The Viscount's Vixen

by JoMarie DeGioia

  “Hmm. Is there some problem with your family fortune?”

  He started. “My father left a bit of unfinished business behind him.”

  “Yes,” Betsy nodded. “The mystery.”

  “What mystery?”

  “Maggie told me of the strange circumstances that took your fortune but left your title and estate intact.”

  His belly clenched. Why was Betsy was so interested in his estate? He wouldn’t speak of it. Not to her. He took a deep breath to calm himself before responding.

  “That’s no concern of yours,” he bit out. “Pray, refrain from commenting on it in the future.”

  “But, surely there must be something that can be done.”

  “Do you think I haven’t done everything I could?” he challenged, coming swiftly to his feet. “Do you think me a fool?”

  “No,” she answered, backing away from him. “I merely thought if we put our heads together perhaps we—”

  “We?” he cut in, his lip curled. “What on earth could a spoiled little girl like you do to help me?”

  Betsy held her hands in fists at her side as she glared up at him. “How dare you speak to me so. I am not spoiled!”

  “Aren’t you?” he asked, towering over her. “Surely your main concern is a man’s fortune and what it could buy you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Then what reason would you give for selling yourself to a man more than twice your age?”

  She raised her hand and delivered a stinging slap to his cheek. Michael brought his hand to his cheek.

  “That was uncalled-for,” he said evenly. “I merely spoke the truth.”

  Betsy fairly shook with her anger. “The truth as you see it,” she said, her voice low.

  He raked his eyes over her.

  “Tell me, then,” he said. “Tell me why you would consider shackling yourself to that old man when it is most obvious you wish to gift me with that luscious little body of yours.”

  When she raised her hand once more, Michael reached out and deftly grasped her wrist. He brought his face close to hers.

  “I think not,” he warned in a growl.

  Betsy’s breath came fast as she fought to free her arm from the iron grip of his hand. She trembled. He sensed the change in her from anger to fear and he released her.

  “My God,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Betsy.”

  Betsy shook her head frantically and backed away from him. He quickly closed the gap between them and gently cupped her face with both hands.

  “Forgive me, love,” he said, brushing her lips with his. “Ah, Betsy.”

  He kissed her then, tenderly. His tongue delved inside her mouth, teasing her until she returned the kiss. She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair as he pressed even closer to her. He nuzzled her ear, nibbling on the lobe. Betsy leaned her head to the side to give him better access to the sensitive skin.

  “Michael,” she breathed, running her hands over his back.

  Michael placed his hands on her round bottom and held her tightly to him, sending shivers through her body. He was certain she could feel the evidence of his arousal pressed against her. She looked at him in astonishment.

  “God, how I want you,” he rasped. “Can you feel how much I want you?”

  She nodded. He unfastened the few hooks at the back of her dress and tugged at the shoulders. His hand reached into her bodice and cupped her breast. She arched toward him, moaning low in her throat. The little sound set him on fire.

  “Do you want me, Betsy?” he whispered, caressing her nipple through her thin chemise.

  “Yes.” Her voice was soft. Hungry.

  “Tell me,” he said, reaching beneath her skirts. “Tell me you want me.”

  “Yes, Michael,” she breathed. “I want you.”

  Michael nodded his satisfaction as he caressed her through her drawers. He could feel the heat of her on his fingers and nearly lost himself. He brought his mouth to her breast. Her nipple puckered beneath him, through her thin chemise.

  “Tell me you won’t marry that old man,” he ordered softly. “Tell me you’ll be mine.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  He lifted his head to stare at her.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  She opened her eyes. “I can’t break my engagement.”

  He pulled away from her, leaving her to lean against the wall. They stared at each other for a long moment, both struggling to catch their breath. Michael favored her with a look of utter disgust.

  “Why, you mercenary little chit!”

  Betsy reached a hand toward him. “You don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I understand perfectly, Lady Elizabeth.” He stepped out of her reach. “You wish to have things precisely to your liking.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “My parents, Michael. My mother is pushing for the match.”

  “No. You wish to have Templeton’s fortune and my passion. Well, in this you won’t have your way.”

  Betsy shook her head again, tears gathering on her lashes. Michael fought to steel himself against her, finding the task nearly impossible with both her passion and her vulnerability so clear. He raked his eyes over her, taking in her tousled hair, her kiss-swollen lips. Her dress hung open, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of rosy nipples through her damp gauzy fabric of her chemise.

  “Michael,” she said softly. “You must understand my position.”

  Her softly spoken command strengthened his resolve. “Your position? Your position as the promised bride of a wealthy earl, I suppose.”

  “Michael.”

  “I suggest you adjust your dress, Lady Elizabeth,” he said coldly. “You look like a common trollop.”

  Betsy sharply drew in a breath. Quiet sobs racked her small frame as she readjusted her clothes, her eyes averted from his. She slipped past him and exited the office.

  Michael watched her leave through hooded eyes. He sat behind his desk, eyeing the basket she had left there. With a growl, he sent both the basket and its few remaining contents spilling to the floor.

  Burying his face in his hands, he cursed himself for ever setting eyes on the girl.

  Chapter 6

  Betsy entered the house and ran up the back stairs. The few servants she encountered appeared to take note of her dress and demeanor but wisely said nothing of it. She reached her chamber and hurried inside. Throwing herself on the bed, she gave in to the tears she’d withheld in Michael’s office. She hugged herself and let them come, wetting the coverlet.

  “Oh, Michael,” she sobbed.

  She’d known from the moment his lips touched hers that he was the man she wished to be her forever. He was the one who made her laugh, who made her feel light-hearted and gay. He was also the one who ignited her passion, who made her want things she couldn’t even begin to imagine. How on earth could she ever marry Lord Templeton?

  But without admitting her sinful behavior, for that was how she viewed her response to Michael’s advances, however could she tell her mother she couldn’t marry the earl? That thought sobered her. She couldn’t shame her parents in such a manner. Not with the engagement already announced. Surely her parents would be mortified were the ton ever to learn of her wanton behavior.

  She sat up and wiped away her tears. “It’s hopeless.”

  She didn’t ring for her maid but shrugged out of her dress, finding her chemise still damp from both her tears and Michael’s passionate kisses. He wouldn’t want her any longer. His contempt had been clear. Resigning herself to the prospect of married life with the very proper, very restrained Earl of Templeton, she changed into a dressing gown. She had no intentions of taking dinner downstairs with the others. She couldn’t bear to see the anger on Michael’s beloved face again.

  She took dinner in her room that evening, though she pushed the dinner tray aside after barely touching her meal. It wasn’t like her to revel in melancholy, but she was unable to rouse her spirits ton
ight.

  She stretched out on her bed, staring at the intricately patterned ceiling of her chamber. Lord Templeton was arriving tomorrow. She’d given her word to both him and her parents, and could see no way out of the mess. She would never again know the passion she’d felt so briefly in Michael’s arms. At the very least, marriage to Lord Templeton would afford her protection from her own wildness. She felt no such passion for the older gentleman, only for the man who wanted nothing more to do with her. Irritated at the endless circle in which her mind was traveling, she squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep.

  ***

  Michael had stayed away from the house as teatime approached, and he wasn’t looking forward to sitting through dinner now. Not with Betsy so close. She was forever lost to him. Her resolve concerning her engagement aside, his despicable treatment of her would no doubt divide her from him forever. He groaned as he recalled all the hateful things he had said to her. My God, he’d all but called her a doxy! He’d accused her of selling herself to the highest bidder, damn it all. How on earth would she ever forgive him?

  And what of the esteemed earl? His anger threatened to resurface. The man was due to arrive on the morrow, certainly crushing any chance Michael had to win Betsy to him. But, what of her insistence in continuing her engagement? He didn’t truly think her mercenary. That horrid accusation certainly stemmed from his own feelings of unworthiness. He didn’t believe Betsy was in love with the old man. Surely she cared for him, Michael! How else could one explain the free and open way in which she responded to him?

  God, her skin was so soft, so warm when his fingers had stroked her. Sighing irritably, he finished his paperwork and slowly made his way to the mansion to ready for dinner.

  When Michael entered the parlor to await the dinner bell, it was with a combination of anticipation and dread. He wished to see Betsy, if only to assure himself that she was all right. On the other hand, he couldn’t bear to see the sadness in her eyes. Hell, couldn’t bear to see the hurt he himself had cruelly and willfully inflicted.

  A quick scan of the room showed him Betsy wasn’t within. Relief, and a hearty dose of guilt, washed over him. He nodded to the Earl of Bridgewater and his wife and bowed to Maggie in greeting. He looked over at the settee, picturing Betsy in his mind’s eye perched daintily on the cushion. He sighed irritably.

  “She’s not here,” Philip said from behind him.

  “What?” Michael started, flushing.

  Philip chuckled and simply shook his head.

  “Good evening, Lord Balsam,” Maggie said.

  “Good evening,” Michael said.

  She smiled at him. “I’m afraid we’re one short this evening.”

  Michael raised a brow, feigning confusion. Lady Bridgewater clicked her tongue.

  “Betsy asked to take her meal abovestairs.” Lady Bridgewater said. “I do hope she’s not becoming ill. Lord Templeton is due to arrive tomorrow.”

  At the mention of the name of Betsy’s intended, Michael saw red. Taking a breath to cool his ire, he turned to Philip and mentioned a few of the purchases he was planning for the expansion of their horse-raising venture.

  Shortly after dinner, Michael bade the others good night and climbed the grand staircase. He paused at the top, fighting the urge to go to Betsy’s chamber. No. He had no right to force his advances upon her, or any right to cause her more grief than he had that afternoon.

  With a heavy sigh, he turned away from her room and down the hallway toward the guest chambers.

  ***

  Betsy sat at her vanity the next afternoon, readying for tea. Lady Bridgewater had advised Betsy of Lord Templeton’s arrival two hours earlier, instructing her to dress with care. She wore a lovely tea gown of deep rose, the color warming her skin tone. Her hair was loosely constrained, which was the norm for her in the afternoons. She stared at her reflection, feeling decidedly downcast.

  She’d avoided Michael today, keeping to the house and well away from the stables. Although Mary had all but begged her to accompany her on a ride, Betsy couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Michael for even the smallest moment. His contempt was still so fresh in her mind. Taken with her unrelenting desire for him? She shook her head to rid it of her dark thoughts.

  With resignation, she went downstairs to the parlor for tea. As she entered the room, her eyes immediately settled on the dark-haired gentleman leaning against the mantle. Michael took her breath away.

  His beautiful eyes sparkled at her as they slowly ran over her. Betsy felt a blush creep up her cheeks and quickly turned her gaze to take note of Lord Templeton. That gentleman wore a benevolent smile as he came forward to take her hand.

  “Ah, Elizabeth.” He brought her hand to his lips. “How good it is to see you again.”

  Betsy remembered his past admonitions and merely tilted her head, a small smile on her lips. She had very little difficulty restraining herself, as she felt little joy at his arrival.

  “It’s nice to see you, Lord Templeton,” she said.

  Templeton led her to a large chair and bade her to sit. She did so, her eyes once more finding Michael’s from across the room. She quickly lowered her lashes, nervously running her hands over her skirt.

  “You look lovely this day, Elizabeth,” Templeton said. “Although I must say I am disappointed to find you once more wearing your hair in such a manner. I’d thought you understood that I view such a display as quite common.”

  Maggie gasped audibly at the man’s statement, causing her husband to take offense.

  “Excuse me, Templeton,” Philip cut in. “My wife wears her hair in loose curls, as I prefer it. Are you saying she appears common?”

  Templeton sputtered and then recovered, a smooth smile curving his lips. “Why no, of course not, Wilton. She is a married woman, and must bow to her husband’s wishes.”

  Betsy watched the exchange, her eyes round. She stared at her sister, befuddled as Maggie hid a smile behind her hand. She returned her attention to Templeton as he proceeded to regale them with stories of the latest goings-on in town.

  “Lady Bridgewater, the ton was astounded that your lovely daughter has consented to be my bride.”

  “We are quite pleased with the match,” Betsy’s mother said. “Is that not so, Betsy?”

  Betsy smiled wanly and inclined her head. She kept her eyes on her clasped hands in her lap. Time and again she caught Michael staring at her. Did he find fault with her today? No. His eyes were sharp in their intent, but she didn’t believe he held Lord Templeton’s particular views. Maggie still appeared put out by the older man’s comments, but Philip appeared to be grinning in Michael’s direction. For his part, Michael turned away to stare out the windows toward the gardens.

  Talk soon turned to horses, a change in the conversation that drew Michael’s attention as well as her own. Philip spoke of several horses they planned to breed, further expanding his partnership with Michael.

  “Balsam and I have quite a venture, to be sure,” Philip said with obvious pride. “We’ll soon be producing the fastest racers in all England.”

  “That is an overstatement, husband,” Maggie gently chided.

  “All right,” Philip laughed. “In Somersetshire, then.”

  Templeton wore his disapproval of Maggie comments to her husband clear on his face. Betsy saw it and was confounded.

  “And what of our hunters, Wilton?” Michael put in. “Surely they will be equally impressive?”

  “Certainly,” Philip nodded. “Templeton, you must ride while you are here.”

  Lord Templeton gave a curt nod. “I believe I shall, Wilton,” he told Philip. “But one of your more sedate mounts would suit. I would much enjoy it if my lovely Elizabeth were to accompany me.”

  Betsy jumped at the mention of her name. She’d been gazing longingly at Michael, at the fine figure he cut in his dark brown breeches and jacket. She came swiftly out of her reverie to find all eyes upon her. Her fiancé in particular was stari
ng at her expectantly.

  “Forgive me, Lord Templeton,” she rushed out. “Did you ask something of me?”

  “I merely stated I would very much enjoy riding the estate with you at my side.”

  She brightened. “Oh, I do so love to ride,” she said happily. “To race across the grounds. It is so invigorating.”

  Lord Templeton’s brows shot upward, quickly wrinkling in a frown. “A proper young lady does not ride in such a manner, Elizabeth,” he said sternly. “Surely you are jesting with me.”

  Betsy blinked at his censure, swiftly dropping her eyes to her lap. “Yes,” she said in a small voice. “I was jesting.”

  Michael’s brow furrowed as he watched her. What was he thinking? She knew she had been lively and animated just moments before, describing her great joy in riding. Now she sat still, nearly wilted under the stern gaze of her betrothed. Thankfully he soon spoke of hunting, and Lord Templeton took to the subject. It was obvious that he had long prided himself on being a fine marksman and outdoorsman.

  Betsy turned her gaze toward her father. He appeared disturbed by Templeton’s admonitions as well as her own odd reaction to them. As for her mother, she didn’t seem bothered by them in the least. No, she listened with rapt attention to the earl’s descriptions of hunts in which he had recently taken part.

  At the conclusion of tea, Betsy was more than relieved to be out of Lord Templeton’s company. No doubt she would have her fill of him that evening at dinner. She readied herself for the coming evening and rang for Ann to dress her hair.

  As the girl proceeded to pile her locks atop her head, Betsy was suddenly seized with a wicked thought. How pleased would the esteemed Earl of Templeton be were she to wear her hair completely down for dinner? In the end she wore her hair up. But tomorrow was another day, was it not? She did so love to wear a braid when she rode.

  She donned a lovely dress of gray, modest in cut. A knock at her door drew her lady’s maid to it. The girl returned to her mistress, a velvet jeweler’s box held in her hands.

  “What is this?” Betsy asked.

  “For you, my lady,” Ann said. “It’s accompanied by a note.”