Waking Up With a Viscount

by Tess Byrnes

  Seated in the corner of a loveseat was a tiny old woman, wearing a lovely black satin gown that was at least three decades out of fashion. Her thin hands bore a king’s ransom in jewels, all of which seemed overly heavy for the almost transparent claw-like hands. Her hair was dressed in powdery curls, her lined face rouged and patched, and her blue green eyes held a mischievous twinkle that was oddly familiar to Priscilla, as she accepted the tea cup from her.

  “Thank you Ma’am,” Priscilla said gently. “May I make myself known to you?”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” the lady responded unexpectedly. “You are Priscilla Hawksworth, if I am not mistaken.” She smiled kindly at Priscilla, pushing a plate of macaroons at her as she did so. Priscilla looked at her in surprise. “You are very right, ma’am, but pardon me. Have we met before?”

  “You’re thinking that I should be the one having trouble remembering, not you!” Priscilla’s diminutive companion said with a mischievous chuckle. “I’ll have you know my memory is as sharp as a tack. No, my dear, we have not met before. But my Jasper was telling me about a lovely girl with the bluest eyes, and the sweetest smile. I knew you at once.” She reached out one thin hand and pressed Priscilla’s arm as she spoke, a fond smile in her eyes. Priscilla, her face flushing hotly, was momentarily speechless.

  “Is that all he told you, ma’am?” Priscilla queried warily, carefully avoiding the Viscounts eyes.

  “Jasper tells me everything,” the quaint little lady said simply. “But only if I give my word of honor not to betray that I know a thing.” A little chortle escaped her at these words, leading Priscilla to believe that there was little likelihood of that.

  “You are not keeping that word, are you?” Jasper stepped into the conversation suddenly. “And you are embarrassing your guest, my darling grand-mama. Uh, both your guests, actually.” He accepted a cup of tea for her, commenting, “We shall have to drink our tea quite quickly, I’m afraid, if we want to be in time to dress for dinner. Will you being joining us, grand-mama?”

  “No, no, my dear boy. I am too old for parties. I live retired in a charming little house in Bath, except that whenever he is in residence here, my Jasper insists that I stay at the Dower house to be close to him,” she explained to Priscilla. “He is such a silly boy, and doesn’t like to think of me on my own. Which is silly, because how can I be anything else since losing my beloved Arthur?” The disinterested tone was at complete variance with her words, and Priscilla was at a loss, until she met the little woman’s eyes, and saw the pain reflected in the blue green depths. She placed her hand over the tiny one still resting on her arm and pressed it gently.

  “As I was saying, I know all about your visit here, and Jasper’s offer, and he has my complete approval.” She smiled brightly, completely unaware of Priscilla’s acute discomfort.

  “Thank you, uh, ma’am,” Priscilla started in confusion.

  “Dowager Countess Hillaire,” the little lady corrected helpfully.

  “Thank you, Dowager Countess,” Priscilla repeated with a smile. “But you see I haven’t--”

  “Dressed for dinner yet,” the Viscount interrupted smoothly. “We must be on our way, my dearest love,” he said bowing over his grandmother’s tiny wrinkled hand. “But we shall be back to see you tomorrow, and try to convince you to come up to your suite at the castle.”

  “Mind you both come,” the Dowager responded irritably. “I won’t be satisfied with any of your caressing excuses, my boy.” She clung to his hand as he straightened to leave. “Give me a kiss, Jasper dear,” she whispered, all trace of petulance gone. The Viscount complied, whispering something in her ear that caused the melancholy look which had so quickly descended upon her to lighten perceptibly. “I’ll see you both on the morrow, then,” she chortled happily, giving Priscilla’s hand a squeeze before waving them from the room.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dinner was to be served at eight o’clock, and the guests assembled around seven thirty in a formally furnished salon that bore no resemblance at all to the crowded drawing room in which Priscilla and the Viscount had taken tea.

  After a brief introduction to the Viscount’s mama, whose calm demeanor led Priscilla to believe that that woman knew nothing of her son’s proposal, Priscilla took up a spot in a corner of the room, hoping to remain unobserved until she could be sure that she didn’t recognize any of the other guests, or they her. She spent considerable time casting covert glances at Jasper’s mama, deciding eventually that her hostess seemed to have all the charm of her son, but coupled with a much sharper tongue.

  As couple after couple filled the room, Priscilla started to relax. She recognized none of them, although she knew many of them by name. Although she suspected that Jasper’s Mama had thrown this party together at the last minute, she had nonetheless managed to fill her house with the top of London society. Mrs. Hartfield seemed known by most of the other guests, and she busied herself at once introducing Lucy and Priscilla. Julian attached himself to Lucy, making sure she became acquainted with all the younger members of the party. Lord Jasper was there, fulfilling his role as host, but he was unable to make his way over to Priscilla, mostly because he was hampered by the tenacious presence of Lady Spencer on his arm.

  Priscilla, dressed in a deep violet silk gown, with her mother’s pearl necklette around her neck, and her hair pinned up in a riot of curls, threaded through with a matching violet ribbon, knew herself to be in her best looks. Smoothing the long elegant gloves that reached up above her elbow she tried to take courage from this, and not dwell on the decidedly more worldly picture presented by Lady Spencer. This lady was wearing a shining gold gown, cut very low across her ample bosom, and caught up beneath with a tight gold ribbon. It fell in graceful folds to the ground, hugging her figure in a way that caused several of the matrons present to wonder if she had dampened her petticoat to make it cling. Priscilla merely felt that her own gown, though well cut, and definitely suited to her, could not compare in sophistication. Still, some of the apprehension she had been feeling at the thought of being recognized as Lady Priscilla Pleasance by another guest was easing, and she was starting to look forward to her dinner very much, having had nothing but a cup of tea since breakfast.

  Just as her hostess was looking around, preparing to invite the guests to table, the last arrivals came in. Priscilla glanced over to see her dear friend Theodora enter the salon, her hand resting on the arm of her husband. Dora looked just as she had done when she and Priscilla had shared their season in London. Her golden curls were swept up into matronly chignon, but that was the only thing that indicated her status. That is until Priscilla saw her from the side, and realized that a discrete panel in her dress was attempting to conceal the fact that Dora was definitely in a delicate condition. Priscilla smiled widely at the thought of her young friend as a Mama, and at this moment, Dora turned and caught her eye.

  “Priscilla!” she exclaimed with real pleasure, detaching herself from her husband and hurrying over to her friend.

  “Oh, Dora,” Priscilla returned the hug enthusiastically. “How wonderful to see you!” She held her friend’s arms out and continued, “All of you.”

  “And you!” Dora returned, surveying her critically. “You look enchanting, Priscilla. Really! But tell me why your horrid sister-in-law has been writing to me with would-be subtle questions of your whereabouts, while you are comfortably ensconced at Hillaire Castle!”

  “Quietly,” Priscilla warned, pulling Dora down to sit beside her. “To tell the truth, I’ve run away!”

  “Famous!” Dora approved.

  They were interrupted by the butler’s announcement that dinner was served.

  “We must speak after dinner,” Priscilla whispered hurriedly. “And remember that my last name is Hawksworth.”

  “What, like Nanny Hawksworth?” Dora chuckled.

  “Exactly!” Priscilla assured her.

  Priscilla found herself seated between an elderly gentleman wit
h a military bearing and a very hearty appetite, and a younger gentleman, dressed in extremely fashionable evening attire, with shirt points that precluded any ease of conversation with those seated on either side of him. He sent several appreciative looks her way, but was either too shy or too uncomfortable to pursue a conversation. Priscilla was therefore able to address herself to several lobster patties, a slice of venison, some asparagus, a remove of succulent partridge, and a French olive, with very good appetite almost undisturbed. Dora, at the other end of the table, seemed to be enjoying a lively conversation with the local curate, much more so than that easily shocked gentleman was.

  It was as the desserts were being served that Priscilla found herself being addressed by Lady Spencer.

  “My dear Miss Hawksworth,” the elegant woman spoke from across the table, earning several glances of disapproval from the more conventional ladies present. These she disregarded coolly, continuing, “What do you think of our Northern country?” Her proprietary glance at the Viscount needled Priscilla into response.

  “Why, my dear Lady Spencer,” Priscilla returned sweetly. “As much of it as I have seen has been quite delightful. But I understood that your home was somewhat south of London.”

  Lady Spencer’s expressive eyes acknowledged the hit. “Ah yes, the home of my dear, late, first husband. But do you know, I feel so much more at home here. I think home is more of a feeling, than a place, don’t you agree.”

  “I do absolutely,” Priscilla replied sincerely. The wistful note in her voice caused Lady Spencer to smile with satisfaction. Lord Jasper had been watching the exchange with a little apprehension, ready to intervene should Lady Spencer discommode Priscilla, and was pleasantly surprised when his intended stood up for herself. As he saw her change from a self reliant lady to a suddenly rather more vulnerable one he was conscious of a strange desire to shield her even from such slight unpleasantness as a brush with the sharp-tongued widow. Lady Spencer, turning a sugary gaze upon him, was startled, and not best pleased, to receive in return a rather cold glance. Her keen sense of self-preservation warned her not to dismiss this admittedly beautiful young girl just yet.

  When the Viscount’s Mama arose at the end of the meal and gave the signal for the ladies to retire, Priscilla was able to congratulate herself at having passed through the challenge of her first dinner at Hillaire Castle quite well. Leaving the room, she met the Viscount’s glance with one of self assurance. He looked at her with close scrutiny, and then his gaze softened, and a smile of such sweetness changed him instantly from an opponent to an ally, that she could not resist an answering smile. Lady Spencer was the furious observer of this interchange, a fact which she concealed behind a somewhat steely smile as she followed the Dowager Countess from the room, and to an adjoining chamber to await the arrival of the gentlemen after they should finish their port and cigars.

  Priscilla’s desire to confer with Dora was thwarted by Lady Spencer, who seemed to be adhered to her side, plying her with questions about her childhood, her current status as companion, her future plans. How she managed to get through the next hour, Priscilla could not later recall. All the queries were asked in a silken voice, but Lady Spencer’s determination to elicit information reminded Priscilla so much of an old terrier back at Pleasance, using all its methods of persuasion to lure Priscilla out on a sunny day, that against her inclination, she started to smile.

  “My dear Lady Spencer, you do me too much honor. I know you can’t have that much interest in me, but I do appreciate your efforts to include me in your conversation. I see Mrs. Hartfield has managed to leave her fan behind, and I think I must excuse myself and go find it for her.” With a friendly smile, Priscilla almost made good her escape before Lady Spencer called her back.

  “Do you hunt tomorrow, Miss Hawksworth? If so, we must start out together.”

  “Yes, I do mean to go out tomorrow.” Priscilla replied cautiously.

  “Good. I’ll look out for you, never fear.” The look of satisfaction on Lady Spencer’s face caused Priscilla to feel a moment’s uneasiness, but the prospect of escaping the room, in a counterfeit search for Mrs. Hartfield’s fan, was so appealing that she merely smiled, and slipped from the room.

  As she had hoped, Dora slipped out of the room a moment later, and joined Priscilla as she waited on the Grand Stair. The two joined hands and ran lightly up the stairs, and down the gallery until they found a small alcove.

  “Tell me everything!” Dora demanded, catching her breath.

  Priscilla marshaled her thoughts for a moment then spoke.

  “Do you remember Sir Harry Greenwood?”

  “That dreadful old man who was always leering at you and trying to find partners for his awful daughters? Yes of course I do. What about him?”

  “Carolyn has arranged a marriage for me with him.” Priscilla replied, smiling at Dora’s blunt observations. How she had missed her.

  “You have to be joking!” Dora exclaimed. “What did Richard have to say? Is that why you had to flee your home?”

  “I will say, Dora, it is a pleasure not to have to explain everything. You have it exactly. It was either marriage to Sir Greenwood, with his gout and his four daughters, or this. I chose this.”

  Dora gave Priscilla a measuring look. “And just what is ‘this’? Was it a choice between marriage and a Christmas party at Hillaire?”

  “Of course not,” Priscilla corrected. “I sought a post, and am now governess to Mrs. Hartfield’s two daughters.”

  “Nanny Hawksworth,” Dora chuckled. “I was right! But you can’t go on as a governess forever, Priss. Whatever are you going to do next?”

  “I don’t know,” Priscilla admitted. “Although I must say, I am giving satisfaction in my role.” She laughed infectiously. “It is most diverting. But look at you,” she exclaimed. “You are going to have a baby!”

  “Equally diverting, no?” Dora shook her head. “I am excessively fond of Mr. Manning, and he is overjoyed at the prospect of an heir.” Dora patted her rounded belly, looking very satisfied with herself.

  ‘What is it like, Dora,” Priscilla asked diffidently. “Being married, I mean. No-one ever talks about married life to unmarried girls. Is it wonderful?”

  Dora looked at her friend searchingly. “Now that is not a question most unmarried girls even know to ask!” Priscilla remembered Dora’s uncanny insight too late. “Tell me,” Dora continued. “What do you know of the wonderful side of marriage?”

  “Nothing, I promise you,” Priscilla assured her, unable to meet her friend’s direct look. “Well, almost nothing. You cannot tell a soul, Dora, but Lord Hillaire stupidly thinks he has compromised me, and is insisting that I marry him.”

  “Well, well,” Dora nodded. “And just how did he compromise you? Was it wonderful?”

  Priscilla told her friend the story of discovering the handsome peer in the lane, and sheltering him for the night. She skipped lightly over most of the details, but Dora’s searching eyes did not miss much.

  When she finished, Dora commented, “Out with it Priss, what else?”

  “We might have kissed,” Priscilla admitted. “And there might have been some other stuff.”

  “Wonderful stuff?”

  “Definitely,” Priscilla closed her eyes. “Is it so with you and Mr. Manning?”

  Dora smiled. “It can be. Of course, it hasn’t been since I started breeding,” she added with a pout. “So are you going to marry Lord Jasper, Priss?”

  “How can I? He would not even think of marrying me if it weren’t for his scruples. He thinks of me as a debt that he is honor bound to repay.”

  “But think of the position his wife will have!” Dora returned. “And he is a very handsome man. The wonderful parts of marriage would be, well, incredible I should think.”

  Remembering the way his touch sent her sense racing, Priscilla sighed deeply. “But Dora, as a governess, I am unlikely to ever marry. Lord Hillaire should certainly marry higher, and besides
, I ran away from home to escape a loveless marriage. And his family would be appalled!”

  “True enough,” Dora commiserated.

  The sounds of the gentlemen leaving the dining room and crossing the hall towards the salon where the ladies waited caused Priscilla to stand up, aware that they had been absent overlong.

  “Oh Dora, I am so glad you are here.”

  “Me too. It is too bad it is the hunt tomorrow. I cannot ride, but as soon as you return we must meet. Do not stay out beyond the first couple of runs, promise! Then come find me in my room.” The two embraced warmly, and Dora returned to the salon, and Priscilla continued on her errand to find her employer’s fan.

  Walking slowly down the gallery to Mrs. Hartfield’s room, Priscilla thought back over dinner, and acknowledged that Lady Spencer’s close scrutiny could become dangerous. Although Priscilla knew that she had never met the woman while in London several seasons earlier, any incautious slip of the tongue made in the sharp-eared woman’s presence could spell an end to Priscilla’s present situation. And she had to admit that she wasn’t ready for it to come to an end. Even though she missed Richard, Priscilla was honest enough to admit that her present life, filled as it was with uncertainty and the risk that exposure would result in ostracism and a return in disgrace to her home, was infinitely preferable to her quiet, controlled life back at Pleasance. Here, she was mistress of her own fate, never mind the fact that that fate might turn out to be less than wonderful. Here she was valued and appreciated by her employer as she had never been valued by Carolyn. Richard loved her, but was too weak to be her champion. No, the life she had found for herself certainly held much more potential than the one she had left behind.

  Priscilla entered Mrs. Hartfield’s room, found the painted fan, and headed back towards the Grand Stair, a happy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Rounding the last corner of the gallery, she was halted head in her tracks by the sound of a very familiar voice.