To Vex a Viscount (Lords of London Book 4)

by Tamara Gill

  To Vex a Viscount

  Lords of London, Book 4

  Tamara Gill

  Contents

  Keep in contact with Tamara

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  To Bedevil a Duke

  Chapter 1

  To Madden a Marquess

  To Tempt an Earl

  To Dare a Duchess

  Feed an author, leave a review

  Also by Tamara Gill

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To Vex a Viscount

  Lords of London, Book 4

  Copyright © 2018 by Tamara Gill

  Cover Art by EDH Graphics

  Editor Authors Designs

  Editor Free Bird Editing

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a database and retrieval system or transmitted in any form or any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the owner of copyright and the above publishers.

  Keep in contact with Tamara

  Tamara loves hearing from readers and writers alike. You can contact her through her website or email her at tamaragillauthor@gmail.com.

  Dedication

  For my friend, Serena Clarke.

  Thank you.

  Prologue

  J. Smith & Sons Solicitors, London, August 1812

  Lord Hugo Blythe, fourth Viscount Wakely, stared mutely at his solicitor of many years, Mr. Thompson. He blinked, fighting to comprehend the meaning behind the gentleman’s words.

  Damn my father to hell. Had he not already been dead, Hugo might have killed him himself for playing such a game.

  “I’m sorry, but can you explain to me again what the terms are of my father’s will? I’m not sure it’s making sense to me. You said I must marry within a year? This part I’m a little muddled about.” How he dearly wished there really was some confusion on his part.

  Mr. Thompson, a stout older gentleman with a receding hairline but honest features, threw him a pitying glance and then stared down at the paperwork before him again.

  “The will explains that as per your birthright, you inherit the title of viscount, and Bolton Abbey, along with the London home and the estate in Cumbria and Ireland. However, the dowry your mother brought to the family upon her marriage to your father will revert to her family should you not marry by your thirtieth birthday. I believe that is less than twelve months away.”

  Disbelief sat in Hugo’s gut like a heavy boulder. “Only just. July twenty-third, to be exact,” he said, running a hand over his jaw. How could his father do this to him? Of course, they’d had many discussions–very well, arguments–about his dallying and raking about town without any direction toward marriage, but to do this to him, forcing his hand, was beyond cruel.

  His solicitor placed down his papers and met his gaze. “I suggest that you find a wife before the end of the next season. If you fail to satisfy that clause, the money will go to your uncle in New York according to your father’s instructions. Your uncle has been notified of this condition and is receptive to claiming the money that went with his sister to your father upon their marriage. The clause is quite watertight and cannot be waived. Of course, looking at the financial statements regarding your inheritance, should you lose this money, there will be very little remaining to keep the estates running. You may have to look to leasing them out indefinitely, as you’re unable to sell due to them being entailed properties.”

  A weight settled on Hugo’s shoulders and he slumped back in his chair, not having known it was as bad as all that. “Did Father state exactly who I’m to marry?” He’d certainly spoken loudly enough from beyond the grave with his will, he might as well also state who was acceptable.

  “As to that…” Mr. Thompson said, shifting on his seat and looking a little uncomfortable for the first time during their meeting.

  The weight on Hugo’s shoulders doubled.

  “Your father has stipulated that not only are you to marry before your thirtieth birthday, but you are also required to marry a woman of fortune, as he did. No less than thirty thousand pounds must be her dowry. Your father wrote that he asks this of you to ensure that the family name, and all those who rely on your lands for their livelihood, are kept secure. He also wrote that he believes you are more than capable of this task, and he wishes you well and every happiness in your future marriage.”

  Hugo met his solicitor’s gaze, unable to fathom what he was being told. He’d thought he would have more time before he settled down. He very much enjoyed being an eligible bachelor, but the select, very scandalous house parties that he was accustomed to would all have to stop if he were to find a wife. How dull. A wife. His life was over.

  Mr. Thompson stood, holding out a rolled-up copy of the will tied with dark pink ribbon. Hugo clasped it, the urge to scrunch it up into a ball of rubbish being his first thought.

  “Good luck, Lord Wakely. If you have any further questions, please do not hesitate to call on me. I’m at your disposal whenever you need.”

  Hugo shook his hand, then, swiping up his hat and gloves, strode for the door. “Thank you, sir. Once I have found the poor victim who will become my wife, I shall be in contact.”

  And she would be a victim, for a marriage made in haste, and solely due to requiring funds, would never be a good match. He’d always admired the love match marriages of the couples with whom he associated, knowing he too would desire such a connection for himself. Just not yet.

  He stopped on the cobbled pavement and slammed his beaver hat on his head. Damn. If what the solicitor said was true, and there was no doubt that it was–he had the will in his hands to prove it–then he had to find a wife.

  Eleven months approximately before his time was up. Before his uncle made the trip across the Atlantic and took back what was rightfully Hugo’s. His birthright.

  Well, he wouldn’t have it. He would adhere to the clause, but he would enjoy his final year as an unmarried gentleman as well. There was nothing he disliked more than being told by his father what to do. That his sire had managed this from beyond the grave was not something he’d thought the old curmudgeon capable of, but alas, he was wrong.

  He swore. Eleven months and then, and only then would he find a willing heiress wanting a marriage of convenience, and be done with it.

  In all the past Seasons he’d failed to find anyone who inspired him with anything other than with lust, so, in the next season, he would marry a biddable heiress to secure his properties. A perfectly convenient plan if ever he had one.

  Under no circumstances was he willing to lose his lands, have to lease out his estates, and live off meager funds for the rest of his life. His name would be ruined; he’d be a lord pitied by everyone. The Wakelys had never had to ask for money, and he would not be the first
one to do so. He shuddered. Oh no, that would never do.

  Heiress hunting he would go. Well, in eleven months in any case.

  Chapter 1

  Ten months later. Garden party, London

  “It says right here in Pride and Prejudice that a gentleman in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife.” Lizzie Doherty slapped the book shut and noticed her cousin by marriage, the Countess of Leighton, making an amused study of her. “What are the odds my very sentiments are confirmed in these novels. What do you say, Kat?”

  Katherine laughed, shaking her head. “Lizzie, that unfortunately is not always true, and then when it is, the man usually makes the catastrophic mistake of marrying someone they don’t care about, or even like for that matter. And you’re not a man, you’re a woman in possession of a large fortune, if not known within society, and so it’s you who is looking for a husband.”

  Lizzie stared down at Pride and Prejudice, thinking over her cousin’s words, which unfortunately her last Season in town had proved correct. Despite her connections, no one had offered for her hand, nor suggested they might, in all the balls she attended. It had even started to frustrate her, and she wasn’t normally the type to become annoyed at other people’s decisions or actions. But to be a pariah for an unknown reason seemed peculiar. And now, she’d had enough of it.

  Lizzie came from a family with great connections, even if they were on the poor side of the Upper Ten Thousand. Her own situation was improved when her cousin Hamish, Earl Leighton, bestowed on her a large dowry some six years ago, which had only grown in value over that time due to his investments, or so he’d told her. She was set to be gifted close to seventy thousand pounds upon her marriage, or her twenty-fifth birthday. A tidy sum any future husband would be happy to receive. If one would only ask her.

  Lizzie smiled, giving thanks every day for her mother’s decision to send her to town all those years ago to have her Season with Lord Leighton’s mother, even if she wasn’t the most pleasant woman to be about.

  She sighed as her mother came to join them, flicking her fan shut with a snap. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lizzie, stop sitting here with Lady Leighton and go and stand out on the lawn with the young ladies your own age. You’re the epitome of a wallflower at this very moment.”

  Lord Leighton had thought it best that they keep the fact Lizzie was now an heiress from both their mothers, due to their inability to keep secrets. The last thing they wanted to do was make her susceptible to fortune hunters. And so, at picnics such as the one they were at today, Lizzie had to tolerate her mother’s chastisement over her failure to catch a husband. But it was harder than one thought, especially when all the men believed you were poor.

  “I see your friend Sally has arrived, Lizzie. You had better go say hello,” Katherine said, winking at her.

  “I shall, thank you,” she said, standing and starting toward her friend. She took in the guests at Lord and Lady Hart’s picnic. She had found that a lot of the gentlemen only wanted a rich wife, or worse, were just carousing and seeing if any delectable widows were up for a naughty jaunt in their carriages. Of course, Lizzie wasn’t supposed to know what was happening behind the closed doors of the London ton, but one would be a simpleton indeed if they thought all those who paid attendance on them, made house calls, and had the best intentions outwardly, were always angels.

  A distinct whisper tittered through the guests and Lizzie turned to see Lord Hugo Blythe, Viscount Wakely, join the picnic, bowing to the hosts before walking toward the Duke and Duchess of Athelby.

  Lizzie took the opportunity to watch him, not unlike so many other women at this very moment. But when one was faced with the fine, athletic form of Lord Wakely, one ought to stop and admire the view.

  His lordship oozed the forbidden deliciousness that she shouldn’t know anything about. But if one listened carefully enough at balls and parties, you could always pick up tidbits of information about what society was up to. Who was having an affair with whom, who was a terrible lover or had vices at both table and horses. The things Lizzie had heard her first Season in town, many years ago now, would’ve been enough to make her mother have a turn of the vapours had she disclosed them.

  Now, six years later, she was a well-known wallflower, or at least a debutante too long in the tooth to be considered for marriage. Not that it mattered, due to the sizable dowry she would be gifted either upon her marriage or on her twenty-fifth birthday. And since she was closer to being five and twenty than she was to marriage, the allure of not marrying at all had taken hold in her mind and wouldn’t dislodge. There were worse things in life than being unmarried, such as marrying the wrong kind of man, or having a loveless marriage. Marrying a man who sought the comfort of others, even after their marriage vows were spoken. She would rather remain single and become a spinster than make such an unchangeable, catastrophic mistake.

  Lord Wakely grinned devilishly toward a group of giggling debutantes, but despite his teasing and mirth, not once did he falter in his gentlemanly behaviour. And yet, Lizzie wondered what was really going on behind his dark, stormy blue eyes. What did he really think about being one of London’s most sought-after bachelors? Did he enjoy the attention or merely tolerate it? After all, his lordship even had the ability to make Lizzie’s stomach flutter. Her heart pumped faster whenever their gazes clashed.

  It was a reaction she’d never experienced with anyone else, in all her years dancing in the ballrooms of London. She’d known him for some years now, her cousin having introduced them during her second Season. Although she couldn’t tell what effect she’d had on him, if any, Lizzie had lost her breath a little that day they’d met and never really got it back.

  He seemed to have been born with the most luscious dark hair she’d ever seen, His skin had a beautiful olive tone to it, not pasty white like so many English gentlemen. She took a sip of her champagne, having forgotten to go to her friend, and instead remained standing by the cake table watching him. She pursed her lips, wondering if he had any Spanish blood in the family, with a jawline that looked like it could cut glass, not to mention his perfectly proportioned nose.

  One day someone would snatch him up, make him fall desperately in love with them, and how lucky would that lady be. To wake up each morning next to such a man would be heavenly indeed.

  Her friend Sally spotted her and waved. Putting Lord Wakely out of her mind, Lizzie joined her just as the woman Sally was speaking to, Lady Jersey, bade her good day.

  Lizzie kissed Sally on the cheek and accepted a fresh glass of champagne from a passing footman. “I so wish Mama would stop making me attend these types of events where we’re paraded like cattle at Tattersalls. I’m getting too old to worry about men and marriage, and my mother has a tendency to throw every rich youth at my head, even when it’s quite obvious I’m too old for them and that they’re absolutely in no way interested in me.”

  Sally chuckled, her eyes twinkling in mirth. “You are not too old. Why, for a man, you’re not even considered in your prime. You debuted so young, only seventeen, it is no wonder you’re sick of all these games and courtship dances.”

  Lizzie nodded, agreeing with everything Sally said. Her friend always spoke the truth and without exaggeration. She was truly the best person Lizzie knew, other than her cousin Hamish. “You are right of course. And I will admit the Season is getting awfully stale. I long for adventure. I will tell you this Sally, because I know you’re my friend and as silent as the grave, but if I could, I’d purchase a home of my own, move away from Mama, and procure a cat. Or better yet, lots of cats. I will be well satisfied once all of those three things are complete.”

  Sally shook her head, smiling. “I don’t believe you for a second. I know very well there is a certain gentleman who’d change your spinster ideals in a trice should he court you. What a pity he’s so elusive, even though quite polite to us young, inexperienced females. Although I did hear a whisper that he’s on the hunt for a wife. Perhaps y
ou may be in the running…”

  Lizzie laughed, as understanding dawned. She looked around the gardens and found him without trouble, and inwardly sighed at how darling he was in every way. “How handsome he is. Do you think he knows that every woman in London is in love with him? I wonder if he has any Spanish blood in him. He has the most beautiful olive-toned skin I’ve ever seen.”

  “Why, yes, I think you’re right. From memory I do believe his grandmother was from Portugal. Maybe that’s where he inherited his dark good looks.” Her friend studied him a moment before she said, “Lord Wakely could pass for a pirate–rugged, sun-touched and terribly naughty, from what the gossip rags state.” She grinned, taking a sip of her drink.

  “His outwardly features are to be praised, but he is good at heart too. Why, last year he made a sizable donation to the London Relief Society that the Duchess of Athelby and Marchioness of Aaron run. And he always dances with debutantes new to town, and gives them a good start to their Season. He is never unkind. In fact, I’ve never heard a bad word about him, not regarding his manners or temperament. What a shame there is chatter that he’s after Miss Edwina Fox.” Just the mention of this debutante made Lizzie’s teeth ache. “She debuted this year and is the talk of the ton since her uncle is related to the Duke of Athelby. Well-connected and rich…exactly what all young gentleman seek in a wife, is it not?”