The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  In her mind’s eye, Caro saw Fanny’s face when she’d looked at Grace. Fanny’s expression had been so full of yearning and loss and misery. “Poor Lady Oakland.”

  Mr. Pearson nodded. “It was ghastly. By the end they were barely speaking.” He shrugged. “Well, by the end they barely saw each other. Lady Oakland had moved her things to the east wing when the London physician who Leon brought down to see her told him to stop all marital relations, that another pregnancy would kill her.”

  Mr. Pearson shook his head. “I think Leon went a bit mad with grief and enforced celibacy then.” He grimaced. “Though I will give him credit for not taking advantage of the maids.”

  Unlike Dervington, the scoundrel.

  “He fell into the deep dismals and—as you know—adopted a very bleak sort of religion.”

  Caro nodded. “And Lady Oakland? What became of her?”

  “She just faded away. The poets would likely say she died of a broken heart. The physician said it was consumption.”

  “Oh! How sad.” Tragic, really. The stuff of poems and plays, but acted out in real life.

  “Aye.”

  They both took a long swallow of wine.

  Poor, poor Lady Oakland. This was why Caro should go back to Little Puddledon. If she stayed here, if Nick actually asked her to marry him and she said yes . . .

  She’d be at his mercy, physically, financially, and emotionally.

  Her throat closed up in panic. I can’t do it. I can’t. Even if I love him, I can’t give anyone that much power over me again.

  “Lady Oakland had been gone about two years,” Mr. Pearson continued, “when we got word the fever had taken David and his wife.” He frowned. “Leon’s first reaction wasn’t sorrow so much as a sort of dark joy that he would finally have control of his heir.”

  “Oh.” Poor Nick.

  Mr. Pearson looked at her. “Even so, I think Leon tried to do the right thing. He’d just forgotten how to love. And that’s what Master Nick needed most: love. He was all of eleven years old, suddenly orphaned, torn away from everything he’d known and dropped on Oakland’s doorstep.”

  “The poor boy.” The words just spilled out, wrung from her heart.

  Mr. Pearson nodded approvingly. “As you might imagine, things did not go well. So, it was not a surprise at all that as soon as Master Nick was old enough to get free of Leon, he ran wild. For years all of us at Oakland have lived in fear that he would do something really dreadful. Gamble away all his money. Marry a notorious light-skirts. Even get himself killed.”

  She nodded. Of course everyone had worried. Their security depended on Nick.

  No, that wasn’t fair. From what she could see—and had heard in Mrs. Brooks’s impassioned speech—the people here sincerely cared about Nick’s welfare. Of course, they did. Most of them had watched him grow up.

  “So, perhaps you can imagine our delight now that we see him showing a marked interest in such a sensible, practical sort of woman.”

  Ah, but they were fooling themselves, seeing what they wanted to see, what they’d long hoped and prayed to see.

  “You don’t know me, Mr. Pearson. None of you do. I’ve only been here—” She paused. How long? It had seemed like a lifetime. “Not even two full days.”

  His brow arched up. “You’re Henry Anderson’s sister, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  And, after her brief stint in Dervington’s house, many would say a light-skirts. No need to mention that. However, no one would dispute that she associated with that class of women.

  “I’m also a brewer and work and live at the Benevolent Home. I sincerely doubt the ton would find me any more acceptable as Lady Oakland than they’d find Livy or Polly or Fanny.”

  Mr. Pearson waved such concerns away. “Perhaps the highest sticklers would cavil about your history, but they would likely also take issue with Nick’s Italian blood.”

  “That’s not the same thing at all.” Though now that Pearson mentioned it, Caro remembered Nick saying something about parents of Society misses looking down their long noses at him.

  Mr. Pearson favored her with a speaking look. “It is to some people. It was, unfortunately, to Leon. I’m afraid he made no secret of the fact that he wished Nick was one hundred percent English.”

  Nick had told her that, too.

  “But it really makes no difference what your past holds, Miss Anderson. It’s the present and the future that’s important. You’ve already had a positive effect on Nick—we’ve all seen it.” He grinned. “He’s even agreed to go over the estate books with me—that’s a Christmas miracle indeed.”

  She had to laugh at that.

  “Oh, Mr. Pearson, surely Nick would have come around eventually.” She hoped. She’d admit she had her doubts. “He hasn’t held the title for even a year yet.”

  Mr. Pearson looked extremely skeptical. “Maybe. All I know is that he’d shown no signs of changing his ways until you arrived. I read the London papers, Miss Anderson. I know the wags call him Lord Devil. His name is never linked to any respectable female’s.” He snorted. “Well, look whom he brought home for Christmas—for a Christmas orgy.”

  Well, yes, there was that.

  “Believe me when I say we will all dance for joy at your wedding and drink to your good health”—he grinned—“and fruitful union.”

  A confusing wave of emotions washed over her. Yes, she was needed at the Home, but she thought she was needed here, too. Nick needed her. . . .

  Nick isn’t the one talking to you, idiot!

  Her good sense finally reasserted itself. Heavens, had she really been on the verge of believing the farce she was acting in? That would never do.

  Mr. Pearson was looking at her as if he expected her to say something in reply, but what could she say?

  She found she was completely incapable of maintaining the charade, either by denying that there was anything more than physical attraction between her and Nick or by encouraging Mr. Pearson to dream of a wedding.

  She took refuge in the Christmas pie, forking a large bite into her mouth and smiling through the crumbs.

  Chapter Nineteen

  That had been quite a supper, Nick thought as he watched Caro pace back and forth across his room.

  He’d watched her downstairs, too—watched her expression grow paler, tighter, more hunted-looking as, after all the food was eaten, the wassail bowl came out and toast after toast was made to their good health—and anticipated fecundity. His servants were clearly ecstatic at the thought of them marrying and, of course, his disreputable guests had joined in the merriment.

  He’d not known what to do.

  Well, what he should have done was nip the matter in the bud the moment he had first become aware of it. When Mrs. Brooks had wished him a happy marriage and many children just before the Yule log lighting, he should have corrected her—as gently as possible. But how would that have reflected on Caro? They had purposely led everyone to believe they were lovers. To publicly proclaim that they’d been swiving just for amusement would make Caro out to be a whore.

  And there wasn’t any way he could publicly announce that they hadn’t done anything of a carnal nature. Who would believe them? They’d been seen together in bed.

  And, in any event, it would be a lie. They had engaged in deeply carnal behavior. Not what people were imagining—and would gossip about—but behavior that went far beyond what an unmarried woman would engage in and likely even beyond what many married women would.

  And it had been wonderful. What he’d done with Caro had felt far more intimate than any of his actual couplings.

  No, to be completely honest, he’d stayed silent when Mrs. Brooks had wished them well and during the many toasts after supper, because he’d wanted what everyone had said to be true. He wanted to marry Caro and have sons—and daughters—with her. And something in the way she’d looked at him when they’d left the Long Gallery after the play and concert to go down to the
servants’ hall had made him think she wanted that, too.

  He’d been very hopeful then that she’d say yes when he asked her to marry him.

  He wasn’t so hopeful now.

  “Did you hear what they were saying?”

  Caro’s voice was shrill. Brittle. Was she going to cry?

  Oh, Lord. He ached to wrap his arms around her, comfort her, take her to bed, and . . .

  He clasped his hands behind his back.

  And then focused on another ache.

  He glanced down. His brainless cock was still obviously hoping to make Caro’s close acquaintance very soon.

  He clasped his hands in front of him and said, “Yes. I heard.”

  The comments had got extremely ribald by the end. That was when he’d decided it was time to retreat, even if that resulted in another round of good-natured, suggestive ribbing and sniggering.

  Well, he’d thought the ribbing good-natured. He was fairly certain Caro had not.

  “At least one good thing has come of this,” she said, her voice still brittle. “There’s no question that I no longer have to share your bed. Certainly Mr. Woods—and any of the other men—will not risk forcing themselves on Viscount Oakland’s bride-to-be.”

  “Right.”

  She looked at him.

  Best be clear. “Right that no one will dare to accost you now. Wrong about it being a good thing you don’t have to share my bed.”

  Her look turned to a glare.

  “That is, it’s good you don’t have to share it. But sharing would still be splendid.” You’re going about this all wrong, you know.

  He smiled. Tried again. “I thought you liked what we did last night.”

  Now she was not only glaring, she looked as if she might spit at him or claw his eyes out.

  Or cry.

  “I certainly liked what we did last night,” he said, probably putting the last nail in his coffin.

  She chose anger over tears. Of course she did. She was Caro. And she didn’t retreat. She attacked. She stepped closer and poked him in the chest. “I told you. I’m a brewer, not a whore.”

  He flinched at hearing that ugly word. “I know that, Caro.” And no one had been saying that downstairs, but he had enough sense to see it would be counterproductive to quibble over that. “But what I was hoping—really, really hoping—was that I could persuade you to become a wife.”

  She stared at him. She couldn’t be surprised by the proposal, could she? Surely, she must know he would have squelched all the suggestive talk in the servants’ hall if he hadn’t had honorable intentions.

  It did look as though she was struggling with herself, which might mean she hadn’t yet cast her decision in stone. He might still be able to persuade her.

  Third time lucky?

  Time to find out. He’d lay everything out while she was still speechless. She would probably scoff at him. A smart businessman—even a good card player—wouldn’t reveal his entire hand at the beginning of the game.

  This wasn’t a deal or a game. He was telling her the truth—his truth. Much as he cringed to say it in such sentimental terms, he was opening his heart to her.

  It was the most terrifying thing he’d ever done. She could very well reject him.

  Zeus, if she does that—

  No. If she rejected him, he’d find a way to get through it. Taking the coward’s way out and not saying anything would be a thousand times worse. He’d torture himself forever with a litany of if-onlys and might-have-beens. Better to find the courage to ask now and know for certain rather than wonder forever.

  “I love you, Caro.” Be completely truthful. “Or, I think that’s what I feel. I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with love of any sort. All I know is that I’ve never felt this way before.”

  She stared at him. He couldn’t read her expression, but at least she was no longer poking him in the chest.

  “Mr. Pearson told me a little about your uncle,” she finally said. “How he behaved when you came here as a boy.”

  Nick nodded. He’d thought that might have been what Pearson had been saying to her when they’d had their heads together during supper. “It was . . . unpleasant.”

  It had been far more than unpleasant. It had been a nightmare, a nightmare that had started months before in Italy.

  He sometimes thought fondly of his childhood in Venice or his school holidays with Caro’s family, but he shied away from remembering the dark time when his parents had died and he’d had to leave Italy. He’d never talked about it with anyone.

  If I want to share my life with Caro, I should share this, too.

  “To be honest, it would have been hard for even a happy man with a wife and children to have dealt with me when I first came to Oakland. I was . . .” He shook his head. There were no words bleak enough to convey how he’d felt.

  “Oh, Nick.” Caro put her hand on his arm, but he hardly noticed.

  “I got the fever first—I and two of my cousins. Mama nursed me, and then, once I was better, she fell ill.”

  Caro made a small noise, low in her throat. A sound of sorrow, sympathy, compassion.

  “And then, Papa got sick, too.” It had been so frightening. His entire world had tilted on its axis. His parents had always been healthy—strong and active, smiling and laughing. Full of . . . life. Now they just stayed in bed, pale and weak.

  He kept thinking they’d get better like he had. That he’d wake up in the morning and everything would be back to normal. Papa would be in his studio painting. Mama would be baking and gossiping with her mother and sisters.

  Nothing had ever been normal again.

  “And then they died.”

  “Oh, Nick, I’m so sorry.” Caro wrapped her arms around him. Hugged him.

  His arms came round her, but he didn’t feel her presence. Not really. He was still lost in the past.

  “I blamed myself at first. Well, for a long time. If only I’d not got sick, my parents wouldn’t have either. They’d still be alive.” And he’d still be in warm, beautiful Italy.

  “Nick! It wasn’t your fault. How could it have been your fault? You were just a boy. And you didn’t ask to take ill.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I know. I finally—years later—came to believe that. The fever ran through the entire village. Almost everyone got it—even my grandparents. Only my parents died.”

  Reason had helped him muffle the pain. These things happened. Sometimes—often—you couldn’t control what life handed you. You could only adjust and endure.

  But when he’d been a boy, when he’d touched his parents’ cold, lifeless bodies, he’d been inconsolable—sad and angry and lost and afraid. Hopeless. He’d wanted to turn back time. He’d wanted to die himself. He’d cursed God and anyone who tried to help or comfort him.

  He’d been wild, like an animal.

  And then, when his fury had started to subside and every day hadn’t begun with a howl of despair, when his loss had turned to a deep, constant ache instead of a sharp, stabbing, breath-stealing pain, Josiah Pennyworth had appeared, come to take him to England.

  And his wound had burst open again.

  “My uncle engaged a man—a traveling tutor—to bring me to him at Oakland. It was—I don’t remember how long after my parents died. My grandparents argued that it was too soon, that I was too young, that I should stay with them for a while longer, but Mr. Pennyworth was adamant.”

  Nick still said that name with bitterness, though none of it had been Mr. Pennyworth’s fault.

  “He had a very official-looking letter with him from my uncle. I was the heir to the viscountcy. I belonged in England. He said we had to leave right then, before the weather changed and travel became too difficult. That my uncle wanted me at Oakland for Christmas.”

  Nick looked down at Caro. “Though I’m not sure why Uncle Leon cared about that. It’s not as if my presence would have made Christmas any less bleak a holiday for him.”

  Perhaps that was why
he didn’t like Christmas—it reminded him of all he’d lost.

  He thought he saw sympathy and understanding in Caro’s eyes. She hugged him tighter.

  This Christmas could be different. It could change everything—will change everything if Caro agrees to marry me. But if she says no . . .

  He closed his eyes as pain twisted his gut.

  No. He couldn’t think that way—the pain and despair were too like what he’d felt as a boy. He would just have to hope he could persuade her.

  And if he couldn’t?

  He would face that if and when he had to.

  “So, my grandmother helped me pack a satchel and sent me off.” She’d given him a hug and a kiss as well, had cried over him, had told him to write.

  But she’d still sent him away with a stranger to go to a stranger.

  Dear God, I’ve never really forgiven her, have I?

  That was something else he must do.

  “By the time I arrived at Oakland, I was . . . Well, I was rather dead inside, I suppose. And it didn’t help that England was so cold and damp and bleak.”

  And I’ve stayed cold all these years.

  He hadn’t realized it before. Why would he? The men and women he lived among, caroused with, were cold, too. They all lived solitary lives, even in the crowded halls of London. The connections they made were only physical—only body touching body—and over in a matter of minutes.

  What he felt for Caro was different. It was deeper. It felt as if it would endure for years, until they both were old and gray. His heart and his mind were involved as much as—or more than—his cock.

  Though his cock would dearly love to be involved as well.

  He tightened his hold on Caro, buried his face in her hair.

  She’s alone, too, isn’t she? Does she feel the same cold? The same loneliness? Or is the Benevolent Home—her friends and her work—enough?

  It was time to find out.

  * * *

  Caro inhaled Nick’s scent, her face pressed against his chest. He was holding her so tightly, it was difficult to breathe. And he was so tense with loss and pain and need. Not physical need. Not yet. His cock wasn’t pushing against her. No, this was something deeper. And it called to her.