Falling for the Mysterious Viscount: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  Suddenly, she was conscious that Sophie was still standing there, by her side. What would her sister be thinking, after their argument the night before? Would she be snobbish and rude, dismissing him? Almost against her will, she felt her eyes swivelling towards her, gauging her reaction.

  But she should have known that Sophie could never be like that, even if she disapproved of the man. Her sister was smiling warmly at him.

  “Mr. Hunter,” she said, in a quiet but friendly voice. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

  Samuel turned to her sister, his smile widening. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Beaumont!”

  Suddenly, his friend from the previous evening, Mr St Clair, materialised out of the crowd, standing before them, clutching a glass of champagne.

  “Miss Beaumont,” he said, smiling, as he gazed at her. “What a surprise!”

  Suddenly, he noticed Sophie. His eyes widened slightly in blatant admiration. He cleared his throat, turning back to his friend, staring at him expectantly. For a moment, Samuel looked confused, before realising what his friend was waiting for.

  “May I introduce my good friend, Mr Walter St Clair,” he said, addressing Sophie. “Walter, this is Miss Beaumont’s older sister, also Miss Beaumont.”

  Walter bowed slightly. “Miss Beaumont. It is a pleasure.”

  Sophie curtseyed. Lavinia saw that her colour was a little heightened, too, as she gazed at the man. Lavinia gasped inwardly. Was her sister attracted to Mr St Clair, just a little bit? Judging by the rosiness of her cheeks and the sparkle in her eye, it certainly looked that way.

  Samuel turned to her, edging her a little away from the others. His voice was low and warm, almost confidential, as he spoke.

  “I am simply overwhelmed,” he whispered, his green eyes shining. “I was hoping that I would see you again, of course. You disappeared so quickly last night, rather like Cinderella …”

  She laughed. “Did I lose my glass slipper?”

  He laughed too. “I have it in my pocket, ready to give to you.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment. Time seemed to stretch out like an unravelling thread. Lavinia suddenly felt like they were the only people in the room.

  “It must be fate,” he said eventually, not breaking the eye contact. “I confess I do not know the host and hostess, nor anyone else here. It was Walter who secured the invitation.”

  Lavinia took a deep breath, trying to break the spell that seemed to have fallen over her. She felt like she could stand here, talking to him, forever. She simply didn’t want it to end.

  She glanced quickly at Sophie, expecting to see her looking pained, as she conversed with Samuel’s equally common friend. But her sister wasn’t trying to excuse herself. On the contrary, she seemed deeply engrossed in conversation, leaning in towards Walter St Clair. They were laughing softly together.

  Wonders will never cease, thought Lavinia, surprised.

  “Perhaps it is indeed fate,” she said, turning back to Samuel. “Perhaps everything is happening, exactly as it should.”

  ***

  She couldn’t help feeling that fate indeed had a hand in the matter, when they eventually drifted into the grand dining room, and discovered that Mr Hunter and Mr St Clair were seated opposite herself and her sister.

  She looked down at the place cards, written in elegant black copperplate, in astonishment. What were the chances?

  It appeared that Samuel was equally astonished, judging by the way his eyes widened, when he read the cards. Another of his infectious grins split across his face, as he took his seat, and his green eyes were glowing.

  Lavinia glanced down the long table. Mama and Papa were seated at the other end, near the hosts. They were already engrossed in conversation and didn’t even glance around to see where their daughters were seated. Lavinia let out a silent sigh of relief; neither of them would be bothering her for the evening. She could chat to Samuel Hunter as much as she desired.

  Sophie was already chatting to other people, seated around them. Lavinia recognised a few of them from the previous evening. But strangely, her sister wasn’t using them as an excuse not to talk to the common men seated opposite them anymore. Indeed, her sister kept turning back to Mr St Clair, smiling warmly.

  For his part, the dark-haired man seemed engrossed in her sister, leaning across the table to engage her in conversation. For the entire first and second course, the conversation flowed easily around them. Lavinia was surprised to find that she was actually enjoying herself.

  Samuel didn’t monopolise her; he, too, participated in the general conversation. But when there was a lull, she could feel his eyes gazing at her warmly. She felt like she was glowing from the inside out, almost basking under his open admiration of her.

  “They say that music tames the savage beast,” Mr St Clair declared as he sipped his wine. “If that is the case, I must be a monster! I am tone deaf. I swear I cannot discern the sound of a violin from a trombone.”

  Everyone laughed. “I am sure you are being too harsh on yourself, Mr St Clair,” said Sophie, sipping her own wine, her cheeks aglow. “You will surprise us all, I am sure, by sitting at the pianoforte later in the evening and playing more beautifully than Bach!”

  “Not likely,” said the man, his eyes sparking, as he gazed at her. “If I sat down at a pianoforte this evening, I am afraid I would disperse the whole party, who would run screaming from this house, with their hands over their ears!” He paused. “I do not have a musical bone in my body, much to my chagrin. I am sure that you play an instrument well, though, Miss Beaumont. You look like you were made for the harp, with those elegant long fingers …” His eyes rested on her right hand, clutching her wine glass.

  Lavinia watched as Sophie’s high colour deepened, so that her rosy cheeks were suddenly crimson. She looked uncharacteristically lost for words. But she was saved from a response by dessert suddenly arriving.

  A murmur of approval rippled through the table as the servants placed the cups in front of them. Lavinia stared down at the pistachio flavoured ice. She knew it was called tasses a glace, only because she had been served it at a dinner party at a house near their home in the Cotswolds.

  It was the rage in desserts, served only by people who wanted to keep up with the very latest trends. In their own home, dessert was nearly always pudding or blancmange: plain, filling, and serviceable.

  After dessert, more wine was poured. Lavinia knew that she had probably had quite enough; she was only used to one glass with dinner at home. But she was having such a good time that she didn’t put her hand over her glass. Somehow, it was adding to the ambience of the evening: the laughter, the conversation … and the warm glances of Samuel Hunter, sitting across the table from her.

  “You are from Somerset, Mr Hunter?” asked a young man, sitting next to him on the right. “I have acquaintances down that way that might be familiar with your family. Where exactly are your lands, and who is your father?”

  Lavinia leant forward slightly in her chair to hear his response. She was curious, as well, about where he came from, and his life there. He hadn’t talked about himself, or his life in Somerset, at all that evening. She didn’t know a thing about him, or his regular life, outside of London.

  He seemed to tense a little as if reluctant to talk. “I am sure you do not know my family,” he said tersely. “They are not native to Somerset. As to my lands, they are located outside Glastonbury.” He stopped suddenly, picking up his wine glass, and taking a deep sip. There was a strained silence.

  The man who had asked looked uncomfortable, picking up his own wine glass. Lavinia gazed at Samuel, slightly astonished. Why was he so reluctant to talk about his life in Somerset? He was almost being rude, which was so unlike the open, charming man who had been chatting at this table all evening.

  But Walter St Clair leaned forward, jumping in. “You are not being very forthcoming, old chap,” he said quickly, glancing at Samuel, almost reprovingly. “Do not mind my fr
iend! He is just modest. He owns quite a bit of land, outside Glastonbury, and rents it out to local farmers. He does quite well for himself.”

  The man nodded but didn’t pursue the line of questioning. The next minute, the conversation had moved on, as quickly as a fast-moving river. But Samuel Hunter looked pensive, twirling the stem of his wine glass. For the first time that evening, he didn’t seem aware of her; it was as if he had retreated to some private corner of his soul, deep in reverie.

  Lavinia pretended she was listening to the conversation, but she was acutely conscious of Samuel, sitting quietly. He had suddenly almost become a man of mystery. Why was he so hesitant to talk about his life? Did he have something to hide?

  She glanced at him quickly. She simply couldn’t believe it. He was so frank and down to earth – what you saw was what you got, with him.

  Perhaps he was just unwilling to speak about his life because he was trying to avoid some pain, she thought, sipping her own wine meditatively. Maybe it was the death of a parent, or a sibling. There were many reasons that people didn’t like to talk about their lives, after all.

  Perhaps he was just an intensely private man, in that regard. It didn’t necessarily mean that he was hiding something, did it? He was probably just humble, and ashamed about being a commoner, in such grand company.

  Suddenly, he turned to her as if he felt her gaze on him. Slowly, he smiled. It was as if the clouds that had just overtaken him had suddenly blown away in a strong breeze. His face was open once again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his face contorting slightly. “I was miles away! I have been neglecting you …”

  She laughed slightly, feeling a little giddy with the wine. “There is no need to apologise, Mr Hunter. None at all …”

  “On the contrary,” he said slowly, staring at her. “Not to pay due attention to you, Miss Beaumont, at any time is a travesty. Almost an insult.” He paused. “Have I mentioned how beguiling you look tonight? You look like an angel, descended from heaven, in that shade of white …” His voice drifted off, almost into a whisper.

  Lavinia felt as if all the air in her lungs had suddenly gone. She felt almost winded – like the time that her cousin Freddie had punched her in the stomach, when they had been playing as children, leaving her gasping painfully for air.

  She quivered beneath his gaze. For the second time that evening, she felt as if they were the only two people in the room; that somehow, everyone else had faded away, melted into blackness. It was the most peculiar sensation; quite disconcerting. She felt disoriented as if everything she had known about the world up until now had tilted suddenly and disturbingly.

  What was this? She had never felt anything like it before in her life. She had never dreamt it was even possible to feel this way.

  She was drowning in his eyes. And suddenly, she quite forgot that there was any question mark over his past.

  Chapter 9

  After dinner was over, the guests all drifted back into the parlour, mingling. Lavinia felt pleasantly giddy with the wine, but she knew it wasn’t just the drink that was giving her this delicious, light-headed feeling. It was Samuel Hunter.

  The evening had veered in an entirely new direction because of him. She hadn’t wanted to come here at all, convinced she would be bored to tears. But fate had intervened in the most delightful of ways.

  Even Sophie had relaxed her guard, chatting with Samuel’s handsome friend as if she had quite forgotten her previous rule about not associating with commoners. The pressure was off her to ignore Samuel. She could chat and laugh with him without anyone looking over her shoulder disapprovingly.

  In the parlour, he stayed close by her side, leading her to a settee in the corner, so that they could talk some more.

  “Can I tell you something?” she said as he leaned close towards her. She took another sip of her wine. “You should not be put off or intimidated by people asking about your family or how you support yourself, Mr Hunter. You should be proud of who you are.”

  He gazed at her, smiling. “How so, Miss Beaumont?”

  She took another sip of wine. She felt emboldened; she had never dreamt that she could be talking to him so freely.

  “Because wealth and prestige are false crowns,” she declared, gazing at him earnestly. “The men who wear those crowns are false at heart and puffed with undeserved and unearned pride.” She paused. “I admire your honesty, your humility, and your warmth. I believe that a man like you is far preferable to any nobleman I have ever encountered.”

  He kept gazing at her but said nothing.

  “There is a viscount,” she whispered, leaning closer towards him, “who is rumoured to be in attendance, at this season’s events. But he hasn’t even shown his face yet! How ungrateful and condescending, that this nobleman will not deign to put in an appearance, when probably half of these events are put on in his honour, to impress him …”

  He nodded slightly. Was she imagining things, or had he gone a little pale?

  “It proves my point,” she said, triumphantly. “A man like you would never have such disregard, and yet this viscount is so entitled, he thinks that he can treat people any way that he desires.” She paused. “That is why I like you, Mr Hunter. You are forthright, and honest, in a way that these others never can be.”

  He nodded again. But he did not speak, simply gazing at her. When he next opened his mouth, it was on a different subject entirely. He didn’t acknowledge a single word that she said.

  ***

  Samuel stared at her in dismay, his heart sinking rapidly.

  She had looked so impassioned as she had delivered her little speech about how honest he was, and how she despised arrogant noblemen. Her blue eyes had flashed with conviction, and he realised that she meant every word that she said. That her beliefs were heartfelt. It was not just something she had made up on the spur of the moment, as a mere conversational gambit.

  He knew that her tongue was looser than it would have normally been because of the wine she had consumed that night. In the cold light of day, her opinions on the value of noblemen would probably be closely guarded. But it still made no difference. She genuinely believed what she spoke.

  He was so ashamed; he could barely stand it.

  That speech had been delivered to the man he was pretending to be, rather than to the man that he was. It had been delivered to Mr Samuel Hunter, middle-class landowner. The Viscount Pemberton didn’t exist for her; or rather, he was just some obscure figure, who was keeping himself aloof from high society, out of caprice. The Viscount Pemberton was a person to despise, in her opinion.

  How could he ever reveal his true self to her now?

  He should leave her alone. He should make his excuses, and stand up, walk away from her. He should talk to anyone else at this dinner party – Lord knows, there were enough people here to do it. There were many other beautiful young ladies, as well. It would not even seem strange, to anyone else.

  After all, they were at this party to socialise, and he had been monopolising Miss Lavinia Beaumont for almost the entire evening. It probably wouldn’t even seem strange to her. She might be disappointed, but she would understand, especially if he did it in a friendly way.

  But he found he simply could not do it. He just couldn’t get up and leave her. It was as if he were frozen to the spot.

  It seemed that he just couldn’t resist pursuing her.

  They had spoken freely, the entire evening, on a wide range of subjects. He had never met a woman who had such transcendent beauty, both inside and out. She was strong-willed, yet compassionate, with impassioned opinions.

  She was exactly the type of woman who he had always dreamed about finding. And she would be disgusted with him, once she realised who he really was. Once she realised that Mr Samuel Hunter, middle-class landowner from Somerset, didn’t even exist. That Mr Samuel Hunter was a made up person, rather like a character in a play.