The Vision of a Viscountess (The Widowers of the Aristocracy Book 2)

by Linda Rae Sande

  Her suddenly widened eyes gave away her momentary surprise at Jasper’s ability to sort her name. That she didn’t immediately excuse herself and return to her chair had Jasper feeling a bit of satisfaction.

  “Then perhaps you could escort me on a walk through the gardens?” she replied. “It’s rather warm in here, and I could use some air.”

  Rather surprised at the request—when had a young woman ever asked him if they might take a turn in the gardens—Jasper dared another glance at those who were dancing, wondering if he could catch Lord Devonville’s attention and attempt to let him know he would be removing the young lady from the ballroom. When he couldn’t find the marquess among the dancers, however, he had a thought the man and his new wife might be in the library.

  Probably enjoying a tumble this very moment.

  “Would you like me to fetch your shawl? It’s a bit chilly out there,” he warned, half-turning as he continued his attempt at locating the Devonvilles.

  The woman shook her head. “You’re most kind to offer, Lord Henley, but truly, I will be fine. It is Lord Henley, is it not?”

  A bit hesitant, Jasper finally turned around and offered his arm. “If you insist,” he finally replied “And, yes, I am a viscount.”

  Miss Marianne Slater placed a white kid-gloved hand onto Lord Henley’s arm and allowed the viscount to lead the way to the French doors. Why she had decided to fix her gaze onto the man who now escorted her to the back of the Attenborough’s ballroom, she wasn’t quite sure. When he had walked past her, he hadn’t been close enough for her to see him with any kind of detail—he appeared as blurry as any other attendee at that night’s ball—but the faint scent of lime briefly freshened the air around her. There was also his determined gait as he hurried to reach the exit, a rhythm to his walk that was unlike any of the aristocrats who were in attendance.

  Whatever could have captured a man’s attention so thoroughly as to have him rushing to leave a glittering ball such as this?

  A liaison in the gardens? Illness? Extreme boredom? Heat?

  Well, Marianne could certainly understand if heat was the cause. Although she dearly loved the gown her aunt had arranged for her—Madame Suzanne assured her it was beyond au courant—the long sleeves and silk fabric were rather warm. She couldn’t imagine dancing in this crush. She would probably faint.

  So, out of curiosity, she had allowed her gaze to follow his retreating figure. When he suddenly turned around and made his way back to stand before her, she thought perhaps he recognized her. That perhaps she had been introduced to him at some point in her past and simply couldn’t see him well enough to discern his identity.

  But how was that possible? She had just come from Canobie in southwest Scotland for only her second time in London since her birth, the first one having been the occasion of her birth at Devonville House.

  No one from Canobie would have received an invitation to Lord Attenborough’s ball. Well, perhaps her father would, but only if it was known he intended to be in London this week. And he hadn’t paid a visit to the capital since his oldest nephew, William, joined His Majesty’s Navy, and that had been six years ago.

  But Marianne was sure she didn’t recognize the lime-citrus scent of this man’s cologne, nor his light brown hair. When he spoke, she was very sure she hadn’t heard his voice before.

  Her body seemed to think otherwise, however, for she was acutely aware of the precise fit of her gown, of how her gloves hugged her arms, of how a few of the pins in her coiffure dug into her scalp, of how her breasts seemed to swell beneath the corset her aunt had insisted she wear.

  Aware, and rather uncomfortable in a manner she had never before experienced.

  It’s entirely too hot in here, she thought at the very moment he was close enough that she could make out his features quite clearly. Aristocratic, but not proud. Green eyes, straight nose, high cheekbones, and a complexion that suggested he spent a good deal of time out-of-doors. Riding horses, perhaps, she thought, which would explain the snug fit of his formal attire. His expression suggested a practiced friendliness to which she was immediately attracted.

  So what else could she do but say, “Hello,” and dip a curtsy?

  Then Marianne remembered she had no business introducing herself to a strange man.

  Where are you, Aunt Cherice? Aunt Adele? Uncle William?

  The cool air had Jasper inhaling a deep breath even before his feet hit the flagstones leading to the gardens. Unlike Lord Weatherstone’s gardens, the Attenborough gardens featured row upon row of Japanese lanterns. The ethereal glow from the paper globes lit most of the area behind the house, including the fountain. A statue of Cupid—the very same Cupid who had paid witness to Jasper’s first elicit kiss with Sophie Knox—hovered over the double-decker dishes that made up the base of the fountain. Despite the blindfold wrapped around his head, he seemed poised to shoot an arrow into the heart of whomever dared pay him a visit.

  “Are you sure you’re not too cold?” Jasper wondered as they made their way to a parterre garden featuring tulips and bluebells. Due to the cooler spring weather, few of the flowers were actually in bloom.

  “I’m quite comfortable,” Marianne replied, a sigh escaping as she took a deep breath and reveled in the scents of spring flowers and fresh greenery. “Although I appreciate Madame Suzanne’s creation...” She indicated the gown she wore. “I fear it’s more appropriate for a winter ball.”

  Jasper paused a moment, his gaze traveling over her gown. Try as he might to seem unaffected by the gown—or her in it—he found he couldn’t help but admire her. “Given how chilly it is tonight, you may find Madame Suzanne’s beautiful creation a blessing before the night has ended,” he countered with a grin.

  Marianne angled her head and regarded him for a moment. “Thank you, my lord,” she managed. “Truth be told, I had no idea if it would suit, since I haven’t attended a ton ball before.”

  Jasper considered her claim. “But you’ve been to balls in... where do you live exactly?”

  “Canobie,” she replied. “Every district ball, and all of my father’s soirées, of course. He likes to host one every time a batch of scotch is ready for shipment.”

  Wondering if the attendees at those particular soirées were gifted with any of the casks of scotch, Jasper was about to ask when Marianne suddenly stopped and inhaled. “Roses?” she whispered, her gaze darting about as if she were trying to determine from where the scent of roses had come.

  Jasper did a quick survey of the immediate area and finally found a single bush displaying just two peach roses. Far too early and too cool for the flowers, he wondered how these two had managed to bloom. “Over here,” he said as he led them to the rosebush. He watched as Marianne sought the roses with her free hand, her fingers seeming to first caress the leaves surrounding the meager blooms before they touched the petals. She lowered her face until her nose grazed a peach velvet petal.

  A frisson shot through Jasper as his body imagined how it would feel to have those two fingers caress his body as she was caressing the rose petal. Even gloved, they promised a sensation he hadn’t realized he missed.

  Sophie rarely touched him so. She had never been comfortable seeing him shirtless. Never been comfortable in the marriage bed, although she was willing on the nights he asked if he might join her. He was determined to get a child on her if for no other reason than he believed she needed someone to love.

  Long after what had happened in these very gardens, he discovered she didn’t marry him because she felt affection for him, or because she aspired to marry a lowly viscount, or because he wanted to marry her, but because she had been forced to do so.

  Her father had caught them kissing next to the fountain of Cupid.

  It wasn’t until after Jasper buried her in the family plot in Kent that he discovered she had felt affection for another. A young man who had departed for the Continent as part of Wellington’s army and died near Ligny.

  Jasper ne
ver learned the identity of the other man. Sophie had accepted her fate with such grace, he had no idea she loved another. Even so, he did everything in his power to see to it she didn’t regret their forced match.

  He certainly didn’t.

  Marianne raised her face to his, a brilliant smile appearing. “They’re beautiful,” she breathed.

  Jasper nodded, although he couldn’t take his eyes off of her to even look at the roses. By the dim light of the Japanese lantern nearest them, he still found her eyes arresting. He knew from how she gazed at him that she could see him clearly, so he smiled in return. “There should be some tulips around here,” he murmured as he led her along the crushed granite path to another flower bed. “Do you have a favorite color?” The small parterre garden was edged in tiny clusters of white flowers, but behind those, a row of red tulips were open.

  “I’ve only ever seen red ones,” she replied, bending over to study a tulip, her hand nearly clutching his arm as if she needed it for support. From how close her face was to the tulip, Jasper wondered if she was studying the stamen inside the bloom.

  “There are yellow ones in the next section,” he commented, his gaze taking in as much of the garden as he could make out in the candlelight from the lanterns. He listened for the strains of music that would indicate it was time for the next dance—and the cue that he needed to return the young lady to the ballroom. At some point, her aunt would discover she was missing.

  From the sound of her gasp and the smile she displayed, Jasper realized her delight, and he led her to the next section of the parterre.

  Once again, she bent down and studied the flower, her gloved hand barely touching the bloom. “They must be bright yellow by the light of day,” she commented as she stood up.

  “They are, indeed,” Jasper agreed, as much amused by her enthusiasm as touched by it. He returned her to the path. Directly ahead, Cupid loomed, his bow drawn back as if he were taking dead aim in their direction. “Ah, we’re in the middle of the gardens,” he said with a sigh.

  Blinking when he realized they had come to the scene of the crime, so to speak—the fountain next to which he had been caught kissing Sophie just before he was about to propose marriage—Jasper stared up at the statue of the diminutive Greek god and wondered what to say. Marianne saved him from having to make a comment, though, when she asked, “Is he aiming his bow in our direction? I apologize, but I cannot make out the details from this distance.”

  Jasper allowed a chuckle. “He is,” he admitted. “But whatever do you mean you cannot make out his details?” he asked. Did she refer to Cupid’s rather small genitalia? He is just a boy, he thought.

  Or was she referring to his arrow?

  “I am possessed of very poor eyesight, my lord,” she answered as she turned her attention to him. “I only know it is a statue of Cupid because my aunt warned me I might be kissed in his presence.”

  Jasper furrowed a brow, a bit bothered by both of her comments. “What do you see of him, then?” he asked as he turned his attention back to the marble god, ignoring the comment about the warning she had been given.

  “A blurry white... thing,” she managed to get out. “I can see this bowl in which the water collects,” she added as her gloved hand brushed over the lip of the fountain’s lower bowl. “But he is entirely out of focus.”

  Watching as her gloved hand grazed over the marble’s edge, Jasper once again felt the need to tamp down his sudden arousal. Goodness, but if her fingers touched one more thing besides him, he would be quite jealous!

  What had she just said?

  Something about focus.

  Something he needed to do, it seemed.

  Remembering how she was able to see him clearly up close, he realized she was near-sighted. He moved a bit closer. “Have you been to see the Townley Collection at the British Museum?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, attempting to keep his contempt for the collection’s namesake from coloring his question. The man’s money had been responsible for the plunder of statues from several countries—mostly Italy—and resulted in a plethora of poor copies and stolen relics throughout England and Northern Europe.

  Marianne turned to him as her face brightened in delight. “Why, just yesterday, in fact. My aunt, Lady Torrington, took me to the museum. The manner in which the exhibits were displayed allowed me to see everything in great detail!” she enthused.

  Jasper blinked, well aware he no longer had any control over what was happening behind the placket of his breeches. “So, you found you... enjoyed your visit?” he asked with a arched brow.

  “Oh, enjoy is not the word I would use, my lord—”

  “Jasper,” he interrupted. “Call me Jasper.”

  Marianne blinked. “Jasper,” she repeated in a whisper, her expression suggesting she was testing the name in her mind. Her eyes brightened again. “Thrilled would be a more appropriate term. “Why, I was allowed to stand so close to each and every statue, I could actually see them clearly,” she claimed happily.

  The viscount regarded her for a moment, stunned that a lady would find statues in the British Museum thrilling. God, but she was beautiful when she made such a claim. Happy, too, which was so infectious, Jasper found he could do nothing but smile. And then, when she angled her head and regarded him with an expression suggesting she could see him quite well, his lips were suddenly on hers.

  Despite knowing exactly what could happen if he was caught kissing a young lady in front of the statue of Cupid in the gardens behind Lord Attenborough’s mansion in Park Lane, Jasper Henley could not help himself. Miss Marianne Slater was a jewel. Even if she wasn’t a diamond of the first water, she was of the second, and he wanted to taste her delight. Partake of her joy. Revel in her discovery of the statues in the British Museum.

  Even if they were those from the Townley Collection.

  She seemed just as willing to learn his secrets, for she returned the kiss within moments of their lips touching, and she did so in equal measure. She tasted of champagne and strawberries, and smelled like jasmine in the summer. When one of his arms moved to pull her closer, she didn’t resist but instead moved even closer until the front of her body was pressed against his.

  From somewhere in the back of his brain, Jasper remembered the chill in the night air. He absently undid the button of his topcoat so that he could slip first one arm and then the other out of it even as he continued the kiss. He wrapped the garment around her shoulders, which had her breaking off the kiss to murmur a whispered, “Thank you,” before her lips were once again pressed against his.

  Jasper would have continued the kiss—Jesus, but she was the perfect panacea on this night—but he was suddenly aware that they were no longer alone in their worship of Cupid.

  Not only had the twit shot one of his deadly arrows, but he had done so with witnesses present.

  Again.

  Jasper finally ended the kiss, his forehead pressed against Marianne’s as his eyes squeezed shut.

  Here I go again.

  Chapter 2

  Blinded by a Kiss

  A moment later

  Jasper didn’t want to straighten and look over at whomever stood watching them. He wanted to renew the kiss. Wanted to pull Marianne Slater even closer to his body. Close enough so she wouldn’t feel the least bit of chill. Close enough that they would appear as one body to whomever stood staring at them.

  But propriety had him realizing it was too late for either of them.

  They had been caught.

  Shot by Cupid and caught by...

  Jasper lifted a hand to the back of Marianne’s neck and pulled her head against his shoulder, his lips briefly pressed to her forehead. “Courage, my sweet,” he whispered, girding his loins for what was to come. He finally looked to his left to find not one, not two, but three people regarding him with various expressions of shock.

  The former Cherice DuBois, currently the Marchioness of Devonville, displayed an expression of awe, as if she had just seen her
favorite fairy tale come to life. Jasper was quite sure he heard her whisper, “How romantic,” before she allowed an audible sigh.

  Adele Slater Worthington Grandby, the new Countess of Torrington, blinked and thankfully appeared impressed, as if she might have doubted his kissing abilities.

  William Slater, Marquess of Devonville, displayed an expression that might have been a cross between murderous resolve and disbelief. Or perhaps he was merely experiencing a moment of indigestion.

  “Hullo,” Jasper managed, not about to let go his hold on Miss Slater. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to make out the identities of their interlopers—at least, not until one of them said something—he didn’t want her falling into the freezing water of the fountain, or rushing off into a hedgerow, or trampling the few flowers that had managed to bloom despite the chill.

  “Lord Henley?” Adele, Countess of Torrington, was the first to break the silence, a lorgnette held to her face.

  Jasper managed a bow despite his continued hold on Marianne. “Good evening, my ladies, my lord,” he replied.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Devonville asked, his brows furrowed in a familiar frown.

  “He’s kissing your niece, of course,” Cherice replied on Jasper’s behalf, her comment loud enough to be heard by all five of them. “Cupid shot him,” she gushed. “So romantic.”

  Devonville gave his wife a quelling glance. “So ruinous, you mean,” he countered.

  Jasper felt Marianne stiffen in his hold, but he didn’t dare let go of her. “Miss Slater is completely innocent,” he argued with a shake of his head. “This is entirely my fault. She claimed to find the statues in the British Museum thrilling, and I was overcome by her infectious enthusiasm.” He moved an arm up to Marianne’s shoulder, still covered with his topcoat, as if he expected she might try to escape his hold.