The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  And mistletoe. We’ll need mistletoe for a kissing bough.

  It was a very good thing he’d already put on his greatcoat, because the thought of kissing Caro had an all-too predictable effect on his cock.

  I almost asked her to marry me last night, but I lost my nerve.

  And then she’d gone back to her room to sleep.

  Just as well. That had given his better sense a chance to reassert itself. He’d never had any occasion to doubt his decision not to marry and get an heir until Caro had appeared on his doorstep less than forty-eight hours ago.

  He should be highly skeptical of such an abrupt change of mind. It was likely some sort of holiday mania. He was being swept up in the Christmas jollity he’d not experienced since he was a boy in Venice. That was the problem. Once the holiday was over and the roads cleared, Caro would leave, and things would go back to normal.

  The thought was not comforting.

  He closed his eyes briefly, remembering last night.

  It had been heaven—with apologies to the Almighty for thinking of something so carnal in spiritual terms. But there had been a spiritual aspect to it. It certainly had been nothing like any other encounter he’d ever had with a woman. It had been far more . . . personal than those.

  Zeus! It was hard to explain, but he’d felt close to Caro in some way that went beyond physical.

  He snorted—earning a startled look from Bert, who was pulling on his gloves next to him.

  Nick smiled and made a show of studying his own gloves.

  Beyond physical? Hell, their bodies hadn’t even joined.

  But our . . . souls did....

  Good God, what poetic claptrap! A holiday mania, indeed! He should see about a spot in Bedlam. He’d clearly lost his mind.

  And yet . . .

  Some sort of connection had been made—or strengthened—last night. He’d felt a part of Caro, even though his cock hadn’t had the pleasure of coming calling, of sliding through her entrance, deep inside her warmth....

  His cock wasn’t showing, was it? It felt large enough to make a tent even in his greatcoat.

  He glanced down to be certain there were no suspicious bulges.

  Even though he’d not entered Caro, he’d felt as if they were . . .

  The only word he could come up with was wedded.

  The experience had been very, very good. It was probably fortunate he’d not risked souring it with a marriage proposal. Caro might have said yes, and that would have been wonderful—or at least it would have seemed wonderful at the time. But she could just as easily have said no. After all, she was an independent woman with her own life—and she hadn’t jumped at his first offer yesterday morning.

  Well, yes, he’d admit he’d bungled that quite thoroughly.

  And his second offer—saying he’d marry her if she conceived—didn’t really count.

  If he’d asked again . . .

  Third time lucky?

  What was lucky? A “no” last night would have murdered the warm, deeply contented happiness he’d felt and have left him a bloody emotional mess. But a “yes” would have condemned him for life.

  He waited for a sense of relief at his near escape to flood him, but instead he felt . . . empty.

  Forlorn?

  He glanced at Caro. She was smiling, chatting with Polly. She certainly wasn’t sending him any longing looks.

  She’s probably regretting the whole thing.

  Of course she was. She had left him last night, right after handing him his handkerchief so he could clean himself up.

  Gah, that had been embarrassing.

  If she’d stayed, he might have asked her then, soiled handkerchief still crumpled in his hand. Or this morning, in bed, warm under the coverlet.

  Why did she leave me to sleep alone?

  Maybe it wasn’t that she’d regretted what they’d done. Maybe she’d been confused and uncertain, too. Maybe she’d been worried that if she stayed with him the whole night, he’d try to engage in some more serious lovemaking.

  To be honest, he’d have been tempted to do so.

  On the other hand . . .

  Zounds! He needed fifteen hands to manage all these silly arguments. He wasn’t used to dithering like this.

  Well, he had a bit more time to mull the matter over. The roads wouldn’t clear right away. At the very least, he’d have today and tonight with Caro. Perhaps by then he’d know his own mind.

  He looked around to see if everyone was ready to venture out into the cold. Caro and Polly and Livy and Fanny all had their coats on, as did Bertram. And Thomas, the footman—he was going along to show them the best places to find what they needed.

  Felix was busy helping Edward put on his outerwear. Nick shook his head. If anyone had told him Felix could be domesticated so quickly, he’d have laughed and thought them mad. And yet, there Felix was, helping a young boy sort out his mittens.

  Nick felt a twinge of . . . what? Jealousy? Envy? Edward had been his shadow yesterday. He’d rather liked it.

  But this was far better for the boy. Felix was going to be Edward’s stepfather. It would be splendid if Felix could bring himself to treat Edward as his own son and spare him the sort of lonely, loveless boyhood Nick had had after his parents had died and he’d come to England.

  It looked as if everyone who had chosen to “enjoy” this freezing entertainment had assembled. The Weasel—Woods, that is—wouldn’t be joining them. He was still working on the stage. And Hughes was polishing his plans for this afternoon’s Nativity play. Parker and his wife were probably in the kitchens—that’s where they’d been since yesterday afternoon—helping prepare the Christmas Eve feast. And Dervington’s spawn and his friend . . .

  They were likely still abed.

  “Shall we—” Nick heard a clatter as if someone—or two someones—were running down the corridor, and then Oliver Meadows and Lord Archibald burst into the room.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Oliver said.

  “Stayed up drinking,” Archie said.

  Oliver frowned at Archie. “And practicing our singing.”

  “Right.” Archie nodded. “We’re ready to perform. Now we want to help gather the greenery.”

  “It was one of my favorite things to do at Christmas when I was a lad,” Oliver said.

  I’ve no favorite memories of the holiday in England. Nick couldn’t keep from looking at Caro. At least not yet.

  This Christmas’s memories might be wonderful—or horrible.

  “Very well,” Nick said. “However, as you can see, we are on the point of departure.”

  “We’ll be quick.” Archie grabbed his greatcoat.

  The two men were quick, and in very short order they all set off into the cold and snow.

  Ugh. Will I ever get used to English winters?

  Doubtful. Nick had lived here almost twice as long as he’d lived in Italy, and the cold still sliced through him.

  If I had Caro to keep me warm . . .

  He looked ahead to where she walked with Polly. He’d meant to offer her his arm, but of course she’d not waited for that. She must have concluded she no longer needed his protection. After all, she had gone back to her own bed last night.

  Well, there was no question she was safe out here in the snow and ice. They weren’t polar bears. If nothing else, the multiple layers of clothing—the coats and hats and scarves and gloves—would limit the amount of insult any man could offer her.

  She laughed at something Polly said and his heart—and even his poor frozen cock—lifted.

  He would try his luck and ask her to marry him. He’d wait until tonight, when they were in their rooms—

  “You seem happy.”

  He startled. He’d been so lost in thought, he’d not noticed Livy approach.

  Livy grinned knowingly, blast it. She was far too sharp-eyed to have missed his reaction. In her line of work, she needed to pay close attention to people, especially men.

  “Of course I�
�m happy. It’s Christmas Eve.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  Well, yes, he deserved that. She knew he didn’t put any stock in the holiday—he’d invited her here for an orgy, after all.

  She nodded toward Caro. “You can thank me for telling her your cock wouldn’t crow.”

  Oh, Lord. Normally he’d raise a quelling eyebrow, but he’d never been successful at quelling Livy.

  Plus his eyebrow was as frozen as the rest of his face. He doubted he could move it.

  It was safer not to look at Livy at all. He watched Caro instead.

  Caro really was remarkable—a woman from the gentry who could converse so easily with everyone. She would make him an excellent wife, even outside the bedroom. She’d be a partner in running his home and estate.

  She’d have much to teach him about those duties, to be brutally honest.

  “I thought at the time she was afraid of the mattress jig,” Livy said, “so I figured telling her you couldn’t dance it would put her at ease.” Livy sent him a sidelong, knowing look. “I’m guessing both her problem and yours are solved, eh?”

  He shrugged. He was not going to share any details with Livy. What had occurred between him and Caro was private.

  That was new, too. In the past, he’d not cared who knew about—or even who observed—his couplings.

  And he hadn’t coupled with Caro. Not exactly.

  Not yet.

  “You should marry her.”

  Had he been so transparent, then? But he was still surprised Livy would say such a thing. She knew he’d sworn off marriage. “Why?”

  Livy smiled. “I like her—even though she may be stealing two of my best workers.”

  “Oh?” He looked back at Caro. Fanny had now joined her discussion with Polly, Bertram following a few steps behind.

  Livy sighed. “Yes. Fanny’s heart hasn’t been in the business for a while, not since she lost her baby.”

  Good God! Fanny had miscarried? He’d not known that. He’d not known she’d been increasing. He never. . . .

  Well, he’d assumed light-skirts knew how to prevent conception.

  No, it was worse than that. Shame flooded him as he realized he’d never given a thought to what happened after he finished a bedroom romp and pulled his breeches back on.

  How could he not have?

  Here I am judging Felix when I might have committed much the same sin.

  He’d always thought he’d been careful, but, well, especially when he’d been younger and establishing himself as Lord Devil....

  He couldn’t swear with one hundred percent certainty that none of the many seeds he’d sown had taken root, could he?

  “Fanny has been wanting to leave, but she’s had no place to go. Caro’s Benevolent Home sounds like the perfect solution.”

  “Ah. Yes. I suppose it might be.”

  I might have a child somewhere—a child without a father.

  His stomach twisted.

  What can I do?

  Nothing. Even if he tracked down every woman he’d ever had relations with—an impossible task—there was no way of knowing, if she had a child the correct age, whether that child was his.

  He stared blankly ahead, appalled.

  And then his resolve stiffened. He couldn’t change the past, but he would change the future. The present. Today. He hoped Caro would marry him and he’d put his raking days behind him, but if she wouldn’t, well, at the very least, he would be far more careful in his liaisons.

  And perhaps he would also contribute to this Benevolent Home as a small way of making amends to women and children in general. If Caro was involved with the enterprise, it must be a deserving, well-run charity.

  “Caro says the Home’s hop grower just got married,” Livy was saying, “to the Earl of Darrow, if you can believe it. So they need someone to help tend the plants. Fanny’s father was a farmer, and her mother had a big flower garden that Fanny helped with, so Fanny knows something about growing things.”

  Livy smiled, perhaps a bit sadly. “She’s quite excited. Says she wants to go there straightaway. Now that Emma Dixon will stay with Felix, Fanny can take Emma’s seat on the stagecoach when the roads clear.”

  Or Caro’s seat, if I can persuade Caro to marry me.

  Livy sighed. “But now Polly wants to go, too. She’s always loved to cook and has even done some brewing.”

  Ah! Caro might be more willing to marry if she knows there’s someone who can take over her brewing duties....

  This was an excellent development—for him.

  He looked down at Livy and frowned. “Will you be all right? I would think it hard to lose two of your girls at once.”

  Livy didn’t keep a brothel, but she did depend on her portion of the income her girls generated. Losing two popular, er, employees at the same time couldn’t be comfortable.

  She shrugged. “Aye. I’ll miss them—I liked them, and they did well for me—but I can find new girls. There are always women coming to Town, eager to live their lives independently, free of overbearing husbands or fathers.” She raised a somewhat cynical brow. “And as long as there are rich, titled men looking for amusement, I can find them work.”

  Right. Rich titled men like me.

  Ice formed in his stomach to match the cold outside.

  She gave him a sly look. “I asked Caro if she’d like to work for me.”

  “You did what?!” Fortunately, that came out as a hiss rather than a shout. What had Livy been thinking of?

  Her profits, of course. She was as much a businesswoman as Caro.

  Livy grinned. “Oh, she turned me down. Unfortunately. She really is remarkably lovely.” She laughed. “As I suspect you’ve noticed. She would have been very much in demand had she accepted my offer.”

  Words clogged his throat. He was angry, and yet he realized he had no standing here. Caro was neither his sister nor his wife—nor, he suspected, would she thank him for interfering even if he were related to her. Still, he—

  Livy shrugged. “I’ll admit I’d hoped at first that after you introduced her to sexual pleasure, she’d reconsider.”

  Horror overcame anger. How could Livy think he’d have anything to do with persuading Caro to join the ranks of the fashionable impures?

  That’s a mite sanctimonious, isn’t it? Don’t turn into Uncle Leon.

  He couldn’t very well disparage a group of women he’d spent so much time with, enjoying precisely the skills his inner Leon was now turning his dead nose up at.

  Though there were those obscene statues on Leon’s mantel . . .

  “I’ll miss you, Nick,” Livy was saying now. “You were always one of my favorite bedmates.”

  Anger and horror changed abruptly to a warm, less-strident emotion. He and Livy had been friends of a sort for years. She might be a whore, but she was also a good person. She’d been kind to him, and she had always looked out for her girls, sometimes in an almost motherly way. Look at how she was willing to let Fanny and Polly go free, thinking of their needs before her finances.

  “I’ll miss you, too, Livy.” Best not be at all ambiguous. “But if Caro will have me, I mean to be faithful.”

  Livy nodded. “I never imagined otherwise.” She patted him on the arm—not that he felt her touch through his many layers of clothing. “I’ve always thought you a monogamous sort. Not all men are, you know.”

  Why would Livy think that? He’d railed against his uncle, marriage, and the succession for as long as she’d known him. He—

  “Now I remember who you are.”

  Blast, that was Archie’s voice. Nick’s attention snapped back to Caro. Dervington’s spawn had come up to her.

  “You’re one of my father’s whores.”

  If Nick had thought he was angry before, he was mistaken. Blind fury exploded through him.

  Here I do have the standing to intervene. This is my estate. Caro is my guest.

  He would brook no insult. He started forward.

&nbs
p; “No, I’m one of your father’s victims,” Caro said—and then shoved the slimy little blackguard into a nice, deep snowdrift.

  “I do like her,” he heard Livy say from behind him, “but the real reason you should marry her is because you like her. In fact, I think you love her.”

  * * *

  Caro sat in the flickering candlelight of the Long Gallery, clapping along with everyone else. The Nativity play had just concluded, and Mr. Hughes and the cast were taking a few well-deserved bows.

  The Weasel—no, she really should call him Mr. Woods from now on—had built a sturdy stage along with a rough stable and other bits of scenery to evoke the proper atmosphere. Mrs. Brooks had found a trunk in the attic full of Nativity costumes from when Nick’s father and uncle had been boys, and Polly and Fanny had mended any that needed attention.

  Mr. Hughes had read the story from his Bible so no one had been required to memorize any lines. Still, Mr. Woods, playing the angel Gabriel, had been overcome by what appeared to be fright the moment he’d seen the audience. Perhaps he hadn’t expected so many people; all the servants were there to watch. In any event, he’d swayed, turned an un-angelic shade of green, and bolted—to the jakes, most likely—leaving his robe and halo behind.

  Livy had leaped into the breach—or, rather, onto the stage. She’d plucked the halo and robe from where Mr. Woods had dropped them and, wings a bit askew, had swaggered into his abandoned role.

  That casting had been exquisitely ironic for this particular gathering, though Caro doubted Mr. Hughes approved of it or of the absurdly dramatic way Livy played her part. The audience loved her, though, cheering and whistling whenever Gabriel was in a scene—and he (or, in this case, she) managed to flit, uninvited, into every scene.

  Emma and Felix had played Mary and Joseph, of course, with Grace as Baby Jesus, and Edward had been a very serious, conscientious shepherd supported by his co-shepherd, Thomas. Bertram, Mr. Brooks, and, much to the servants’ delight, Nick had acted the parts of the Magi. Archie and Oliver—plus Gabriel/Livy—rounded out the cast as the choir of angels.

  To everyone’s great good fortune and relief, Baby Jesus had slept through the entire performance only waking now—and squalling—in response to the audience’s applause.