The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  And this was Nick. When they’d been together in his room earlier, he’d not attacked her. On the contrary, he’d given her that statue to use as a weapon if she felt she needed one. And he’d clearly been aroused when she’d come in here—she eyed the pillow again—and had even been pressed up against her, and yet he’d not hurt her. She’d not even felt threatened.

  She flushed. Lud, he’d let her touch him. And he’d still not taken that as an invitation to attack her.

  Enough. She’d come in here with the single goal of telling Nick enough about her time in London to forewarn him if Archie remembered and started talking—and she was going to do that.

  I just wish I knew how much of the sordid tale Archie knows....

  Likely not so very much. Remember, he was a boy at the time.

  She would tell Nick as little as possible. Just enough for him to understand the problem. There was no need to share any unsavory details. It wouldn’t be sporting not to tell him something. Having the story sprung on him with no warning would be uncomfortable for them both.

  She needed an ally. And they had an agreement. He would look out for her, and she would look out for him.

  And if she couldn’t count on him, the sooner she knew that, the better.

  Sadly, odds were good he would turn on her. Women were supposed to save themselves for marriage. Or at least for love. They weren’t supposed to be curious or . . .

  She still didn’t understand why she’d done what she’d done. Yes, she’d overheard her brothers talking and joking—they often forgot to watch what they said around her—about all the exciting, dangerous things they did in London, including their various bedroom adventures. So perhaps that had motivated her. She’d wanted to do something more exciting than tend a baby; she’d done so much of that at home. And she wanted to be more in control of her life. She wanted the power to make choices. Decisions.

  Even foolish ones, apparently.

  It was very unfair that men weren’t held accountable for their actions in the same way women were. No one expected men to be virgins when they married.

  Hmph! If men were made to follow Society’s rules for women, it would be just like forcing skirts on them—things would change.

  Though, to be honest, men didn’t run the same risks women did. If a bedroom adventure resulted in pregnancy, a man could deny he was the father or just fade out of the picture. The woman was left literally holding the baby. Just look at poor Mrs. Dixon.

  “It’s not just the Weasel I need to worry about.”

  “Ah.” He frowned. “Is it Archie, too, then?”

  She felt her eyes widen. “How did you know?”

  He shrugged—and she was annoyed with herself that she watched with far too much appreciation the movement of his shoulders and chest.

  “You dug your fingers into my arm so hard when he introduced himself, it’s a miracle you didn’t leave a mark.” He examined his naked forearm and then showed it to her.

  Ah. It was broader than hers, covered with light brown hair and curved slightly by muscle. His upper arm bulged with muscle, too.

  He’d have no trouble rowing the mash or moving casks of ale.

  “And then you went so pale, I was afraid you might faint.” His voice was calm. Kind. “What I don’t know is why. What is Lord Archibald to you, Caro?”

  This was the perfect opening. “He . . . That is, it’s not him, precisely. It’s his . . .” Oh, dear God, how am I ever going to get the words out?

  “Just say it, Caro.”

  Nick was right. She should just say it. She wasn’t usually one to beat about the bush. It was just that this particular topic was so difficult. It was embarrassing both due to what had actually occurred—well, that was shocking as well as mortifying—but also because she’d been so stupid to do it. Inconceivably stupid . . .

  Inconceivably. Oh, God.

  And she’d done it twice. She didn’t count the time Dervington had tried to take her against her will.

  “It’s . . .” She swallowed. Tried—and failed—again.

  “It’s his father, isn’t it?”

  She froze. Her face must have revealed the truth because Nick sighed and seemed to droop.

  “So, Dervington attacked you, did he, Caro?”

  All words—all air—whooshed out of her.

  And then she started to cry. Hell! She never cried. She hated crying. It made her feel ill, with a stuffy nose and cloudy head.

  Arms came round her—naked arms—and gathered her gently against a naked chest.

  She’d locked her feelings about that horrible time away deep, deep inside her, but now they broke free, splintering the box she’d kept them in. There would be no forcing them back into that dark place.

  No. It’s not that bad. I can handle this. I just need a minute. I’ll be fine in a—

  “It’s all right, Caro. It’s all right.” Nick rubbed her back in a soothing way.

  She had no idea how long they stood there—her crying, Nick murmuring—but finally either his calm presence settled her or the storm blew itself out on its own. Her sobs turned to snuffles and painful, stuttering gulps. She pulled back—and Nick loosened his hold on her. She felt certain he would drop his hands completely if she gave him the smallest sign that she wanted him to do so.

  She wasn’t yet ready to give up the warmth and comfort of his touch.

  Nonsense! I don’t need him or anyone. I can handle this myself.

  The only move she made was to wipe her nose on her sleeve. And then she told Nick the truth.

  “Yes, it was Dervington.” It was easier to look at his chest than his face.

  His naked chest with its hard muscle, warm skin, and dusting of soft, springy hair.

  “And yes, he attacked me, but it’s more complicated than that.” She paused, pressed her lips together—and then the story started to spill out. “I seduced him—”

  Nick snorted!

  That was not the reaction she’d expected. She looked up at his face.

  His expression wasn’t what she’d expected either. Instead of revulsion, she saw . . . compassion?

  Perhaps he’d misunderstood.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said I seduced Dervington”—she’d be painfully clear—“twice the week before he attacked me.”

  Nick still looked . . . well, perhaps sad now, but sad for her, not sad about her.

  She didn’t know what to make of that. Best just get to the point of this embarrassing confession so they could move on to discussing how to handle matters if Dervington’s son became a problem.

  “Archie was away at school when it happened, but I’m sure he must have heard the story. If he connects me to the disreputable nursemaid, he might conclude I’m no better than I should be.”

  She finally stepped back out of Nick’s hold and looked him in the eye. She wanted absolutely no confusion about her position on her past, er, indiscretions.

  “Which might have been true then, but it’s not true now.” She wrinkled her nose. “I am not interested in any sort of dalliance. The two times with Dervington were more than enough to convince me I do not like such activities at all.”

  Chapter Ten

  Oh, Lord.

  Nick had been in some dangerous situations before, though up until this moment they’d all involved drunken men and flying fists.

  This was a different sort of danger. He was afraid that saying or doing the wrong thing would hurt Caro and damage the tenuous connection between them.

  He’d rather take a fist to the jaw than do anything to push Caro away.

  Why?

  He wasn’t certain. He only knew what his gut told him, and he trusted his gut. It was often a better guide than his brain—and a much better guide than his cock.

  But where to begin? There were so many ways to put a foot wrong.

  “I very much doubt you seduced Dervington.”

  All right, that had been the wrong place. Caro’s brows had shot up—and then slammed
down into a fierce scowl. At least she seemed too annoyed to be embarrassed. On balance, he supposed that was a good thing.

  “Excuse me? I think I know whether I seduced the Marquess of Dervington or not.”

  She poked him in the chest—and then snatched back her hand as if she’d just realized he was still naked.

  Of course, that didn’t stop her.

  “Do I need to spell it out for you, Lord Oakland?”

  Zeus! Of all the times to be referred to by his uncle’s title, this had to be the worst. Not that there was anything amorous going on here—despite his lack of attire—but that didn’t mean he wanted his uncle’s ghost to join them.

  Caro seemed to understand, or that’s how he interpreted the expression that flashed across her features—as one of regret. But then she was right back to her argument.

  “Do you think I don’t know what seduction is? Then let me disabuse you of that notion.” Caro’s voice was hard. Tense. “I allowed Lord Dervington into my bed.” Her jaw tensed, too, and she said, through clenched teeth, “Into my body. I gave him my virginity. It was bloody horrible. Painful and, well, just bloody.”

  Don’t flinch.

  “And then, when he swore the next day and the day after and the day after that, on and on, that it had only hurt so much because it was my first time, that I shouldn’t be afraid, that I would like it if I would only let him do it again . . .” She stopped. Swallowed. “He flattered me. He begged and pleaded. So, I let him do it again.”

  Her scowl grew fiercer. “He was right that it didn’t hurt as much the second time, but it hurt badly enough. I did not like it. Not. At. All.”

  Nick was not surprised. Dervington was a selfish, coarse braggart outside the bedroom, and Livy had told him he was just as unpleasant inside it. She’d had the misfortune of encountering him early in her career. He’d been rough and boorish and, once she had her own, er, business, she’d struck him permanently from her list of potential clients.

  Which might be one reason Dervington seduced his servants—he couldn’t get any but the most desperate professionals to take his coin.

  “You misunderstand me. I believe you when you say you went to bed with Dervington. I just wouldn’t call what happened seduction, and I certainly wouldn’t say you were the one doing the seducing.”

  “I assure you, I was.”

  “Oh? And what exactly did you do to lure Lord Dervington into your bed?”

  She blinked and then stared at him blankly. “Do? I didn’t do anything. I, er, didn’t need to.”

  He nodded. Sadly, he could guess how it had gone. “So, he flattered you, did he? Told you how beautiful you were?”

  “Y-yes.” She flushed. “He said he couldn’t think of anything else when he saw me. That I drove him mad with desire.”

  Right. That sounded revoltingly like what Dervington—and other unscrupulous men of Nick’s acquaintance—would say, the selfish blackguards.

  “I see. And then you dragged him up the stairs and into your bedroom.”

  She snorted. “No, of course not.” She flushed. “And do put some clothes on, will you?”

  He grinned. “Your wish is my command.” He scooped his shirt off the floor and slipped it over his head, its long tail falling down to safely cover his cock.

  Well, perhaps not so safely. His shirt wasn’t as cloaking as the counterpane—which was still lying in a heap where it had fallen in his mad dance across the room.

  He picked it up and put it on the bed as he gestured with his head toward the chairs by the fire. “Have a seat while I pour you a glass of brandy. You look like you could use a little liquid warmth.”

  He’d like to give her some physical warmth, as well—of a brotherly nature only!—but didn’t want to risk sending her running back to her room.

  He pulled on his breeches as she looked at the chairs, hesitated . . .

  “I can get one of those obscene statues out of the cabinet if you feel the need of a weapon.”

  That made her laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and finally sat down.

  “My point is,” he continued as he walked over to pour them both some brandy, “Dervington was the one at fault. You were just going about your business, doing your job.” He handed her her glass. “Isn’t that right?”

  She opened her mouth—to argue, he suspected—but then stopped and frowned.

  Good. Perhaps she was reconsidering the way she’d thought about this over the years.

  He sat and took a swallow of brandy. “I assume you wore the Dervington livery?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “So . . .” He shrugged. “There’s nothing very revealing about that uniform, is there? I believe it’s the standard long-sleeved, high-necked gown and mobcap?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “So what else were you supposed to do to keep from inflaming Dervington’s passions? Wear a mask and cape? I imagine that would have made tending the baby a bit difficult.”

  She laughed. “I think poor little Alexandra would have been terrified to see such a figure in the nursery.” Then she frowned and took a sip of brandy.

  “Precisely.” He would give her more to think about. “And consider this. You were—what? Seventeen? Dervington already had Archie and his brother from his first wife. He must have been old enough to be your father.”

  The look of revulsion on her face then was almost comical. Clearly, she’d not thought in those terms before. She took a rather larger sip of brandy.

  “And he was your employer and a marquess—a powerful man in a position of power over you. You were completely dependent on him, even for the roof over your head. You were away from home for the first time—and taking care of his child. If he’d had a scintilla of honor, he’d not have touched you even if you’d danced naked across his sheets.”

  She looked torn, as if she saw his point but was, perhaps, reluctant to give up the guilt she’d harbored for so many years.

  “Erm. Y-yes.” Her voice grew stronger. “But I should have remembered my own honor and refused him.”

  Ah, that had been another thing he’d so liked about Caro as a girl—she’d had a fierce integrity. Her word was her bond, as good as any boy’s and better than that of many, and she was passionate about doing what she believed was right, no matter what anyone else thought or said.

  “Well, yes, you can argue that, but . . .” He held a mouthful of brandy on his tongue as he tried to find a way to say this as gently as possible. “Dervington was—is—a practiced rake, Caro. He knows precisely how to manipulate women, especially young women. In fact, he takes a fiendish delight in it. You were far from the first or the last to fall victim to him. For years, the betting book at White’s has been full of wagers as to how long it would take Lord D to seduce Miss A or C or V.”

  Blech. And why didn’t I find that repellant?

  Because it had just seemed like a game. Nick had never thought of Miss A or C or V as a person, a woman like Caro who might be hurt.

  And when I heard the rumor about Caro?

  He’d told himself the damage was already done, she’d left Town, she wasn’t his responsibility.

  Shame twisted in his gut, but he tried to ignore it. Caro was here now. He needed to focus on her.

  “It would have been a minor miracle if you’d been able to resist him.”

  Caro shrugged one shoulder and scowled into her brandy glass. “I should have resisted. I should have considered Lady Dervington’s feelings. She could not have liked her husband to, ah”—Caro waved her hand vaguely—“do what he did with me.”

  Caro did not know the ton. “I suspect she liked it quite well. I’ve heard that while Lady Dervington enjoys being a marchioness in the ballroom, she’s delighted when she can skip her duties in the bedroom.”

  Caro snorted. “I can believe that. I don’t see how any woman puts up with that sort of mauling.”

  Dervington should be damned to hell for giving Caro such a poor introduction to
the bedroom arts, serving her old, tough mutton when a more skilled man would tempt her with roast pheasant and pineapple and champagne.

  She had no idea what pleasure could be had between a man and a woman. She might still reject carnal relations, but she should at least know what it was she was rejecting.

  I could show her—

  No! Don’t even think of that.

  “I suppose it’s the price they must pay for a comfortable, secure existence,” Caro was saying. “I was very lucky to find the Home.” She shrugged. “And I suppose some do it for the babies.” She looked at him. “Which is another reason I shouldn’t have done what I did. I was very lucky I didn’t get pregnant.”

  He experienced a sudden jolt of . . . desire? Was that what he felt at the thought of Caro big with child? Whatever it was, it was a very odd, very intense sensation.

  He shoved the peculiar emotion back into the roiling cauldron from which it had bubbled up.

  Only to have it replaced by the memory of little Grace lying in her makeshift cradle in Mrs. Dixon’s room. She’d been so tiny, with such a perfect little nose and mouth....

  Zeus! He wasn’t usually so . . . maudlin.

  His normal state—bosky and in the company of dissolutes—was far less challenging to his peace.

  The dead are quite peaceful....

  I’m not dead!

  No?

  Was his soul showing some signs of rigor mortis?

  Of course not. It was merely that, up until now, he’d not given babies any thought—besides deciding he would not contribute to making one. He wanted no heir of his body.

  But he’d always thought of an heir as an adult male, waiting in the wings for him to die. He’d never thought of—never pictured—a baby.

  In his normal life, he’d been able to avoid small children. No one brought an infant to White’s, thank God, or to his more disreputable haunts. And yet now, here, for Christmas, he was host to a baby and a boy and a desperate mother.

  And an irresponsible, self-centered father.

  He would have a word—several words—with Felix in the morning. The man had money enough to gamble and carouse and go whoring. He could share some of that with Mrs. Dixon and her family.