The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  Caro finished the rest of her brandy and handed him the glass.

  “More?”

  She nodded.

  He got up to pour her another and then decided just to set the brandy bottle on the table between them.

  “To return to your concern about Archie,” he said. “I’m afraid if he realizes you were a nursemaid in his father’s house, he’ll assume you were his father’s mistress. All the nursemaids were.”

  “Oh.” Caro let out a long breath—and took another, rather large swallow of brandy.

  She was managing the strong spirits rather well. Perhaps it came of being a brewer and, he assumed, frequently taste testing her brew.

  “Y-yesh.”

  Well, perhaps not that well.

  “Now I see why Mrs. M-Morris wasn’t surprised when I ran into her office.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Morris, and why did you run into her office?” This did not sound good.

  Caro blinked at him. The brandy was definitely having an effect.

  “She’s Der-ving-ton’s”—she pronounced each syllable carefully—“housekeeper.” She took another sip. “I ran to her after he tried to r-rape me.”

  “Rape?!” The word came out in a croak. Rape had never been part of the rumors.

  Of course, it had been men telling the tales....

  His heart stilled as he remembered drunken boasts about reluctant girls “persuaded” by a kiss or two.

  Caro nodded. “It was a very near thing.” She looked at the fire, her words chillingly clear now. “It was my day off.” She glanced at him and then back at the fire. “The day after he mauled me for the second time. I thought he’d gone out to one of his clubs. I never thought he’d be on the servants’ stairs, so I wasn’t paying attention.”

  She looked at him again, her eyes cold and bleak. “You can be sure I’ve never made that mistake again.”

  He nodded, not trusting his voice. He didn’t want to hear this—and yet he had to hear it. He gripped the arms of his chair.

  “I was thinking about what I should do,” she continued, looking back at the fire. “I’d told him that I never wanted to do . . . what we’d done again, but I knew he wasn’t going to give up and leave me alone. He was going to keep asking—or maybe start taking what he wanted. There was no lock on my bedroom door.”

  She paused. Pressed her lips together. He wanted to reach out and touch her hand, but was afraid to distract or, worse, upset her.

  “So, I was going down the stairs, wondering whether I should try to find a new position in Town or just give up and go home—whether I could go home—when I heard someone coming down the stairs behind me. I-I thought it was just one of the footmen.”

  She stopped again. Stared at the fire, a muscle flexing in her jaw as if her teeth were clamped together.

  He waited. The seconds felt like minutes—no, like hours. A hard ball of ice formed in his belly.

  Finally, she let out a long breath. “It wasn’t a footman, of course.”

  He saw what he thought was pain flash over her features—to be replaced by steely determination.

  Good for her.

  He was impressed—awed—by her strength of will.

  “He grabbed me when I reached the landing. He pushed me up against the wall. He put his mouth over mine so quickly, I didn’t have time to scream. And then he . . .” She bit her lip.

  She looked at Nick, eyes haunted. “When Dervington’s hands closed round me, I was literally so weak with fear I could barely stand. I knew how rough he was when he wasn’t angry. How much more would he hurt me if I fought him? I’d already given him my virginity, so what did one more time matter? And I’d need a reference to get another position. I was afraid to risk being let go without one.”

  She looked back at the fire, pain twisting her mouth. “I decided it would be better not to fight—to just give in, let him do what he wanted. It would be over soon enough. It always was. I could endure five minutes of—” She grimaced. “I could endure five minutes.”

  What could Nick say to her? He wanted—needed—to do something to fix her pain, but there was nothing he could do. He could only listen.

  “He’d pulled my skirts up, got his fall unbuttoned, and then I heard someone—two sets of footsteps—coming down the stairs. Footmen, talking. Dervington heard them, too. He turned his head to shout at them to go away, and I saw my chance.” Her jaw hardened. “I took it. I screamed and drove my knee up between his legs as hard as I could.”

  As much as he despised Dervington—and felt a savage satisfaction that Caro had done him an injury—Nick still flinched in fellow feeling at that.

  “Dervington let go of me to shield his precious jewels. The footmen came running down the stairs, shouting.” Caro smiled rather grimly. “Looking back, I think they helped me escape by getting in Dervington’s way.”

  She reached for the brandy and poured herself some more.

  Nick did the same. After listening to that story, he might need several more glasses to be able to sleep tonight.

  “I ran like all the demons of hell were after me, down the stairs to Mrs. Morris’s room. She sent Arthur—he was the biggest, strongest footman—up to my room with me so I could get my things. Gave me money for the stagecoach.” She glanced at him. “Within the hour, I was standing in the yard of the Golden Cross, my satchel on the ground beside me, just enough money to purchase an inside seat on the stagecoach clutched in my hand.”

  He nodded. “And then you went home—”

  She snorted. “Oh, no, I didn’t. I was going to. I had no other option at that point. But fortunately, I struck up a conversation with a young, well-dressed woman who was also waiting for the stagecoach. Jo, Lady Havenridge, was newly widowed and had come up to London to meet with her benefactor, the Duke of Grainger—the former duke, not the current one—to talk about turning her house into a Benevolent Home for women and children in need.”

  Caro took another sip of brandy and smiled. “She was very impressive. And persuasive. When I told her I was rather in need myself, she invited me to come back with her to Little Puddledon and help her get her charity going. I took a chance and threw my lot in with hers.”

  Caro’s smile widened, and the confidence he’d got used to seeing in her reasserted itself, albeit with perhaps a touch of brandy-induced swagger. “That was the best decision I’ve ever made. We struggled in the beginning, but once Pen—Penelope Barnes, now Lady Darrow—arrived and we hit upon the notion of getting the brewhouse going, everything began to fall into place. We can always do better, of course, but things are definitely looking up. Even if the new Duke of Grainger pulls his support, I’m certain Pen will see that her husband, the earl, continues his commitment.”

  Caro grinned at Nick. Oh, Lord, was she going to try to pick his pocket again? He didn’t want to discuss that now.

  “I’m sure your family would be proud of your accomplishments, if they knew about them, Caro.”

  Hell, that had been the wrong thing to say. Caro’s face fell, and she took a long swallow of brandy.

  “No.”

  “You must be mistaken. I mean, I suppose it’s not the usual way of things for women to run their own businesses, but surely your parents would see it as quite an accomplishment.”

  “I’m not mistaken.” She emphasized her point by poking a finger at him. “I wrote my father to tell him where I was. He—” She pressed her lips together for a moment before she completed the sentence. “He refused my letter. Sent it back unopened.” She pressed her lips together again, nostrils flaring as she took a sustaining breath. “With his own letter, unfranked.”

  “Oh.” Bloody, bloody hell.

  “I had to pay to receive the unpleasant news that he’d already heard from the marquess, so he knew I was no better than a—”

  She sniffed. Swallowed. Took a deep breath.

  No. She can’t be going to say—

  “That I was no better than a wh-whore.”

  “Caro!
”

  She pushed on. “He told me I’d sullied our name, embarrassed my brothers, and should no longer consider myself his d-daughter or, indeed, any part of his family.”

  She sniffed again, several times. “I did as I was t-told. I n-never wrote any of my family again.” She raised her chin, her voice stronger. “I’ve done very well without them.”

  “The bloody, fuc—” Nick clenched his jaw, paused for a moment, and then said, with barely suppressed violence, “Your father is a black-hearted scoundrel.”

  Caro’s eyes widened. “I-I wasn’t exactly surprised. I know what I did was unforgiveable.”

  Anger surged in him again. “It was not unforgiveable. You were young and completely at a practiced rake’s mercy.”

  She frowned. “I should have been stronger.”

  “All right, maybe you should have been. So, you made a mistake, one you regret. We’ve all done that.” He certainly had—and he could feel more regrets coming on, starting with his harebrained notion of hosting a Christmas orgy. “You were young,” he said again. “Inexperienced. I’m sure you’d stand up to Dervington if he tried his game with you today.”

  Caro laughed. “Oh, yes. I’d castrate him and nail his bits to the front door to use as a knocker.”

  Nick squirmed a bit at the thought, and then leaned toward her, trying to will her to believe him.

  “It is what Dervington did to you that’s unforgiveable, Caro. Your father should have gone up to London and horsewhipped the man.”

  She looked at him cautiously, as she might eye a madman. “But I’m ruined.”

  “You don’t look ruined to me.” She looked very, very attractive—not that he could act on that attraction.

  “I’m not a virgin.”

  “Neither am I.”

  She laughed. “Not that I’m in the market for a husband, but no one on the Marriage Mart—in London or in the country—cares about a man’s virginity or lack thereof.”

  “No, but they care about other things. A man’s purse, his social standing, his bloodline. No one except the desperate wants to give his or her daughter over to a half-Italian mongrel.”

  Oh, God. Why did I say that?

  He hadn’t meant to. It had just spilled out. And he didn’t care about such things anyway. He wasn’t going to marry. It had nothing to do with whether any woman wanted him or not. It was all about denying Uncle Leon an heir.

  Bloody hell, is that sympathy in Caro’s eyes?

  “I’d marry you, Nick,” she said, patting his arm as if he were a sad, little boy in need of consolation—and for one, bizarre moment, he felt like a little boy, an eleven-year-old orphan....

  Stop. Don’t be ridiculous.

  “If I liked that sort of thing.” She pulled a face. “But I don’t.”

  Zeus! If Dervington were here now, Nick would beat the blackguard to a bloody pulp.

  “And now I should go to bed.” She stood up. “Oh!” Her eyes widened, her hands reaching out to find only air. “The room is spinning.”

  He jumped to his feet in time to catch her as she listed to the side.

  She braced herself on his chest and blinked up at him. “I-I think I might have had a little too much brandy.” And then the color drained from her face. “I’m afraid I’m going to be—” She put her hand to her mouth.

  He grabbed the chamber pot just in the nick of time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nick’s eyes snapped open. He’d heard something....

  Zeus! Had that been the creak of a door opening?

  And now he heard footsteps in the viscountess’s room.

  He tensed. If the Weasel or Archie had sneaked into Caro’s room—

  Thankfully, they’d not find her there.

  Unless she had gone back to her own bed in the middle of the night.

  Nick turned over and propped himself up on an elbow—and was relieved to see Caro was still there beside him, mouth slightly open, snoring softly.

  After she’d got sick, he’d helped her into his bed. It was a testament to how ill she’d been that she’d not argued with him about that. Then he’d dumped the unfortunate contents of the chamber pot out the window—checking first to see that no poor servant was standing in the snow below him—so the lowly receptacle would be ready in case it was needed again.

  Fortunately, she’d made it through the night without any other unpleasant eruptions.

  He studied her. Asleep, she looked young, fragile—

  He almost snorted at that, but managed to stop himself in time. He didn’t want to wake her. Still, he could just imagine how she’d rip up at him if he were daft enough to say something like that aloud.

  There was nothing fragile about Miss Caroline Anderson.

  Well, except for her stomach and head. They might be a trifle fragile this morning.

  He supposed he should have tried to stop her from drinking so much last night—not that she would have taken well to that, he was quite certain. But he’d been too caught up in—and appalled by—her story.

  The embers of last night’s anger blazed up again. Bloody Dervington! He deserved to roast in hell for wounding Caro as he’d done.

  And then the wound, left untreated, had festered.

  You know something of festering wounds, don’t you?

  He frowned. Perhaps he did.

  His attention snapped back to his surroundings—the footsteps were coming toward the connecting door.

  He sat up. He couldn’t believe any man would have the audacity to look for Caro in his room, but apparently—

  No. It was just the maid come to check on the fire. Her eyes widened when she saw him—and she saw quite a bit of him, as he’d dispensed with his shirt and breeches once Caro had fallen asleep. They were far too restrictive to sleep in and he’d not packed a nightshirt. He’d thought he was going to be hosting an orgy, not a hodgepodge of stranded travelers.

  Then the maid saw Caro, and her eyes widened further.

  Oh, blast. Well, at least the fiction that he and Caro were involved in an affair would be flying through the household without any effort on their part.

  Too bad it’s a fiction—

  Zounds, where the hell had that thought come from? Of course, it was a good thing it was a fiction. If it weren’t, he’d be forced to meet Caro at the altar and recite his vows.

  And would that be so bad?

  He blinked. Yes. Yes, it would be disastrous.

  The rock-solid conviction he always felt when repudiating the wedded state was conspicuously absent this morning.

  He gave the maid a brief smile and lay down again, pulling the covers up to his chin so as not to further offend her sensibilities.

  She went about her duties and left.

  Caro slept soundly through it all. She must have been completely exhausted last night—in addition to having had a few too many glasses of brandy.

  She hadn’t told him all the details of her encounter with the disreputable London tavern keeper, but if she’d had to use her knife to protect herself, he could guess the general outlines of the matter. And then she’d had the stagecoach journey, the Weasel, the crash, taking charge of baby Grace, tramping through the snow, and finally and perhaps most unsettling of all, discovering Dervington’s son among Nick’s unplanned guests.

  He propped himself back up on his elbow to look at her again. Normally when he woke with a woman in his bed . . .

  Well, actually, he’d never woken with a woman in his bed. After a bout of enthusiastic, energetic coupling, he always went home to sleep by himself.

  Hmm. What would it be like to be married and wake every morning next to the same woman? Or would he follow the pattern of so many titled men and go back to his own bed after each conjugal encounter? That must have been the arrangement here....

  No. Having two bedrooms in the master suite didn’t mean they were both used. If Mrs. Potty was to be believed, once upon a time his aunt and uncle had been very much in love.

  A
nd then they’d lost baby after baby after baby. God, that must have been horrible.

  So, Uncle Leon had been wounded, too. Mortally wounded. As Mrs. Potty had said, he might well have been dead long before his body stopped breathing.

  Long before I came to Oakland.

  And hard on the heels of that thought came another.

  Am I letting an old wound kill me?

  He frowned. Of course not.

  Caro gave a little sigh—followed by a soft snore.

  If I did marry, I’d be very unfashionable—very common—and share a bed with my wife every night, like Mama and Papa did.

  He frowned. Since he wasn’t ever going to wed, it was a complete and utter waste of time to entertain such thoughts, and yet . . .

  Last night Caro said she’d marry me.

  She hadn’t meant it. Hell, she’d said it in pity.

  Ugh. He felt as if a leaden ball had just dropped into his gut.

  Well, if Caro were his wife, she’d be naked now, not clothed in a high-necked, long-sleeved nightdress.

  He smiled, imagining the scene. He’d lean over to wish her a good morning by brushing his lips over hers. Then he’d wake the rest of her with a long, slow stroke from her lovely breasts to the tangle of curls above her entrance. And if, when he gently dipped the tip of his finger inside, he found her damp and ready, he’d ease her leg over his hip and slowly, leisurely slide deep, deep....

  And now his cock was fully awake and ready to play.

  I wish . . .

  He wished he could show her that her experience with Dervington—the supposed seductions, not the attack on the stairs—wasn’t representative of carnal relations. That love between a man and a woman could be deeply satisfying—

  Love?

  Physical love. That was all the love he knew.

  It was a bloody shame she’d had such a bad time of it. The Caro Nick had known as a boy had been deeply, fiercely passionate. And, clearly, she was still passionate—about the ale she brewed, the Home where she lived and worked, even people she hardly knew. Look how she had defended baby Grace, Edward, even Mrs. Dixon.

  She should be passionate about passion, too.

  And, yes, perhaps that argument was more than a little self-serving, but he sincerely wanted Caro to be happy. She was someone—a friend—