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

by Linda Rae Sande

He felt a good deal of satisfaction when she made no move to do so.

  She obviously didn’t want to end up in a hedgerow.

  Or in the fountain.

  Devonville blinked. Jasper was fairly sure all three of them blinked, in fact, which could only mean they had absolutely no appreciation for the relics in the museum.

  “You do know what this means, Henley?” Devonville asked, one hand raised to point a finger at him.

  Jasper sighed, well aware of what it meant. “I do. I believe I have found a soulmate in your niece, Lord Devonville. Which begs the question. To whom do I ask permission to marry Miss Slater?”

  Cherice’s eyes widened as her clasped hands were suddenly beneath her chin. “Oh!” she managed, looking as if she might swoon at any moment. “It’s only her first ball in London!”

  Adele was far more practical, one finger raised to point at her brother.

  Devonville lifted his chin—both of them, actually—before he furrowed his brows. “That’s a good question,” he acknowledged. “Normally I would say her father, but Donald isn’t due here from Canobie for a week. It would take days for a missive to reach him, and by then, he’ll already be on his way—”

  “William!” Adele said in a hoarse whisper. “You outrank your brother. Give the poor man your permission,” she insisted.

  “Oh, yes, do!” Cherice enthused, her gloved hands clapping together as if she had just paid witness to the opening night of a play at the theatre.

  At the moment, Jasper felt as if he was the star of the play and poor Marianne was the tragic chit about to be tossed into a volcano—or to the Kraken—to appease the gods. Since he was standing to her side, he had no idea what she thought of the proceedings. If she even agreed with what was about to happen.

  “Very well, Henley. I give you permission to marry my niece,” the marquess stated as he straightened in an attempt to match the viscount’s stature. He frowned. “If I remember correctly, you’re about to depart on one of your archaeological expeditions, are you not?”

  Jasper nodded. “I am.” He allowed a wan smile to form, rather relieved he had plans for the near future. Plans for an expedition to the island of Sicily. “Indeed. I have already booked passage to someplace warmer than here,” he replied.

  “Good. Then if we arrange a quick wedding, you can take my niece along. Make it your wedding trip,” Devonville stated, his words more of a warning than a suggestion.

  Jasper felt a good deal of satisfaction when his reply of, “The Kingdom of the Two Sicilies it is, then,” resulted in a collective gasp, including one from the woman he still held in his arms. He could feel her gaze on him, feel how stunned she felt at hearing his words. “That is, if my future viscountess is in agreement?” he asked as he turned his attention back to Marianne.

  Poor girl. Did she have any idea of what had just happened?

  At least she seemed to see him clearly as she stared at him in disbelief before a brilliant smile appeared. “I am,” she breathed, her words almost a question.

  “Very good. Then, I do believe I have the honor of the next dance, my lady,” Jasper said as he heard the unmistakeable tempo of a waltz. He gave a deep bow to their interlopers, offered Marianne his arm, and felt a good deal of relief when she dipped a curtsy and hurried alongside him back to ballroom.

  He couldn’t help but notice how she occasionally glanced in his direction as they made their way, as if she expected him to claim it was all a huge mistake at any moment. “I shall pay a call at the archdeacon’s office on the morrow,” Jasper said just before he opened the French doors leading back into the ballroom.

  “Whatever for?” Marianne asked, stepping over the threshold and turning to regard him as she did so. She remembered she wore his topcoat and slipped it off her shoulders.

  “For a marriage license, of course.” At her blank stare and slight shake of her head, Jasper wondered if she just couldn’t see him or if she was simply unfamiliar with marriage licenses. “It will also allow us to wed in five days, if we wish—without requiring the banns to be read.”

  Marianne could tell he was pulling on his topcoat—although her eyesight was poor, she was close enough to make him out with some clarity. “You truly intend to wed me?” she asked as he once again offered his arm. She wondered what he meant when he referred to the reading of the banns. In Scotland, there was no need for banns to be read.

  Jasper blinked. “Of course.” He captured one of her hands in his and brought it up to his sleeve, intending to lead her to where a circle of couples was already formed and performing the waltz. He stopped, though, and furrowed a brow. “Do you know how to waltz?”

  Marianne shook her head. “I cannot even claim to have seen it performed, my lord,” she replied sadly, still rather stunned she would be married soon. And all because of a kiss in the gardens.

  Disappointment had Jasper leading her back to where he had found her, intending to simply stand with her during the dance. “I’ll teach you,” he said when they were at the potted palm where he had first found her. He wasn’t about to give up on the idea of dancing with her.

  “Here?”

  “Indeed.” He gently turned her to face him, placed a hand at her waist, which had her giving a start, and then took one of her hands in his. “Put your other hand on my shoulder,” he instructed as he straightened his body.

  Marianne did as she was told, but from her expression, Jasper knew she wasn’t comfortable. “Can you... see me?” he asked, one of his brows arching up.

  She nodded. “Well enough,” she replied, a bit hesitant. Although she couldn’t make out his facial features with any kind of detail, she knew it was him from his height and breadth, the color of his hair, and the scent of lime that surrounded him.

  “Perfect. You needn’t see anything else but me.” For the rest of our lives, he almost added. “Now, when I push your hand, you step back whilst I step forward...” He demonstrated the step, relieved when she managed to step back on the correct foot. “Step together,” he said as he guided her somewhat to the side. “And you step forward as I step back.”

  Although she faltered a bit, he kept a tight hold on her and allowed a grin when they were back to where they had started. “That’s it. We just do it over and over...” He continued the steps, rather pleased at how she followed his lead so well. But given her near blindness, he supposed she had no choice.

  A nearby wallflower and her chaperone retreated farther down the wall when they perceived they were about to be trampled. “People are staring,” Marianne whispered hoarsely.

  “How can they not? You’re the most beautiful woman in the entire room,” he countered, silently counting the steps as they moved to the music. He wondered if perhaps her sight was better than he first thought. Otherwise, how was it she knew people were staring?

  Marianne blinked, her face blooming with color as she dared a glance to her left and then to her right. Although she couldn’t see anyone clearly, she was sure she and Henley were the center of attention. “You’re a bounder, Lord Henley,” she claimed.

  “Jasper,” he whispered. “Now I’m going to move us over to where everyone else is dancing,” he added, his hand against her waist pushing her sideways a bit.

  “What if someone...?” she started to ask just as Jasper avoided a collision by pulling her closer to him.

  “I shall protect you, my lady,” he assured her.

  From the way he seemed to survey the space around them, Marianne realized he would protect her. Now that she had the steps down—the entire dance was rather simple—she found she could enjoy it as Jasper seemed intent on showing her off. Not that she could really see well enough to know for certain, but at no point did anyone step on her, nor did her shoulders bump anyone. Soon, she was displaying a hesitant grin.

  A moment later, and they had merged into the circle of dancers making their way around in a huge arc. “I take it you don’t have a subscription to Almack’s for the Season,” Jasper said.
<
br />   Remembering the name from something her aunt had said when she first arrived in London only a few days ago, Marianne shook her head. “Aunt Cherice claimed we would be attending on Wednesday nights,” she replied. “She wanted me to obtain some sort of... voucher?”

  Jasper grinned. “A voucher to dance the waltz. Which you’re doing rather well without,” he said, the idea of wedding the young woman becoming more real. Not so daunting as it had been out in the garden, when he had simply put on a brave face and behaved as if it was his plan all along.

  When they had made their way out to the gardens, he had no intention of being caught kissing Miss Slater. Certainly no intention of having to marry her. And now, not even an hour later, he was once again betrothed to be married because he had kissed a woman next to the fountain featuring Cupid.

  The cur.

  The chubby-cheeked troublemaker.

  The doubly chubby-cheeked, multi-dimpled...

  Jasper blinked as he realized Marianne was regarding him with the most brilliant smile. Christ, but she was beautiful, her bright blue eyes as stunning as her smile.

  “What is it?” he asked as they whirled about in the wide circle of dancers.

  “I do so love this dance,” she replied happily.

  “Then we shall do it at every ball to which we’re invited,” he replied. From the corner of his eye, he could see they were being watched, and not by someone who admired their moves. Given how the music seemed to be ending, Jasper slowed their movement and finally pulled them to a stop when the music ceased. He dared a glance to the man who watched them from the perimeter of onlookers.

  William Slater, Marquess of Devonville, was regarding him with an expression that suggested he had better return Marianne to her aunt and see what his future... uncle? Faith!—His future uncle was a marquess!—wanted of him.

  Chapter 3

  The Situation Becomes Crystal Clear

  Two moments later

  Jasper bowed to Marianne’s deep curtsy and offered his arm. “I believe I must return you to your aunt now,” he said as he leaned in her direction. “Devonville wants a moment of my time.”

  Marianne dared a glance in the direction he indicated, although she couldn’t see anyone well enough to discern their identity. “Thank you for teaching me the waltz,” she managed before she realized she was standing next to her aunt, Cherice.

  Jasper had already lifted her gloved hand and was brushing his lips over the back of it before saying, “I shall call on you tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps we can ride in the park for the fashionable hour?” he suggested.

  Giving her head a quick shake, Marianne’s eyes seemed to widen with fright before she said, “I do not ride.”

  A twinge of disappointment had Jasper rethinking his plans. “Then I shall come for you with a carriage,” he countered with a shrug, relieved when her grin returned, as did Lady Devonville’s, he couldn’t help but notice. As for a carriage, it might have to be his phaeton—he didn’t own a barouche or a curricle.

  He took the marchioness’ gloved hand and quickly brushed his lips over the back, deciding it might be too soon to refer to her as ‘aunt’. “Good night, my lady,” he said with a bow. He gave his intended another nod before turning his attention to Lord Devonville. “You wanted a word?” he asked.

  Devonville regarded the viscount a moment. “Indeed. Let’s see if we might find a bit of privacy in the library.”

  Jasper nearly blinked at the suggested meeting place. Didn’t the marquess know the room would be occupied by a couple in need of a tumble? Why, the marquess had probably been doing that very activity with his marchioness when Jasper took his niece into the garden! “The study might be less crowded,” he suggested when they took their leave of the ballroom. As they moved farther from the crush and down the carpeted hall toward the study, the noise of the ballroom lessened.

  “Pray tell, how long have you known Marianne?” Devonville wondered as they stepped into the study. Although no lamps were lit in the room, a fire provided enough light to see by.

  Jasper was about to reply with, “Who?” when he realized the marquess referred to his niece. The woman to whom he would find himself married within the week.

  Marianne.

  He tried the name in his head and decided it suited his betrothed perfectly. “About an hour and... perhaps ten minutes. I just met her this evening, it’s true,” he admitted. “Where have you been hiding her?”

  Devonville gave him a quelling glance. “She only just arrived in London three days ago,” he replied, helping himself to a cheroot from the box atop the room’s enormous desk. “This was the first entertainment to which we could escort her.”

  “For the purpose of finding a husband,” Jasper stated, not making it a question.

  Rolling his eyes, the marquess gave his head a shake as he regarded the cheroot. He set it aside, apparently deciding to forgo a smoke just then. “I’m sure that was my marchioness’ intent when she invited the girl to spend the Season with us,” Devonville replied with an arched brow. “Marianne has only been to the capital once before, and that was back when she was born.”

  “So you have been hiding her,” Jasper accused lightly.

  The marquess repeated the quelling glance. “My brother hasn’t been in London for nearly six years, although he’s due to arrive next week.”

  “So he’s been hiding her.”

  Devonville finally shrugged. “Not intentionally, of course. But what’s a widower to do when he lives near such a small village? Marianne is nearly three-and-twenty, but despite her beauty, she has no prospects in Canobie.”

  This bit of information explained much, although Jasper was surprised to learn she lived in the borderlands. Her speech held no suggestion of a Lowlander’s lilt. “Is every man a monk up there?” Jasper asked, trying to lighten a mood that seemed to grow darker as the marquess continued to regard him.

  “She’s blind, Henley. Surely you noticed.”

  Jasper gave a start, despite his intention to appear nonplussed by the marquess’ manner. “She is not blind,” he countered with a shake of his head. “Near-sighted, surely, but not blind.”

  Devonville gave a shake of his own head. “She may as well be blind. She can only see things when they are close up—”

  “A pair of spectacles will solve that problem,” Jasper said with a shrug. When the marquess’ face appeared more pinched than normal, he sighed. “What is it?”

  Allowing a sigh of his own, Devonville said, “Apparently, she has a pair. She was wearing them when she arrived in London, but ever since Cherice welcomed her into our home, she hasn’t worn them. In his last letter, my brother mentioned she went about wearing them everywhere she went in Canobie. Wore them quite regularly. But since she’s been here, she’s quite stubborn about refusing to wear them.”

  Jasper frowned. Had Cherice spoken with her? Explained that eyeglasses were not regarded kindly by the Beau Monde? Which had him wondering why lorgnettes and quizzing glasses were acceptable eyewear for members of the ton, but spectacles were not.

  Half the members of the Royal Society wore eyeglasses, and yet their use was expected if for no other reason than they added an aura of wisdom to men who were already seen as experts in their fields. “How bad can they be?” Jasper countered.

  The marquess rolled his eyes. “Have you ever seen a pair of Martin’s Margins?” he asked rhetorically. “With clear glass lenses?”

  The viscount’s eyes darted to one side, as if he thought he might find the offending eyewear standing next to him. “I may have,” Jasper hedged, realizing he had never paid much attention to eyewear. A few of his colleagues wore spectacles. His uncle used a pair of bifocals when he was doing his books and for reading. They made him appear wiser. Older, too, but then the man was well into his fifties.

  “They’re hideous,” Devonville stated, his thumbs and forefingers forming ‘O’s that he then raised to frame his eyes. “Ugly black circles with even uglier...”
he motioned with his fingers to indicate the hinged sides that had to wrap around the head.

  Jasper grimaced. “Surely an oculist can see to a pair that wouldn’t appear so... hideous,” he countered. Most of the eyewear he had seen had lenses held in gold wire or silver or iron frames. The marquess no doubt referred to eyeglass frames made with tortoiseshell or horn, which would explain their dark color and thick circles.

  Devonville gave a start, as if he hadn’t considered that option. “Oculist?” he repeated.

  “Of course. I’m a member of the Royal Academy. We have a couple of oculists in our midst. Waller is getting on in years, but he still has his practice. He’s the oculist to the king,” Jasper explained, referring to Jonathan Wathen-Waller, an eye surgeon of some renown. “Unfortunately, James Ware died last year,” he added with a bit of sadness.

  In the prior century, Ware had been a partner of Wathen-Waller’s, and when Ware left to open his own shop, Wathen-Waller’s step grandson, Jonathan Phipps, became his apprentice. The young man was proving as adept as his grandfather at treating eye diseases, performing surgeries, and fitting patients with corrective lenses—for those willing to wear spectacles.

  These days, those who were willing were also on the older side. Less likely to be bothered by the dictates of fashion that eschewed eyewear of any kind—other than a lorgnette or a quizzing glass.

  Why eyeglasses were considered a mark of wisdom in Italy, where they had made their debut over five-hundred years ago, but were considered unfashionable in England, was beyond Jasper’s ken just then.

  On his last expedition to Italy, Jasper had paid witness to a stage actress wearing a pair of what he just then realized had to be Martin’s Margins. They featured green colored lenses as a means to protect the eyes from the bright sun. He had watched as she proudly made her way across a piazza to an outdoor cafe, the noon-day light rather harsh. During her luncheon with a friend, a half-dozen people approached her table and commented on how stylish her ‘sunglasses’ appeared.