by Emma Evans
Stephen tried not to roll his eyes, mentally counting just how many eligible ladies Viscount Morton had declared his love for over the last few months.
“I know what you are going to say, Radcliffe,” Morton continued with a sniff.
“Then I shall not even bother to open my mouth,” Stephen interrupted before Morton could continue. “My lecture shall remain unspoken, my concern and apprehension kept to myself.”
Morton turned away, walking towards the large window in the drawing room that overlooked the London streets. “Good,” came the eventual response, as the man shrugged his shoulders. “I do not want to hear it anyway.”
Stephen said nothing, just as he had promised, and instead concentrated on savoring his brandy. That was one good thing about Morton—he always had excellent brandy on offer and Stephen had always enjoyed a glass or two.
The silence stretched between them, although a small smile lingered on Stephen’s lips. Morton was doing his best to remain nonchalant, trying to pretend that he did not care one jot about Stephen’s opinion, yet his straight, taut stance told Stephen otherwise.
“Oh, very well!” Morton exclaimed, storming back over towards Stephen and throwing himself into a chair. “Go on, give me your lecture! Tell me what a fool I am being.”
“You are being a fool,” Stephen replied quietly. “You are throwing yourself into matrimony with a chit you barely know.”
Morton frowned. “A month’s acquaintance is hardly to be mocked, Radcliffe.”
“And how long have you been courting her?”
Stephen watched as Morton’s expression grew a little uncomfortable. Morton shifted in his chair, folding and unfolding his hands.
“Well,” he muttered, shrugging, “it has not been of a particularly long duration but it is long enough for me to know how I feel about the girl!”
Stephen resisted the urge to get up and shake Morton until his teeth rattled. The man thought himself in love almost every month with an entirely different young lady each time—although this was the first time he had mentioned matrimony which, in fact, worried Stephen somewhat. “As I said,” he murmured through gritted teeth, “you hardly know the lady. How can you tell if she will make the remainder of your years both happy and joyous?”
“It is better than being alone,” Morton replied, with a lift of his eyebrow. “And besides, you know full well that I need to produce an heir.”
Laughter erupted from Stephen’s lips, making Morton frown with displeasure. “You’re speaking as though you’re an old man with very little life left in you!” he exclaimed, equally frustrated and amused by Morton’s response. “Come now, man! You have years left before you need worry about an heir and, until then, you have your brother, do you not?”
“In case I should die, is that what you mean?” Morton asked dryly.
Lifting his glass in Morton’s direction, Stephen nodded, unable to keep the smile from his face. “Precisely,” he declared, grinning. “After all, I care very little for such things and I am quite content.”
Morton, however, did not smile. Instead, he shook his head, a wistfulness in his eyes. “Oh, but you have not met the lady,” he said softly, his gaze drifting away from Stephen. “She is beauty and light all wrapped up together. She is charming and utterly delightful. I cannot help but hang on every word she speaks.”
Stephen threw back the rest of his brandy before immediately pouring himself another measure. “And does she speak often?” he asked wryly. “Or is she one of the chits who likes to hang onto your arm and simply bat her eyelashes at all and sundry? You know she cannot really care for you, Morton. Surely you cannot have been so hoodwinked already!”
Much to Stephen’s surprise, Morton’s face began to grow red, his brows furrowing together.
“Do not speak of her so!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet. “You know nothing of her! I shall have you know that she is both quick-witted and intelligent, much to my delight. She cares a great deal for me, I am quite sure—although she has never spoken of her affections. It would not be proper, of course.”
A twinge of worry sprang up in Stephen’s heart. This was the first time his friend had appeared so enamored with a particular young lady and it did not seem as though it would be all that easy to prevent him from taking the next step of proposing to her. Stephen simply wanted the best for his friend and experience had taught him that most eligible young ladies were not looking for any kind of affection in marriage, but rather an improvement to either their own fortune or family titles. Given that both he and Viscount Morton were of good breeding and came with a great deal of wealth to their name, it came as no surprise that Morton found himself surrounded by young ladies and, on occasion, their mamas all seeking an acquaintance with him. It had happened to Stephen a great many times but he always brushed them off, often appearing quite rude, but he would rather that than be expected to dance attendance on any milk-and-water misses who cared nothing for him.
Morton, on the other hand, lapped up all the attention and thus was as much of the problem as they were.
“Very well,” Stephen replied, wondering if perhaps another tack might work. “I shall meet this lady of yours but only if you promise me you will not propose until I have done so.”
Morton’s expression brightened at once. “Truly?”
“Truly!” Stephen repeated, getting up to pour his friend another brandy. “And, if I can steal her from you, then you will know that she never cared a jot for you.”
He grinned as Morton blinked once, then twice, his mouth falling open.
“Wh—what do you mean, steal her from me?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Stephen replied easily. “You are convinced this lady cares for you, that she will be a wonderful wife who shares her affections without question. You insist that you are as deeply in love with her as she is with you, yet she has never spoken a word of how she feels.”
“That is because she is shy!”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Regardless, I intend to have this lady prove her affection to you.”
“By attempting to steal her from me?”
Chuckling at the angry tip of his friend’s mouth, Stephen nodded. “Well, how else can you be sure of her affections? You know I have very little interest in marrying at this particular time so you need not fear that I will lose my head and fall head over heels in love with her!”
Smiling to himself, Stephen watched as Morton considered the idea, clearly battling against the desire to tell Stephen to go throw himself in the Thames.
“It would prove to you that she cares for you,” Stephen said, a little more slowly. “And it would show me that I am quite wrong in this matter.”
“And you will apologize profusely if—when—you are proven to be incorrect?” Morton replied, his frown deepening.
“Of course.”
Lord Morton lifted his chin, a calculating look in his eyes. “Then you will give me that pair of greys.”
Now it was Stephen’s turn to frown. His horses were some of the finest in all of London and Morton knew just how proud he was of them.
“When Miss Stanway does not give in to your charms, then you will hand over your greys to me in recompense for the sullying of her name,” Morton insisted, lifting one eyebrow. “Unless that is too much of a challenge for you?”
“Not in the least,” Stephen declared, ignoring the spiral of anxiety in his chest. “I fully intend to keep my greys and save you from a disastrous marriage.”
Lord Morton chuckled, reaching across to shake Stephen’s outstretched hand. “You are going to lose, old boy. Miss Stanway is the most wonderful of creatures and her affections are true.”
“We will see about that,” Stephen replied, with a lift of his eyebrow. “Just remember, I am doing all this to help you, Morton. There is no ill feeling, I promise you.”
“Of course, of course,” Morton said impatiently. “Now, tell me more about your greys.”
Chapter Two
Stephen could not help but let his eyes rove over the guests filling Lord Featherstone’s ballroom, wondering which one of the young ladies might be Lord Morton’s love. He remained on the balcony for a time, seeing Lord Morton twirl around the floor with one young lady after the other, sighing heavily to himself as he watched. Morton was constantly losing his heart and Stephen was quite sure Miss Stanway was simply another one in the long line of ladies Morton had fallen for.
“Now don’t you go disobeying me, my girl!”
Frowning, Stephen turned his head to see the door to a smaller room open behind him, a loud, harsh voice emanating from it. Slipping back into the shadows, Stephen tried not to listen to the ongoing conversation, aware that this was none of his business.
“I won’t, Papa,” came a small, shaking voice. “You need not shout at me so.”
“I will do more than shout if you fail,” came the harsh reply, sending a chill down Stephen’s back. “You know what is expected. I need this engagement. Your family will crumble into ruin around you if you do not secure him.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
A thump made Stephen jump, as though the gentleman speaking had slammed his hand hard against the wall. A small shriek from the lady in question echoed along the balcony before being swallowed up by the hubbub below.
“Now get out there and do what you must.”
Stephen frowned heavily as a young lady with dark brown hair and a pale yellow dress hurried past him, her gloved fingers wiping carefully at her eyes. Stephen watched her go with concern, holding his breath as the gentleman followed her. By his gait and rather rotund figure, Stephen guessed he was an older man—most likely the lady’s father—and, much to his relief, he did not look in Stephen’s direction. The man walked slowly, chuckling darkly to himself as he rubbed his hands together, and Stephen fought the sudden, inexplicable urge to punch the man directly in the face.
Once the gentleman had moved out of sight, Stephen let out a sigh of relief and moved forward once more to look down at the guests below. He did not like that the man was treating his daughter so but, he realized, it was entirely his prerogative to do so. He could only feel sorry for the girl but that sympathy was all he could extend towards her. Besides, he had other matters to deal with.
Settling his shoulders, Stephen made his way down the stairs, knowing he was going to have to push himself into the throng if he were to meet this Miss Stanway. He did not particularly care for balls, given that so many grasping mamas pushed their daughters under his nose, but it was something he was going to have to put up with if he was to help Morton.
Making his way through the crowd, he nodded and smiled at a few familiar faces, before spotting Morton making his way towards him. Sighing inwardly and preparing to do what he had to in order to stop Morton from being entirely reckless, Stephen lifted one eyebrow and spread out his hands.
“Well? Where is this lady love of yours?”
Morton shook his head, looking a little concerned. “Not here yet, it seems,” he replied, evidently frustrated. “And I was quite sure she was coming.”
Stephen could not help but laugh softly, wondering if the lady herself would put Morton out of mind of marrying her simply by her absence. Perhaps he would not have to do anything at all!
“Dashed shame if she doesn’t appear,” Morton muttered, his head twisting this way and that as he looked all about him. “I was hoping to at least introduce her to you.”
“Are you quite sure she has not found some other suitor to dance with this evening?” Stephen asked slyly. “I mean, if she is as charming as you say, then—”
“Ah hah!” Morton interrupted triumphantly. “I see her! She is just over there, talking to Lady Ferrars. It is no wonder I did not see her, hiding back there in the shadows. Come now, Radcliffe. Let me make the introductions.”
Stephen froze, his eyes on the young lady. He was quite sure that this was none other than the lady from upstairs, the one who had so hurriedly left her father after promising to secure a particular gentleman’s hand in marriage. Stephen had the sickening feeling that the gentleman was Morton, growing both angry and confused in equal measure. He wanted to be furious with the girl over what she was doing but could not help but recall how she had scurried away, clearly overwrought by her father’s demands.
“Whatever is the matter?”
Lord Morton’s frustrated voice met his ears, jerking him from his thoughts. Giving his friend a tight smile, Stephen followed him towards the young lady in the pale yellow dress, his eyes narrowing a little as he took in the slight redness of her eyes. She had been crying. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the lady in question.
“My dear Miss Stanway,” Morton began, as the lady she had been talking to stepped away. “How are you this evening? May I say just how wonderful you look? Truly, you are a diamond of the first water.”
Miss Stanway blushed crimson as she gave a small curtsy. “You are very kind, Lord Morton.” Her eyes strayed towards Stephen’s and as they met his own, Stephen felt his heart jerk in his chest.
“Radcliffe, this is Miss Catherine Stanway, daughter of Baron Stanway. Miss Stanway, may I introduce you to my very good friend, Viscount Radcliffe,” Morton continued with a beaming smile. “He has been very much looking forward to meeting you.”
“And yet, I feel as though we have already met,” Stephen replied, giving the briefest of bows.
Miss Stanway looked more than a little confused. “Oh?” she replied, her blue eyes looking a little lost. “I must apologize for I cannot recall it.”
Thinking it best that he not allow her to know what he had overheard, Stephen chose to make himself as charming as possible, recalling what he had promised Morton he would attempt to do. “Should you like to dance?” he asked, as warmly as he could. “I do hope you have one or two left, Miss Stanway. Lord Morton has been telling me just how wonderfully you dance.” Stephen ignored Morton’s puzzled look—for the man had said nothing of the sort—and continued to watch Miss Stanway.
She regarded him for a moment longer before holding out her dance card, her expression vacant. She did not say anything, not even when Lord Morton secured the card from Stephen straight afterward, signing his name on both the waltz and the supper dance. It was quite clear she was not sure what to do with his attentions, her eyes darting from him to Lord Morton and back again.
“I think this is our dance, is it not?” Stephen said, smiling jovially as the music struck up. “How fortunate that you had this dance free, Miss Stanway. Shall we?” He held out his arm to her and saw her hesitate. It was as though she did not know what to do, afraid of what he might say to her or what he might do once they had stepped away from the relative safety of Lord Morton.
“Do make sure to return her to me, Radcliffe,” Morton chuckled, just as Miss Stanway put her hand on Stephen’s arm. “I have barely had a chance to converse with her yet.”
Stephen chuckled and winked, wanting to keep up as much of a show of goodwill as he could, far too aware that Morton was likely to be watching them as they danced.
As they took their positions on the dance floor, Stephen kept his gaze on Miss Stanway who, appearing chagrined, did not even look at him. Her skin was still pale, her eyes on the ground and, as the music struck up, Stephen saw her start in surprise. He frowned, a little uncertain over her demeanor and her expression but yet wanting to protect Morton from whatever scheme she and her father had concocted.
“Miss Stanway,” he murmured as they came together, “may I say how wonderful a dancer you are. I feel as though every gentleman here is jealous of me!”
She looked at him then, her eyes lit with confusion. Was it that she was unused to receiving compliments or the like? He held her gaze for a moment, wondering what was held behind the blank expression that appeared to remain fixed on her face. Much to his surprise, she did not speak a word to him, not for the entire duration of their dance. She did not smile, she di
d not laugh, she remained utterly silent.
Frustrated with her lack of response, Stephen had no choice but to continue as though everything was quite all right, returning her to Morton and bowing grandly as he did so.
“I thank you,” the lady said, dropping into a curtsy. Her voice was soft, her stance a little relieved, as though glad he had returned her to Lord Morton. There was something in her expression that gave Stephen pause. Was it that she felt unsafe with him? Or was her father watching her from somewhere, ensuring that she did exactly as he asked?
“I do hope I shall be able to dance with you again, Miss Stanway,” he replied quietly, ignoring Morton’s snort. “In fact, you may find me calling upon you at some point, for your beauty has quite entranced me.”
She did not blush nor give him any indication that she was affected by his words. Her mumble of “I thank you” was swallowed up by Morton clearing his throat and, as the music struck up again, leading Miss Stanway onto the dance floor once more.
Click Here to get this book in full: https://emmaevans.gr8.com/
Click Here to get The Viscount’s Conquest
https://emmaevans.gr8.com/
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Preview of The Viscount’s Conquest
