Adam’s eyes widened. “Why ever not? Just because I’ve waited until I’m almost thirty isn’t very different from others of my ilk,” he added defensively.
Shaking her head, Patience sighed and allowed a grin. “It’s not that. It’s that you seem to be in love. First, your sister. And now you.”
A rush of color suffused his face just then. Leave it to his mother to notice what he hadn’t quite admitted to himself. “Oh, I rather I doubt that,” he allowed, not about to admit he wouldn’t know if he was or wasn’t. How did one know such a thing? He frowned, though, wondering about his sister. He’d only seen her once since her return from Switzerland. “Emelia’s in love? When did that happen?”
Patience gave her son a quelling glance. “Probably during Lord Weatherstone’s garden party a couple of months ago,” she replied.
Adam continued frowning. “Hmm,” was all he said. He was about to ask if he knew the man but remembered the real reason for his visit. “I wondered if I might fetch Grandmother’s ring? The one she said I was to give my bride when I found her,” he added.
Arching an elegant eyebrow, Patience regarded her son with a look of surprise. “I’ll get it for you. It’s a bit out of fashion, though. Are you sure you don’t want to find something a bit more modern?”
“Quite sure. I think it will suit my sweeting perfectly,” he replied.
Patience thought it interesting Adam didn’t mention the woman’s name, but she figured she could sort it after a day or two. She was in the business to know such things, after all. “You do realize I’ll have to include an article about you in the next issue of my newspaper,” she warned with a grin.
Adam blinked. “About that. Just what kind of rag has father purchased on your behalf?”
The countess angled her head to one side. “It’s still a secret, dear. But let’s just say I’ll be far more fair and lighthearted in my reporting than the last editor.” She wasn’t about to tell him that the last editor had been his best friend, Felix Turnbridge, Earl of Fennington, and that the newspaper she now owned was The Tattler. Fennington would soon be her son-in-law. Adam’s brother-in-law. Any printable gossip would now be hers to share—or not.
Adam stood up when his mother moved to her escritoire. She opened one of the small drawers on top and pulled out the gold ring on which was mounted a single diamond. Although it was terribly out of fashion—there was little in the way of embellishment—the diamond glimmered in the light from the candle lamp mounted on the small desk.
Patience handed the ring to Adam. “Are you quite sure you don’t want to get her something more modern?” she wondered again.
Her son shook his head. “This will suit my sweeting, I assure you. Thank you for keeping it on my behalf.”
The countess continued to regard her son for another moment before leaning in. “Whatever you do, promise me you won’t be greedy on your wedding night, or you may find your bride won’t welcome you back into her bed for a week or more,” she warned with an arched brow.
Adam blinked, understanding almost immediately to what she referred. He and his betrothed had talked as if they would spend three days in bed, though. Three days before a modiste would come to make her some bride clothes. “I will take care, of course. I promise,” he replied, rather glad his red face wasn’t so apparent in the low light of the salon. He leaned over and kissed one of her cheeks.
“You’ll bring her for dinner,” Patience ordered.
“I will,” Adam agreed, deciding now wasn’t the time to ask if an apartment in Aimsley House might be available.
For now that he was giving marriage a good deal of thought, he rather doubted his betrothed would have much in the way of a dowry, and he suddenly wondered if his allowance would cover a wife.
Suddenly questioning his decision, Adam gave his mother another kiss on the cheek and bade her good night before heading down the hall. He didn’t take his leave of Aimsley House, though.
His curiosity had him seeking his father.
Chapter 18
A Late Night Visitor
Ten o’clock in the evening at Lord Thorncastle’s townhouse
Nigel was about to extinguish the gas lamp in the vestibule when the sound of a town coach had him pausing. A quick glance out the front widow that looked out onto Bruton Street confirmed his suspicions. Someone was paying a visit to one of the houses along the block, and given how the town coach was suddenly parked out front of Thorncastle House, he realized his master probably had a visitor.
As to whether or not Godfrey Thorncastle would receive said visitor was unknown. The man had spent most of the evening in his bedchamber and then in his study, examining the bottom of a crystal tumbler that had held several fingers worth of scotch—several times. The fact that the man could do so and still remain upright in his favorite wingback chair was a testament to how often the man imbibed. What else did he have to do on evenings such as this, though? He was unmarried. He didn’t employ a mistress. He only ever left at night if he was invited to play cards at White’s or share someone’s box at the theatre. As for brothels, well, Nigel was quite sure the man avoided the pleasure palaces only because he never spent the night somewhere other than in his own bedchamber.
He often wondered if perhaps his master preferred the company of other men, but Lord Thorncastle had never entertained any at the townhouse, even for dinner.
Even before the brass knocker made a sound, Nigel opened the front door. Garbed in a dark mantle with a hood hiding her face, the butler wasn’t even sure it was a woman until Lady Lancaster passed over the threshold, lifted her head, and gave him a nod. A calling card appeared in one of her gloved hands and she offered it. “Is Lord Thorncastle receiving callers this evening?” she asked, removing her mantle in a flourish even before he could respond.
The usually unflappable butler was suddenly flapped as he struggled to take the mantle from her, his gaze sweeping down her rather scandalous dinner gown and back up to her elaborate coiffure. He was about to put voice to a response when she said, “I’ll take that as invitation to find out for myself.” Then she simply glided past him, making her way to the very room where she had met with his master less than eight hours ago.
She read the letter, Nigel realized, his eyes lifted heavenward for a moment as he prayed Lord Thorncastle wouldn’t make a cake of whatever was about to happen.
Hanging the mantle on one of the hooks on the vestibule wall, Nigel was half-tempted to eavesdrop on the couple’s conversation, but he instead decided to simply take a seat in the hall and wait.
Elise paused on the threshold of the study, sure Godfrey was in the room. Although she probably should have allowed the butler to announce her arrival, she suddenly had no patience for the niceties.
The pale light from a dying fire was the study’s only illumination, and given the dark leather, wood furnishings, and deep green Turkish carpeting, very little light made its way to the doorway. Once her eyes adjusted from the brighter light in the hallway, she realized her prey was sitting in the very chair he had been sitting in when they had shared tea earlier. She briefly wondered if he had even moved since then. But of course he has. He had to get up to write the letter, she reasoned.
Although she had half a mind to take a step back and have Nigel announce her, she decided instead to simply close the door and make her way to where she had been sitting earlier. Return to the scene of the crime, she thought with not a lot of humor. Dressed in the deep red satin dinner gown and bedecked with a diamond and ruby necklace, a diamond bracelet, and diamond and ruby earbobs, she very nearly glittered in the firelight.
She angled her head as she regarded the viscount. When he didn’t look up right away—she wondered if perhaps he was napping—Elise curtsied. She was about to lower herself onto the divan but thought perhaps she should remain standing. Godfrey Thorncastle might be a viscount, but at the moment, she needed to make him think she outranked him.
“I received your letter,” she
said without preamble.
Godfrey gave a start, the amber liquid in his tumbler nearly sloshing over the edge of the glass. The man seemed to blink several times, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was as if the devil himself had dressed his naughtiest and most beautiful enchantress and delivered her from thin air to stand before him. He was nearly blinded by the flashes of light that sparkled from the jewels she wore. “I didn’t send a letter to the devil,” he managed to get out, his voice sounding rather foreign to his ears. Worse, his tongue seemed to get in the way of his words, and his vision seemed a bit blurry around the edges.
“You’re foxed!” the enchantress accused as her gloved hands went to her hips. The motion only enhanced her décolletage, which had his nether region suddenly responding in a manner unsuitable for mixed company.
Godfrey’s eyes widened in... well, not horror, certainly, for the red-clad vision before him was quite beautiful.
And quite incensed.
His body responded at least, although two parts did instead of the usual one. His member jumped to attention—something that only happened when he thought of Elise Burroughs—as did his legs, which had him standing up rather awkwardly. He bowed, the response so automatic, he didn’t have to give it a second thought. Rather fortuitous, since the issue of his erect member had him wondering how to hide said evidence when he returned to a standing position. The crystal tumbler would have to do the trick, he decided, the hand holding said tumbler moving so it held the nearly-empty glass directly in front of the placket of his breeches. “Elise,” he murmured in awe. At least, he hoped it sounded as if he were in awe.
He was. Truly.
For he had spent several hours that day thinking he might never see her again. “You look... ravishing,” he murmured, hoping his voice sounded clearer than the slurred words that made their way to his ears.
Elise allowed a sigh as she removed her hands from her hips and slowly sank into the divan. Two things had made themselves most evident just then. Besides Godfrey’s member, the man had spent the evening imbibing in what smelled like rather good scotch. “Is there any more scotch?” she asked, thinking she could do with a finger’s worth.
Godfrey blinked, partly because he understood her query perfectly and partly because he sympathized with why she would ask such a question. “Indeed,” he answered, moving as steadily to the credenza behind his oak desk as he could manage given his overactive nether region and his inebriated state. He poured a rather generous dollop into one of the tumblers he found on the silver salver. Lifting the glass, he took it to her, giving her a nod as he placed it into her gloved hands. The position afforded him a glance down the deep, thin canyon that made up her décolletage, although he was careful to keep his glance brief.
He was still trying to hide his nether region with his own glass of scotch. Or what little was left of it. A passing thought had him realizing that Elise could probably see through the nearly empty tumbler. When he realized her gaze was directed at his glass—well, he supposed there was a slight chance she was admiring his onyx ring—he gave up trying to hide anything and finally sighed. “I cannot help it, my love,” he said in an apologetic voice. “I was... thinking of you, and then you were suddenly here. Like magic.”
Elise took a sip of scotch before she directed her gaze back up to his face. He looked ever so sad, she thought. Pitiable, almost. “Perhaps you’ve simply conjured me into existence,” she replied in a quiet voice, deciding it was as good a reason as any to explain her decision to pay a call on the viscount well past calling hours.
“If that were the case, then you would be here all the time,” he replied, sounding ever so sober. “Every day. Especially at night.”
Her eyes widening at hearing his words, Elise angled her head and regarded Godfrey for a moment. “Truly?”
The viscount nodded. “Oh, Elise. I’ve been such a fool,” he said, settling into the chair directly across from her. “I thought the worst of you because I thought the worst of those with whom I thought you were spending your evenings.”
Wincing, Elise wondered if she had made a mistake in coming. Despite their earlier words, he still seemed to believe she had carried on affaires. “Until two years ago, I was married. From the time I was sixteen years old,” she countered, her voice rather firm. “I was completely faithful to Lancaster.” Because I had no choice.
“I know that,” Godfrey responded with a nod. “I’ve known that all along. It’s just...” He paused as he took in a deep breath. “I allowed my imagination to get the worst of me. As easily as I conjure you in my mind’s eye, I conjure others whom I believe are just as besotted with you as I am.”
“Yet I am not in their homes well past calling hours,” she whispered. “Nor have I ever been.” She thought to add that last bit just in case he might think she made it a habit of visiting the homes of unattached men. At night. Or whenever.
Godfrey straightened as he regarded her with an expression of contrition. “I do apologize for my overactive imagination.”
Elise considered how he said the words more than the words themselves. Overactive imagination suggested a creative sort. Or a dreamer. “You’re forgiven,” Elise murmured. She gave a nod and then sighed. “Now, about the letters you’ve sent...”
“Letters?” he repeated, rather relieved his words were no longer slurred. “As in, more than one?”
Elise blinked. “Letters, yes. Two of them.”
The viscount’s brows furrowed into a single line, his expression suggesting he was either experiencing a massive headache or he was extremely confused. He scratched his head and was about to put voice to another query when Elise angled her head to one side.
“I received one yesterday, before the Weatherstone ball. The one in which you first proposed marriage,” she clarified. “The other one arrived just tonight. I read it about an hour ago.” She frowned then, wondering if he had forgotten he had written the declarations of love, or if he had written them whilst deep in his cups and had no memory of doing so.
Godfrey blinked before he suddenly returned to his feet and made his way to his desk. In the near-dark, he gave a quick glance over the surface and then reached down to lift up the basket where he was quite sure he had tossed the last letter he had written to Elise.
The basket was empty.
“What is it?” Elise wondered from where she was still seated in the divan.
“Seems there’s been some other kind of magic happening here,” he murmured, quite sure he had crumpled up his last letter to Elise in a fit of frustration. He set the basket back down onto the floor and returned to his chair. “Was the last letter you received a bit... wrinkled, perhaps?” he asked, his expression still displaying his confusion.
Elise wondered at his question, but slowly realized why he would ask such a question. “Are you suggesting the letter was never intended to be read by me?” Oh, damnation. The only reason she had decided to make the trip to see Godfrey at the ungodly hour of ten o’ clock at night was because the second letter had been so... heartfelt. So full of contrition and longing and, dare she think it? Love?
The viscount allowed a shrug. “Eventually. I just thought to rewrite it. I wanted to be... clear about my apology. About...” He allowed the sentence to trail off before allowing a long sigh.
“I thought your words were crystal clear,” Elise whispered. She took a sip of the scotch and had to suppress the urge to choke as the white-hot liquor made its way down her throat. “Which is why I decided to pay a call.” Her last words were pitched a bit higher than normal.
Godfrey’s eyes widened. “Go on,” he urged as he leaned forward.
Elise leaned forward as well, rather glad when their knees nearly touched. The low table on which the tea set had been earlier that afternoon was pushed off to one side, apparently to give Godfrey more leg room in front of his favorite chair. “I wish to give you my answer and state my conditions.” Despite Godfrey’s suddenly pale appearance, Elise
soldiered on. “I will accept your offer of marriage. In fact, I wondered if perhaps we couldn’t simply skip the formalities and marry by special license?”
It was Godfrey’s turn to blink. “Tomorrow?”
Elise sat back and angled her head to one side. “Well, perhaps in a week or so, actually,” she hedged, not having thought that far ahead. “Besides, I rather doubt you can obtain a license and get married on the same day. Can you?”
The viscount shook his head. “I’ve absolutely no idea. I’ve never been married before, nor have I been tempted enough to even look into the matter,” he admitted, not realizing how his words would sound. “At least, not since I was sixteen,” he clarified.
Elise frowned before straightening on the divan. “Then why have you proposed to me?” she countered, ire evident in her question. Did James put him up to it? she wondered, her thoughts of her brother suddenly rather uncharitable.
Godfrey blinked twice, realizing just then how his words must have sounded. “I’ve never been tempted by anyone but you,” he clarified. “And until two years ago, you were married,” he added with a curt nod.
“But I’ve been out of mourning for a year!” Elise replied, her anger even more evident.
Closing his eyes—he couldn’t bear the thought of her being angry with him yet again—Godfrey stilled himself and wondered how to respond.
Admit to being a coward?
Not yet. Perhaps never.
“If I had proposed a year ago, would you have given my suit any consideration?” he whispered. “Honestly, Elise. I thought you were enjoying the life of an independent woman,” he whispered, trying hard not to make the words sound like an accusation.
Her expression softening a bit—there had been a bit of gossip about her return to London back then—Elise studied the crystal tumbler she held. She remembered how her brother, James, had reacted to her claim that she would be living the rest of her life as an unmarried woman. As a duke, he couldn’t exactly allow her to live without some sort of protection. Lancaster hadn’t exactly left her with much of an inheritance, but with careful budgeting, she could have lived a rather comfortable life in the capital. Instead, James had set her up in a townhouse, ordered the town coach, and given her an allowance as a means to keep her close, keep her from appearing as if she was living completely on her own.
The Secrets of a Viscount Page 12
