Falling For The Viscount

by Lana Williams

  Passion took over as she stepped into the circle of his embrace, the heat of her body mingling with his. He hadn’t been prepared for her response, for his desire to flare even brighter. Her lips were soft and held a hint of spice, just like her.

  The music of the quartet swelled, catching his notice, causing him to remember where they were. He jerked back.

  But she came with him.

  Those lovely eyes held on him for a long moment. Then she rose on her toes to kiss him again.

  His mind went numb even as his tongue traced the seam of her lips until she allowed him entrance. She tasted so perfect. How had he dismissed her all these years, never seeing beyond her mask until coming upon her in the most unlikely place?

  He deepened the kiss despite the warning bells ringing in his head, needing a moment more. At last he eased his lips from hers before the situation went so far awry he couldn’t drag it back.

  “Dalia,” he whispered.

  She nodded jerkily, as though words escaped her.

  “Now is not the time or place for this...” Words didn’t come to him. He didn’t know how to react to what had just happened.

  “I—” She pressed a gloved finger to her lips.

  “We will talk later,” he said. “But we must return to the dance floor before anyone notes our absence.”

  She drew a deep breath then nodded. “Ready?”

  He wanted to shake his head in denial. His gaze swept the area for the nearest exit, part of him wanting to steal her away into the night.

  But no. He needed to think. To weigh this unexpected desire he felt and what it meant. He tucked a strand of her hair back into place then took her hand and placed it on his arm. “Yes.”

  They walked out of the alcove to watch the dancers gliding past. Spencer glanced around to see if anyone stared. Part of him berated himself for giving into his impulse of kissing her, but the rest of him didn’t see how he could’ve stopped.

  “Lettie and Nathaniel are here,” she murmured.

  Though Spencer didn’t feel he had the fortitude to hold a conversation with anyone, speaking with them seemed a better idea than allowing Dalia to raise the subject of her latest quest. That needed to be delayed until he’d discovered a way to convince her that the matter could be dealt with in a better manner.

  He guided her through the crowd toward where the couple stood. Mrs. Hawke smiled in greeting while the captain wore his normal frown, cane in hand.

  “How lovely to see the pair of you,” Mrs. Hawke said as they neared before sending a meaningful glance at her husband.

  Hawke’s sharp gaze shifted between them, but Spencer was pleased he didn’t remark on them being together. He didn’t care to explain the details.

  “You are positively glowing,” Dalia said as she squeezed her sister’s hand.

  “I would say the same of you.” When Mrs. Hawke’s gaze swung to him, Spencer wanted to squirm, a sensation he’d thought behind him along with breeches and hoop trundling. It was as if she believed he was the cause of the sparkle in her sister’s eyes.

  But Spencer knew Dalia always looked beautiful. Her subtle attractiveness was something he’d always admired about her. He even admired the slightly jaded way she watched others as if she expected them to disappoint her at any given moment.

  What he was to do about his feelings for her was another matter entirely. Obviously, he needed to curtail them as they couldn’t lead anywhere. No doubt they would soon pass, especially as his mission became more critical and took more of his time.

  Yet as he studied her more closely, he couldn’t help the pang of regret at the idea that their association would soon be ending. At least it would be as soon as he made her realize the path she wished to pursue held too much risk.

  ~*~

  Jack McCarthy glared at the Intelligence Office in Whitehall as dusk settled over London. The street had quieted but many of the windows still shone with light. His life had been going along quite well until someone in that office had decided to stick his nose where it didn’t belong: in his business endeavors.

  What was he to do except find a way to retaliate? It wasn’t as if he did all this for the fun of it or to thumb his nose at the law. His goal had always been to make money. Granted, he’d been making loads of it of late.

  That reminder lightened his mood.

  He tucked his thumbs into his pockets with satisfaction at the notion of the Intelligence Office being interested in him or his operation. He’d come from humble beginnings, having transformed himself into a man of means. His own father would barely recognize him. Not that he’d acknowledge the man’s existence if he weren’t already dead. He owed nothing to his roots. He was a self-made success in every sense.

  These days, he wore nice suits, had a fine place to lay his head, all the women he wanted, and good food on the table. In his world, he couldn’t have asked for more. And he had no intention of allowing any of that to slip through his grasp.

  To think the government knew his name was both a curse and a compliment. He had yet to decide which feeling took precedent.

  He shook his head, berating himself. The threat needed to be nipped in the bud as quickly as possible. For the first time, he regretted that his biggest competition resided in prison. That left far too many law enforcement resources directed toward him, those that he didn’t own, of course.

  The time he’d spent arranging for information and contacts within the police department and other areas of the government had paid off time and again. While it was one thing to deal with a constable or two, the Intelligence Office was another matter altogether. Had it been shipping those girls from the workhouses to Belgium that had gained their notice? Or perhaps the new immigrants that Charlie Pruett was taking fresh off the boat and providing “lodging” for in brothels? There was always a chance one of their families had discovered what had happened and raised a fuss.

  He supposed it didn’t matter how he’d come to their attention as he wasn’t willing to change any of his operations. Not when those efforts were all highly profitable. The only option was to find a way to eliminate the Intelligence Office’s interest in him and his activities.

  Perhaps he’d send a clear message that he was aware of their investigation and didn’t care for it. Or he could see if he could find a weak link—one he could bend to his will. He had options. He smiled at the thought, gave one last glance at the stately building, and walked away, his mind already working through the details.

  ~*~

  Dalia tapped her toe impatiently as she waited on Bond Street for Spencer two days later. She was early for their afternoon meeting, so there was no reason for her to expect him to have already arrived.

  Except for the idea that the kiss between them had meant as much to him as it had to her. That it had rocked him and his expectations of their relationship—whatever that was—as it had her.

  That he was as eager to see her as she was to see him.

  The last thought had her shifting uncomfortably.

  “Should I wait with you or the carriage, miss?” Jack, the footman, asked.

  “I suppose you should wait with me until the viscount arrives.” She knew Spencer would be most displeased if she waited alone, but she didn’t care to have someone standing over her shoulder. Still, if it prevented them from arguing, Jack’s presence was welcome.

  Since they hadn’t had a chance to further discuss her suggestion of going to Cremorne Gardens, she’d sent a message to him earlier in the day, requesting they meet here to conclude their conversation.

  Not only had they visited with Lettie and Nathaniel at the ball, but they’d spoken with several other acquaintances. In truth, it had been the most enjoyable party in recent memory.

  Had that been caused by Spencer’s presence? Their heated kiss?

  She shook her head. She was reading far too much into the situation than was warranted. They had nothing more than a casual acquaintance renewed by a chance meeting at an unusual loca
tion, a temporary common interest, and now a moment in an alcove.

  Those commonalities might be more than she’d experienced before with a man, but no doubt they meant little to Spencer. He’d most likely gone through all that before in one form or another with someone else.

  She sighed at the depressing thought.

  No matter.

  What she truly wanted was his assistance once again so she could venture to Cremorne Gardens and see for herself what it was like. The idea of speaking with one of the women there had rooted in her mind, someone with a different view of the business than the one Betty held.

  Dalia couldn’t help but relish the prospect of doing something meaningful. With luck, she could help Ruth to understand the danger. Betty seemed too enamored with her life to listen to reason. But Dalia had read more of the situation in The Seven Curses of London and realized the problem of fallen women extended well beyond what she’d learned thus far.

  While some women might choose that life, many others were trapped in it, longing for a way out. What if she could reach one, or two, or maybe even more? She’d discovered a few well-meaning organizations that tried to rehabilitate fallen women, but she didn’t think they were going about it the right way.

  But how could she find alternative solutions until she knew more of their life?

  Her father and mother would be appalled if they knew what she was considering. Lettie might be delighted but would worry too much. Nathaniel would never forgive Dalia if she lured Lettie into a new cause while she was expecting.

  She glanced at the tiny pendant watch pinned to her cloak. Spencer was late—completely out of character for him. When he finally came into view, she sighed with relief even as she shoved back the longing that flooded her. He looked exhausted, with shadows under his eyes and a general weariness to his demeanor. Apparently he’d been out on the town far too late the previous evening. She equally wanted to berate him for not taking better care of himself and run her fingers along his brow in sympathy.

  “Good afternoon,” he greeted her, his manner cooler than she’d expected after the interlude in the alcove. His wary gaze swept over the area as though searching for any potential threat.

  Surely she was mistaken. Why would he do that?

  “You look tired.” She bit her lip, wishing the words hadn’t slipped out. She didn’t want to know what he’d been doing that kept him out so late.

  “I am.” His clipped words offered no explanation. Nor did he appear especially pleased to see her.

  Shoving back the hurt, she turned to her footman. “Jack, you may go.”

  “No, he may not.” Spencer shook his head. “I don’t have much time, and you should have a chaperone.”

  “Oh. Very well.” Something about the weariness etched in his features had her holding back her protest.

  He gestured for her to walk with him. “What was it you wanted to discuss?”

  “I hoped we could set a time for when you’d be free to accompany me to Cremorne Gardens.” She strolled along the edge of the walk, realizing how difficult it was to have a conversation on the busy street with so many shoppers and watchful eyes. “As I mentioned previously, I don’t think it will take long. An hour at most.”

  “No.”

  “No, what?” She turned to look at him, confused.

  “No, I will not accompany you. No, you may not go there. No, it is not an appropriate place for any lady to visit.” He raised a brow. “Any questions?”

  Her mouth opened and closed, but words failed her. “I don’t understand.”

  “Which part? Perhaps you should focus on the word ‘no.’ That should clarify any potential confusion.” He nodded at another man walking past.

  “Perhaps you should adjust your schedule so that you can retire earlier in the evenings. Lack of sleep seems to have put you in a poor mood.”

  The beleaguered sigh he gave had her looking at him once again. “My answer to your request has nothing to do with my sleep schedule. The place you wish to see is too dangerous. I appreciate that you want to help Ruth, but you’ll have to find another way to do so.”

  “Such as?”

  “As resourceful as you are, I have no doubt you’ll come up with something.” Spencer knew he was being rude, but the lady left him no choice.

  Her impulsive nature was going to land her in danger. Added to his frustration was the fact that the memory of the feel of her in his arms, of her lips pressed against his had interrupted what little sleep he’d managed. She was upsetting his life, and he needed to do something about it.

  “I urge you to consider the danger in which you place yourself,” he continued. Yet already he could see by the rebellious glint in her eyes that she wasn’t going to listen.

  “Thank you for your suggestions.” She nodded once, her false smile exasperating him to no end. “My apologies for taking up so much of your valuable time. I’m certain you have other more important items to attend to.” She gave a wave of her hand, giving him the impression she had no idea what those could possibly be, but he’d been dismissed to go do them.

  “Dalia,” he began, wishing he knew a way to make her understand.

  “I must be going. Thank you for your time and consideration.” She turned abruptly to walk back the way they’d come, her bewildered footman looking back and forth between them.

  Spencer was tempted to let her go. But something deep inside him caused him to reach out to grasp her arm, ignoring the people walking past. “Dalia.”

  She halted then slowly turned to face him, her gaze searching his for what he didn’t know. It seemed as if she debated what to say for a long moment. “Do you realize how few people know which of the Fairchild daughters I am?”

  He frowned at her words, searching his memory. He had to admit that he knew of several who couldn’t tell them apart and had overheard her being mistaken for one of her sisters. Yet he didn’t understand why she raised the topic.

  “Do you know my own mother doesn’t always call me by the right name?”

  He frowned. She was easily recognizable to him, different from her sisters in many ways.

  “I don’t know how to explain why this situation with Ruth is so important to me.” She visibly swallowed, making something behind his eye twitch. “But the idea of making a difference, of being memorable to someone, appeals to me.”

  Her gaze held his, the intensity of her expression making his pulse thrum.

  “I would like to help someone. I’m ashamed to admit that one of the reasons behind my wish is purely selfish. But to think that I made a difference to one person would mean so much to me.” Her lashes dropped, hiding those eyes from him and releasing the tether that connected them on some fundamental level.

  But then he realized that was false.

  Her intimate confession allowed him to see a part of her soul, forever connecting him to her. And they had the same goal, linking them a second time.

  One of the reasons he’d started work at the Intelligence Office was to make a difference. To feel like he mattered. So that his existence wasn’t solely to be the spare heir, and he’d made the world a better place. He’d wanted to prove to his father and his brother, and even more importantly to himself, that he, Spencer Campbell, mattered.

  Why couldn’t she be a simple lady who wanted nothing more than to find a suitable husband and raise a family? Then he’d be able to dismiss the growing feelings he had for her. The more he came to know her, the more he realized how complex she was.

  He had no idea how to move forward from here.

  Telling her not to pursue the mission she’d set for herself felt impossible now that he understood how closely it matched his own. But how could he keep her safe if he agreed to do as she asked?

  Chapter Eight

  “...these slaves of the London pavement boast of owning neither soul nor body, nor the gaudy skirts and laces and ribbons with which they are festooned.”

  ~The Seven Curses of London

 
; The next evening, Dalia took several steps in boys’ boots across her bedroom, feeling awkward and clumsy. The clunkiness of the boots as well as the odd feeling of wearing trousers would take some getting used to. She smiled at the sensation as it felt like progress.

  A peek out the window reassured her that darkness had fallen. Everyone in her family except Holly was attending a party. Dalia had pleaded illness in order to remain behind. Her mother had given Holly orders to stay away from Dalia as she didn’t want her catching whatever Dalia had. Having her youngest sister out from underfoot made the plan much easier to implement.

  The hall was empty, the house quiet as she left her room dressed in a working lad’s attire complete with a rough woolen jacket and trousers. Her hair was pinned back ruthlessly and tucked under a cap with a short brim. She nearly stumbled on the back stairs as she made her way toward the kitchen entrance. The servants had retired for the evening though a footman would remain vigilant for her family’s return.

  The alleyway behind the house was eerily silent. She couldn’t think of the last time she’d been out there, especially at night. It felt more like a foreign land than just beyond her rear garden door. A dog barked in the distance, causing her heartbeat to speed.

  Excitement warred with nerves. Spencer was to arrive shortly. She was early once again, but worry as to whether she’d make it out of the house undetected had caused her to depart ahead of schedule.

  Thus far, everything had gone perfectly. Spencer had sent over the clothing earlier in the day. Jack had received the delivery and followed her instructions to avoid alerting anyone else in the house. Secrecy was of the utmost importance with this outing.

  She tugged on the hem of the jacket and tried to adjust the trousers, but the fit left something to be desired. The snugness across her bottom felt odd, but the freedom of moving her legs was quite appealing.

  Glancing about to make certain no one watched, she practiced walking, lengthening her stride, swinging her hands. Was that the way men walked? She frowned, trying to remember how Spencer walked. He had a much more reserved stride. Then again, most everything he did was completed in a reserved manner.