; it had just painted one more target on his back for the bullies to take aim at. It wasn’t until he’d got his height—and had proven to be good at cricket and boxing—that the other boys had finally stopped tormenting him, at least to his face.

  They turned a corner and bumped into Edward—literally.

  “I waited for you,” Edward said, and pointed at a door about ten feet ahead. The noise—and smell of seedcake—were definitely coming from there.

  Nick nodded and stepped past him. The kitchen seemed smaller, too, though he’d still call it a good-sized room. He remembered the flagstone floor, the long pine worktable, the big fireplace, the shelves of dishes. A stout woman in a black dress and white apron, a white mobcap covering her graying hair, was inspecting the dishes. She must have heard him come in, because she turned....

  “Eek!” She clutched her hands to her breast—and then laughed and curtsied. “Oh, milord, ye gave me such a fright.” Her eyes lit up when they landed on Edward. “And ye have a boy with ye”—she smiled at Caro—“and a lady as well.”

  Nick bowed, not being quite sure how to go on. While he knew he was technically the master here, he felt more like an interloper in this woman’s domain. And she definitely seemed to be the person in charge. “You must be Mrs. Potty?”