Capturing the Viscount (Rakes and Roses Book 1)

by Win Hollows

  She couldn’t help it. She had to look away as she was sure that guilt was written all over her face. Guilt because, even as one man asked for her hand, she wished it was another. Remington’s face- his deep brown eyes and laugh lines and boyish smile flashed across her mind unbidden. She slid her hands from Grayson’s and hugged herself. Suddenly, the day was cold and the sunlight seemed to pale ever so slightly.

  She should be enjoying this. She should be ecstatic that this man- this honorable, kind man- wanted her as his wife, in spite of all the rumors that surrounded her.

  “Do you believe them?” she blurted. Suddenly, the answer to this question mattered above all else.

  “Believe what?” he asked, puzzled.

  “The rumors. The rumors about me…and Rothstone.” She studied his face for a reaction, and, for a hairsbreadth of a second, she saw a look of anger pass over his features, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

  “I…don’t want to,” he said carefully.

  Laura nodded, both disappointed and satisfied. She knew he wouldn’t ask her if they were true. He was too much of a gentleman, and she didn’t quite want to divulge what had actually happened that night to him or to anyone really. Somehow, even though nothing intimate had occurred, it was between her and Rem.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, I would appreciate some time to provide an answer to your proposal, Mr. Fennimore,” she said, measuring out each word. It was as honest as she could be at the moment.

  He nodded and smiled gamely, but Laura could tell he was nursing a wound. “Of course. These things take time.”

  She smiled in return, thinking of how it hadn’t taken but a single moment to fall in love with Remington Rothstone…

  Chapter 13

  Rem had gone through more Scotch in the past two months than he had in his entire lifetime, and he didn’t shown any signs of slowing. His bachelor’s residence, which he only rarely used, had been his refuge from any well-meaning or nosy family during this time. He had tried everything to get in contact with Laura, save sneak into her bedroom window in the dead of night. He hadn’t ruled out that possibility, but such things required planning, and his thoughts lately tended more toward the fuzzy maudlin instead of coherent thought. He wasn’t proud of himself, but he couldn’t seem to rise out of this pit of alternating rage and depression.

  It really was all his fault. If he hadn’t taken Laura on that ill-fated balloon ride without a chaperone, none of this would have happened. The two of them would be strolling through Hyde Park, deciding whether to go to one of his estates or go abroad for their honeymoon. But no, someone had to go and kill people, just as he was making headway with her. Just as she was beginning to see him in a new light, to trust him. If only he hadn’t been so hasty, wanting to make her fall in love with him as quickly as he had with her.

  Then, thoughts of the horsemen and their suffering made all of his problems seem incredibly small, but no less important to him, for which he felt guilty.

  So it was welcome that, late that morning, Con showed up to drag him from his home to the Duke of Volmere’s personal stables located just outside the city. The horse Con picked out for him while he grumbled and wiped the sleep from his eyes was a fleet red stallion that all but flew across the fields alongside Con’s own black Arabian, despite Rem’s unsteady seat. Soon, however, the wind and the motion sobered him, and he began to revel in the feel of the horse’s hooves thundering in perfect rhythm under him, the beast’s powerful muscles lunging forward. They pounded across several open fields and down country lanes before stopping to give the horses a rest at a creek lined with old beeches and oak. While the horses cooled down, lipping the creek water and munching grasses, Con settled himself against the enormous trunk of an ancient oak. Rem, finally awake and alert for what felt like the first time in a long time, was too restless to sit, so he took off his outer clothes and waded into the stream, both cursing and praising the bitterly cold water that bubbled past his shins. Sunlight dappled the ground underneath the tree, providing just enough warmth to be comfortable. The slight breeze ruffled the sage green leaves

  “So what is it you plan to do?” Con asked eventually, watching Rem through lidded eyes as he rested his head against the bark of the tree.

  Rem sighed, the sound lost in the tinkling of the leaves overhead. He glanced at his friend as he trudged out of the water and sat down on the grassy bank nearby, drawing his knees up. Con’s expression was inscrutable, as usual, but Rem knew his question was borne of out genuine concern for his well-being. However, that didn’t make him any more keen to answer.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, snapping off a piece of a reed and twisting it. “She won’t see me. She won’t speak to me. I can’t make her marry me.” He threw the reed in the water.

  Con was never one to mince words with Rem. He was urbanely diplomatic when he wanted to be, but Rem was the one person with whom he didn’t bother to observe the niceties. “Marrying you hastily wouldn’t exactly be in her best interest right now. It would be tantamount to admitting the rumors are true and could be carrying your babe.”

  Rem ground his teeth. “Still, you’d think marriage to a future duke would make her respectable again.”

  “Perhaps,” he said reasonably. “But you’re not a duke yet. Society has a way of twisting things to slake their bloodlust, and they seem to have a taste for you two.”

  Rem knew his friend’s words to be true, but it was a bitter pill to swallow, especially when the cause for the dratted rumors was so much more serious than a silly scandal. Which reminded him- “What do you make of the Honeymoore Murders?” he asked.

  Con’s brows drew together, and he sat forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “To be honest, I can’t make heads nor tails of it. I keep thinking that you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Neither you nor Laura have any enemies that you know of, so I can’t see coming to any other conclusion.”

  “I agree, but nonetheless, that doesn’t explain the carnage we saw.” He thought back to the men’s limp, torn bodies as he drug them to lie in undignified postures by the tree line. He swallowed. “I know it might not be my problem, but… it just seems wrong to let it go.”

  Con let the moment lie. There was nothing reassuring one could say about four men losing their lives violently. They watched the horses chew on the flattened reeds, the stream a steady gurgle in the background. Rem thought about the peacefulness that permeated the scene and what it would be like to reside in the country with Laura. He could see them at such a place as this, having picnics outside, playing with their children, Laura showing him how to use some new device that allowed for further casting of a fishing rod. What chance of that was there now?

  “I have to win her, Con. I have to,” he said hoarsely. He looked at his friend in desperation.

  Con pursed his lips. “Then do it. God knows I wish I had done so when I had the chance.”

  As it turned out, Rem didn’t have to resort to climbing Laura’s trellis at night, for he saw her the next day in a rather unexpected place. He knew she wouldn’t be out in public at any of the regular shops on Bond Street or at social events, but he hadn’t thought she would go out at all.

  He smiled wryly, watching her bottom twitch back and forth in her plum riding habit as she headed straight into Marion’s Mechanical Marvels. That was Laura for you, not caring a whit about social censure where technology was concerned. He had been headed there himself to purchase a gift for her, but apparently, that plan was out the window for today. He didn’t call out to her, but followed her into the shop silently to see what she was doing.

  He made sure to catch the bell so that she wouldn’t notice him come in. She was up at the counter about twenty-five feet from him, discussing something with the proprietor. It was the same man that had developed the film plate for Rem. A prickle went up the back of his neck. She didn’t know, did she? He slipped quietly around to the back aisle, navigating carefully through the maze of oddi
ties he was sure Laura could explain to him if he were so inclined to ask. Down one of the aisles he bypassed, there was a man around his father’s age with a great white mustache examining a small machine set on a shelf there. Rem’s movement caught his eye, and he looked up with a puzzled glare. Rem nodded and kept moving, the man following his stealthy progress with bemusement. The counter was closer now, and he could make out most of the words being said between the two.

  The shopkeeper was currently speaking. “… wouldn’t be hard to make, I suppose.” He hesitated, looking up from something in his hands to study Laura through his small round glasses. “You do know that there are patents prohibiting the ownership of the device that would use such a thing?”

  Laura tapped her fingers on the scarred wooden counter impatiently. “Yes, yes, I’m aware. This is just for research purposes, of course,” she reassured him.

  The man coughed conspicuously, raising a brow. Even from where Rem stood, it was clear the man wasn’t buying that tale. “Of course, Miss.”

  “When can I expect to have the order ready?”

  “Well, it depends how many you want made,” he told her, leaning down to examine whatever lay on the counter between them.

  Laura shifted her weight. “Shall we say, fifty?”

  The shopkeeper’s eyebrows rose. “Fifty. Hmm…” he ruminated. Light shone through the wisps of white hair haloed around his head as he tilted his chin up in thought. “Give me one week, and they should be ready.” He smiled.

  Rem just knew Laura was smiling in return. He could hear it in her voice. “Perfect. Thank you, kind sir. You truly are a marvel.”

  The man threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, go on with you, Dearie. You’ll make an old man blush.”

  “Perhaps I meant to,” she said saucily, patting his hand before moseying off. She paused, her gaze drawn by a small contraption near the door, which she examined eagerly. She paused, holding up her hand as if to grab the attention of Mr. Marion while worrying her lower lip. Then she lowered the hand, sighed, and headed out the door reluctantly.

  Rem shook his head, his lips twitching. Charming men of all ages was most definitely in her repertoire, despite her country upbringing. He debated whether or not to follow her, but he had to know what she was up to first. Once he was sure she wouldn’t swish back through the door, he headed directly to the counter where the man (presumably names Marion) was still standing, humming to himself with a small smile on his face. Laura did that to a person, Rem knew.

  Rem came out of the darkness of the far shelves and made his way to the front. “Mr. Marion,” Rem greeted him, the old man looking up from his counter where several small gears lay out haphazardly.

  “Ah. Of course,” the man twinkled, raising a brow and looking pointedly at the door that was still faintly jingling from its last customer.

  Rem’s lips kicked up. “Yes,” he acknowledged quietly.

  “And what can I do for you today, Lord Remington?” The old man’s tone held no censure- just a subtle commiseration, as if he knew exactly the situation that Rem was in, and it was perfectly understandable.

  “I find I am unbearably curious about two things,” Rem told him, leaning his elbow on the counter.

  Marion smiled knowingly, considering, then said, “I find I am in the mood to give answers.”

  Rem dipped his head in appreciation and cleared his throat. “What could certain…unorthodox customers possibly expect to receive from a custom order on, say, a Tuesday?” he asked casually.

  “I believe certain custom orders might just well be filled with more of what landed my clientele in this...predicament to begin with.”

  Rem’s memory flashed back to a kiss in a garden, the most erotic and innocent meeting of mouths he’d ever experienced. Lush curves, iridescent gold hair, and a trembling, perfectly shaped pair of lips meant to tempt a saint. “Oh?” His voice was slightly strangled.

  “Quite.”

  Rem knew Marion was trying not to smile. “This order… would it, perhaps, have anything to do with a certain patented piece of technology?”

  “Lord Remington, I would never attempt to circumvent a patent, as you know.”

  “Of course not.”

  “-Yet I find that certain clients have me skirting that line, in spite of myself,” he admitted, his eyes going soft for a brief moment.

  Rem looked him in the eye and said seriously, “Believe me, Mr. Marion, when I say that skirting the lines of propriety is something I’ve found myself contemplating altogether too much since meeting your clientele.”

  “I can imagine,” he said with gravitas. “What is the second thing you are unbearably curious about, My Lord?”

  Rem smiled and pushed himself away from the counter. He went to the door of the shop, picked up the item Laura had been examining, and brought it back to the counter. Setting the device on the counter, he asked Marion, “What is it, and what does it do?”

  “Ah!” Marion adjusted his round glasses and stroked the object’s surface. It was an odd-shaped metallic gadget roughly the length of Rem’s hand. It looked like there were two parts to it that hinged together on one end, the other looking like angled jaws. “This,” he held it up. “-is a stapler, My Lord.”

  “Stapler,” Rem repeated. “What is its purpose?”

  “Let me show, rather than tell, you.” He said excitedly. He turned away from Rem and gathered some papers that were laying on the opposite countertop. When he swung back, Rem could see the pure delight that was coursing through him at showing someone a new and wonderful gadget. “Say that you have a sheaf of papers that needs to be kept together and in a particular order. This stapler will allow you to permanently attach them to one another, like so.” He shuffled the papers into a neat pile and put the top end of them between the two angled pieces of the device. He then pressed down on the device’s top, causing the upper piece to snap down towards the lower piece with a crunching sound. When the pieces separated, the papers were left with a small sliver of metal indented into them.

  Curiously, Rem picked up the papers and lifted the top one, to discover that the stapler had, indeed, stuck them together. “Remarkable,” he said softly.

  “It is, isn’t it? I would think that men of business would find it particularly useful.” He bobbed back and forth on his feet, looking pleased.

  “Why have I never seen this contraption before? Why doesn’t my father’s estate manager have one?” he asked, more to himself, still looking at the thing sitting on the counter.

  “I have often had similar sentiments about most of the technology on my shelves, Lord Rothstone,” Marion said quietly. Rem met his eyes as the man continued. “Yet, many of these inventions sit here, collecting dust, while those who could use them spend hours performing tasks that aren’t necessary anymore because of them. Familiarity is safe, I think. Tradition paramount over all else, no matter the illogic of it.” Marion smiled wryly.

  Rem was silent, thinking of the residents of London who teemed outside the shop, never to enter because they cared little for these out-of-fashion gadgets that could change their lives. He glanced around the shop, and suddenly, he saw what Laura saw: endless possibilities. Excitement. The future.

  And Laura herself would forever be thought odd because she saw the potential that others dismissed. While others took tea, went shopping, flirted with fans and frills, Laura was thinking about the mechanics of hot air balloons and staplers.

  His loins tightened. He wanted her with a fierceness that defied logic. Why her bluestocking ways made him mad for her, he’d never know. He did know that there wasn’t a single lady in any salon at this very moment that he could imagine being as utterly enthralling as was Laura Parrington.

  “I’ll take it,” he announced, sliding the stapler towards Marion. “And I’ll need a substantial supply of metal clips.”

  “Staples, sir. I thought you might.” The shopkeeper’s face glowed with a mischief that Rem thought entirely inappropriate be
cause, apparently, making someone fall in love with you was an exercise in futility and frustration.

  But- in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, sliding over several of his own to the happily humming shop owner.

  It couldn’t be, Laura thought, frowning at the small stack of cards in her hands. She sat in the armchair by the fireplace in her bedroom, having retired for a while before dinner. Cranston and two footmen had delivered what had to be the most unusual group of calling cards in the history of the ton to Laura that afternoon. There were thousands of them, all grouped into one-week increments inside the many hat boxes containing them, she was figuring out.

  They were Remington Rothstone’s personal calling cards, which was not that unusual. He had been trying to see her for weeks now. What was unusual was that every single one had a date hand-written on it, starting from this day until seemingly the end of time, if the number of cards was any indication. A calling card for each day from now until… Laura gulped, her fingers beginning to shake with the realization:

  He was declaring his intention to call on her every day for the rest of her life, if that’s what it took.

  And that wasn’t even the most startling part of it all. Every week’s stack of cards was held together by a slim strip of metal on one side, something she recognized immediately. A staple. In particular, a staple dispensed from the very model that she had been eyeing earlier that very day in Marion’s Mechanical Marvels.

  How-?

  Her eyes were swimming, and her head along with them. There was an ache deep in her chest that she was coming to recognize as the “Rem” ache. It welled up at the most unexpected times, a fierce and uncontrollable sensation that Laura wasn’t sure was ever going to go away. How she wished she could just accept his attempts to see her, to be in his arms.

  "I only want to show you what it could be like for us."

  His words echoed in the tumult of her mind and somehow pierced right into the ache that had bloomed in her chest. That night at the opera had opened her mind to pleasures she never thought possible. His hands on her body, his lips on hers eliciting waves of acute desire.