The Secrets of a Viscount

by Sande, Linda Rae

  “Instructor?” Aimsley repeated, a scowl forming on his still-handsome features. “Where in the world did you meet her?”

  Adam sighed. “Outside of White’s. I spotted her as she was walking past the bow window, on her way to Jermyn Street.”

  “A ten?”

  Blinking at his father’s quick query, Adam frowned before he remembered what the number meant. “A seven, actually. At least, that’s what I thought at first. I amended it to a nine after I spent the afternoon in her company,” he added with a sigh. The woman was really a ‘ten’, but he didn’t want his father thinking she was leading him around by his cock. Or that she already had him wrapped around her pinkie. Which she probably could if she wanted him there.

  He was going to make it his mission to be sure he was wrapped around that pinkie. Or the other one. Both, if that were possible.

  Aimsley nodded, apparently satisfied with the explanation. “Do I know her?”

  Screwing his face up in concentration, Adam tried to determine if there would have been a reason for their paths to cross. “I doubt it. She replaced the dance instructor who was fired over what he did to Emelia,” he commented, deciding it was safe to tell his father that much. “Oh, and she also teaches arithmetic.”

  This last bit had Aimsley straightening in his chair, a look of appreciation making his features appear far younger than his fifty-plus years. “Well, that’s good enough for me,” he said with a nod. “God knows, you certainly cannot do math.” He paused for a moment and then frowned, realizing just why Adam was in his study.

  Perhaps the boy could do math.

  “You’re here for an increase in your allowance, aren’t you?” he asked, suspicion evident in his voice.

  Adam managed a look of contrition. “It’s possible we can live in my townhouse—”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “In which case, I won’t require more funds than I’m currently receiving—”

  “You’ll need more rooms within a year. A nursery, certainly.”

  “A bit of budgeting and careful spending, and we’ll be fine.”

  “If you think for one minute I’m going to allow your nine-of-a-bride to live in that hovel you call a townhouse, you are sorely mistaken,” Aimsley announced as he pulled a ledger from the edge of his desk and opened it.

  “It’s hardly a hovel,” Adam countered, rather relieved his ploy at gaining a larger allowance seemed to have worked. “There are seven rooms!” He suddenly scowled as he sat back in the chair. “You really think it’s a hovel?” he asked in a quiet voice, rather offended by his father’s assessment.

  Aimsley lifted his gaze from the ledger and regarded his oldest son for a moment. “You’re a viscount. You’re already serving in Parliament. It’s hardly suitable for you to be living in Green Street if you’re married. You need an address closer to Hyde Park or Grosvenor Square,” he argued. He took up his pen and began to scribble, his writing as furious as when Adam had first come into the study.

  “Do you know of a townhouse available for let? Close to Park Lane or to the Square?” Adam asked carefully. “North Audley, perhaps?”

  “No, but there are agents for that sort of thing. See to it you let them know you’re in the market.” He completed his writing and then lifted a cheque from the desk’s blotter. “This should be enough to cover the first year’s lease,” he said as he handed over the cheque.

  Adam leaned forward and captured the document, one brow rising in surprise at the amount. “Only one year?” he questioned. Good God! He could live in Green Street for five years with what he was holding in his hand!

  “You are obviously unaware of what’s happened to the rents in the fashionable districts,” Aimsley responded, one eyebrow cocked up in warning.

  Giving his father a nod, Adam said, “Thank you. I shall be sure to find the very best property.” He paused a moment and then took another breath. “Would you by chance have an Arabian in your stables you’d be willing to loan me on occasion?”

  Aimsley blinked. “Loan you?” he repeated. “What happened to your three nags?”

  Angling his head to one side, Adam gave a shrug. “None of them are a suitable mount for my bride-to-be, and she doesn’t have any horses of her own,” he explained.

  Leaning forward with his hands clasped on his desk blotter, the earl took a calming breath and let it out slowly. “I shall have your brother see to something appropriate. He’s at Tattersall’s just about every afternoon. We’ll make it a wedding gift.”

  Adam’s eyes widened again. “You’ll do that?” he asked in surprise. “Thank you. And thank you for the cheque. I’ll see to an appropriate house on the morrow.”

  About to resume what he had been doing when Adam interrupted him, Aimsley regarded his son for a moment. “Whatever you do, honor your vows, son. Don’t be seeking comfort in the arms of another, and you will find your bride far more willing to provide comfort, if you take my meaning.” His arched brow emphasizing his warning, Aimsley suddenly pulled the parchment back to the blotter and resumed writing.

  Adam leaned back in his chair and considered his father’s words, a bit offended by his implication. “I am not a rake,” he stated firmly. “Nor have I been in the habit of bedding anyone other than the few women to whom I have made contracts for their services. Those few contracts have all ended,”—the last one nearly six months ago, he didn’t add—“And I find myself quite in love with my betrothed,” he went on, determined to make his father understand how serious he was about marrying.

  Aimsley lifted his head from what he had been writing and regarded his son for a moment. “You have a reputation from your days at university and before,” he replied, his voice quiet.

  “That was nearly thirteen years ago!”

  “Reputations are hard to overcome,” Aimsley countered with an arched brow.

  Adam sucked in a breath. None of his exploits at Eton or at university had involved women. None had been about debauchery or scandalous acts. They had all been simply pranks pulled to make fun of those in power at those institutions. Pranks in the name of fun and frolic. Nothing serious. Nothing that should have followed him to the ripe old age of thirty. “Obviously,” Adam replied sadly.

  “Did you really put a dinner gown on the statue of Aristotle?” Aimsley asked then.

  Blinking several times, Adam shook his head. “It was Plato, as I recall, and only after we learned he preferred young boys to the company of women,” he added with an arched brow that nearly matched his father’s. He wasn’t about to tell his father he had stolen the gown from a window display in a modiste’s shop, especially knowing the gown had been safely returned and purchased almost immediately after the well-publicized incident.

  Aimsley laughed out loud, tears collecting at the corners of his eyes and threatening to spill out after a moment. “Fennington has your mother believing it was you who dressed Aristotle, but I have a sneaking suspicion Fenn was the one who did it.”

  Appreciating his father’s assessment, Adam nodded. “You have that right, Father. He also dressed the statues of Hippocrates and Euclides, but he’ll never admit it,” he said sotto voce.

  Adam took his leave of his father’s study, rather glad he left the man chuckling in his wake.

  He soon sobered after he left Aimsley House, though. He had a townhouse to find and let, although he had half a mind to wait until after the wedding.

  Wouldn’t it be better to have his wife with him when he shopped for a new home?

  Chapter 20

  A Sister Confronts a Brother

  The following morning

  “Has the Duke of Ariley left for Westminster?”

  The question had Jarvis angling his head to one side. The butler of Ariley Place stepped aside as the rather impatient sister of his master stepped into the vestibule.

  “His Grace has not, my lady.” Realizing he couldn’t claim the Duke of Ariley wasn’t in residence, he added, “He’s in the breakfast parlor.” H
e would have led her there, but Lady Lancaster was already halfway down the hall of the Park Lane mansion that housed James and Helen Burroughs, their two-year-old son, William, and their baby daughter, Rose.

  A copy of The Times hid her brother from view as Elise entered the brightly colored breakfast parlor. A footman stood at attention near the sideboard, but he bowed to Elise and seemed unsure of what to do next.

  “Might I have a word with you?” Elise asked, saving the footman from having to make a decision.

  The newspaper moved aside to reveal her brother’s grinning face. “Are best wishes in order, perhaps?” he asked as he stood up. He moved around the table with his arms held out as if he intended to give his youngest sister a hug.

  Elise allowed him the hug but did not return it. “Finally, if I’m to understand my betrothed’s comment,” she countered with an arched brow. “Third time?”

  James inhaled as if to reply but let the breath out in a whoosh. He turned to the footman, and with a quick nod of his head, the servant disappeared into the butler’s pantry.

  “Join me for breakfast?” James asked, his manner unlike any he had shown her before. Ever. He moved to the sideboard. “As I recall, you like your eggs coddled, your toast dry, and your bacon rather overdone,” he said as he started to dish up a plate.

  Blinking at her brother’s act of servitude, Elise angled her head in defiance. “Scrambled, buttered, and just a hint of crispness,” she countered before allowing a sigh of frustration. “You’re not going to allow me to be angry with you, are you?” she half-asked as she moved to take the chair next to his.

  James set a filled plate in front of her and bussed her on the side of her head. “No,” he replied. He returned to the sideboard and poured a cup of coffee, adding milk and sugar before he brought it to her. “But, dear sister, do allow me to explain myself,” he begged.

  Elise lifted a fork, almost tempted to stab him with it. “Explain yourself, then, brother, for I have spent a rather sleepless night wondering how I might make your son the current Duke of Ariley.”

  About to continue the teasing, James suddenly sobered. Light-complected and with hair color that matched hers—although showing more gray at his temples—the seventh Duke of Ariley could have easily passed for a man ten years younger than his seven-and-forty years. He stood nearly six feet tall, his back still straight and his belly still as flat as it had been when he inherited the dukedom in 1785. “I thought I was doing right by you,” he said quietly.

  Rather surprised at his soft words, Elise lowered the threatening fork. “How?”

  James allowed a shrug. “I knew Thorncastle and you were fond of one another, but he was about to leave for Cambridge when he first asked me for your hand, and...” He stopped when he saw how Elise’s eyes widened.

  “He asked for permission when I was... fifteen?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Aye. But then, so did Lancaster. He was already an earl, and I thought I was doing right by you. Making you a countess,” he added. “If I’d had any idea Lancaster was a dishonorable man, I never would have agreed to the match,” he added before Elise could argue.

  “And the second time? When was that?” she asked, thinking it had to have been in the last few months. Godfrey wouldn’t have asked whilst Lancaster was still alive.

  “The week after Lancaster died,” James replied simply.

  “What?” Elise couldn’t help the surprise in her response.

  “He thought there would be a line of suitors asking for your hand when you completed your mourning,” the duke explained with a sigh. “He thought every unmarried man in the ton wanted you for a wife. Still does, I think,” he added as his brows furrowed into a single line. He shook his head as if to clear it, unaware of the effect his words were having on his sister. “You had just returned to London the day before and told me that very night of how awful your marriage was. I couldn’t imagine you would welcome talk of another marriage so soon, so I told him to wait a couple of years. Exactly two years later to the day, he showed up and asked again.”

  Suddenly lightheaded, Elise stared at her brother in disbelief as gray took away the edges of her vision. Her head bobbed a bit before she heard his next words.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” he said as he straightened in his chair and reached over to steady her. “Don’t you go fainting on me, sister,” he said just as his wife entered the breakfast parlor. He moved to stand up, attempting to hold onto his sister at the same time.

  “Good morning... Oh! Elise!” Helen Harrington Burroughs said with a bright smile as she moved to greet her sister-in-law. Her smile soon disappeared when she realized Elise seemed about to faint. She quickly moved to stand behind her, unbuttoning the back of Elise’s gown before loosening the ties of her corset. “Someone’s maid was a bit too enthusiastic this morning,” she said to her husband, an arched brow punctuating her comment. She reached up to buss him on the cheek. “Breathe, Elise,” she added, rubbing the younger woman’s shoulders.

  Elise’s vision finally cleared, and she dropped her head back to give the duchess a wan smile. “Good morning, Helen,” she whispered. “I can’t say as I blame my maid, though,” she added as she angled her head to regard her brother with a look of reproach. She allowed a sigh and was about to admonish him, but James shook his head as if in warning before she had a chance to do so.

  “Had I known then what I know now, I would have given him permission the first time he asked,” James stated as he held out a chair for his wife. “Although, I think I wouldn’t have actually allowed the wedding until after you’d had a chance at a come-out and a Season or two,” he added, his manner suggesting he wasn’t teasing.

  “It wasn’t just because you wanted to be rid of me? I am the youngest. I suppose Lancaster’s offer was...”

  “It wasn’t that at all,” James said with a shake of his head. “But he was an earl. I truly thought you would prefer the title of countess over viscountess.”

  “Now I’ll have both,” she whispered.

  James dared a glance at Helen, who still stood behind Elise. “I’ll be gaining a new brother soon,” he said by way of explanation.

  “Viscount Thorncastle has proposed again, I take it?” Helen guessed as she moved to the sideboard to help herself to some breakfast. “Well, it’s about time, is all I can say. The man’s been in love with Elise since...” She stopped and glanced about. “Is it the footman’s day off?”

  James was at her side in an instant, taking the plate from her and filling it on her behalf. He jerked his head in his sister’s direction by way of explanation.

  Nodding her understanding, Helen moved to take her seat at the table. “When will you wed?” she asked as she moved to take Elise’s hand in hers. “And where?”

  Elise allowed a wan smile. “Eighteen years later than we should have, so... possibly tomorrow. Depends on whether or not he can obtain a special license. As to where...” She allowed a shrug. “I’ve no idea.”

  The stunned looks of both her brother and sister-in-law had her allowing a wan smile.

  “Because you have to?” her brother asked in alarm.

  “Ariley!” Helen admonished him.

  Elise gave her brother a quelling glance. “I could only wish,” she replied with an arched brow before tucking into her breakfast.

  The response only had her brother glowering despite his wife’s attempt to calm him. “Really, Elise. Talk like that will have the tongues wagging.”

  Not about to claim she didn’t care about gossip, Elise gave a sigh. “I’ll marry him. If we’re so blessed, I’ll bear him an heir and a spare,” she said quietly.

  Helen regarded her sister-in-law for a moment. “He loves you, Elise. You can do no better.”

  No better?

  What if not remarrying at all would be better?

  But Elise considered how much she wanted a child of her own. How much better life might be with a man who felt affection for her.

  Finishing her
breakfast, Elise took her leave of Ariley Place and headed for her home. If she was going to marry Godfrey Thorncastle, she wouldn’t be living there much longer.

  There was packing to do.

  Chapter 21

  Two Viscounts in Search of the Same

  Later that day

  Godfrey Thorncastle removed his robes and periwig, ignoring the light conversation carried on by his fellow lords in the dressing chamber in Parliament. Despite having spent that day’s session in a boisterous discussion about parliamentary reform, no one seemed particularly upset by the proceedings.

  Without so much as a farewell to any of his colleagues, he took his leave of the building and hailed a hackney—at the very same time Adam Comber, Viscount Breckinridge, did so. In fact, the two attempted to climb into the conveyance at the same time, each giving the other a stare of annoyance.

  “I am in a terrible hurry,” Thorncastle warned the younger viscount, one foot on the step.

  “As am I,” Adam countered. “I’ve absolutely no idea how late the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office is open,” he argued.

  Godfrey blinked and removed his foot from the step. “It seems we have the same destination in mind,” he replied as he called out, “Doctors’ Commons,” to the driver and stepped up and into the coach. He waved the younger viscount in and watched as Adam removed his top hat and gave him a nod.

  “Much obliged, Thorncastle,” Adam murmured. “I had hoped today’s session would end a bit earlier.”

  “As had I,” Godfrey agreed as he removed his top hat and set it on the bench, at first wondering why Lord Breckinridge would even be at Parliament. He hadn’t yet inherited the Aimsley earldom.

  When Adam noted Godfrey’s expression, he said, “Writ of acceleration. Seems the age of those in the House of Lords was getting a bit high, so I agreed to step in,” he explained.