Loved by the Viscount

by Ellie St. Clair

  “Do you mean to marry again?” he asked her, gently.

  “No,” she shook her head vehemently before she even realized what she was doing. “I will never marry again. I have found that one cannot trust that a man is who he says he is.”

  “You are speaking of your late husband, then.”

  She glanced over at him, at the compassion showing in his eyes, which were the color of the sky when night has just begun and there was still a bit of light remaining. “Yes,” she said, unable to hide the truth. “Harold was a boor, and I am glad to be rid of him.”

  She saw him startle in surprise, and she was suddenly horrified by her words.

  “I — I am sorry, William, I should not have said such a thing,” she rushed on, feeling her cheeks flame. “Forgive me, and please, pretend I never said it?”

  She looked up at him, hoping he could see the agony of her gaze, willing him to agree with her. She was shocked when he smiled at her.

  “Why, Rosalind, I believe that is the first real emotion I have seen from you in some time — likely, in fact, since I found you pouring out your soul in the library of your husband’s home.”

  “That,” she said soberly, “was of frustration more than anything.”

  “I realize that now,” he said, stopping to look at her, turning her to face him, his hand coming to her chin as he tilted her face up to him. “I would implore you, however, do not judge all men on Harold Branson. He was a true bastard, Rosalind, as is his cousin. You are too precious a jewel to be lost forever on mistrust and unhappiness.”

  Her breath caught in her throat at his words. Why was he torturing her so? For hearing such words from his lips as he stared at her only made her want to believe that a man like this could actually feel something for her. She knew, however, it was only because of the moment they found themselves in and the pity he felt for her. He could never want a woman like her, not when there were vibrant, sensual women who would gladly become the wife he was looking for.

  “You are too kind, my lord,” she murmured. “But you are wrong. I am but a wallflower who was married for her dowry, not a woman that a man could love enough to provide me the happiness I am searching for.”

  “You are more than worthy,” he said softly. “Do not think so little of yourself.”

  With that, he shocked her by bending his head and bringing his lips to hers in a kiss so tender, so gentle, she almost didn’t realize what he was doing. How she had longed for a moment like this with a man like William — with William, himself, were she being honest. As she felt his hand come to the back of her head, his strong fingers sifting through the strands of her hair between her chignon and the sensitive skin underneath, a voice in her head told her that she was being fanciful, that she should push him away, so as not to let herself become hopeful that there was more than this available to her. And yet, she couldn’t — she wanted this too much. She shut the pestering voice away and lost herself in the moment, feeling herself melt into him.

  His left arm circled around her, and she felt herself pulled closer to him. She lifted her hands round his neck, and rather than simply enjoying herself, she gave back to him, pouring all of the emotions, all of the attraction that she had felt for him for years into the kiss. She didn’t know how long their mouths moved over one another in a gentle rhythm, but eventually it was Friday who broke them apart. The dog, clearly feeling left out, pushed between them, and Rosalind had to laugh when his body began to shake with happiness at being between the people he had seemingly chosen as those he deemed important enough to bestow his affections.

  Rosalind bit her lip, afraid for a moment to look at William, but finally bolstered her courage. When she met his gaze, however, it was not a look of amusement that stared down at her, but the look of a man suddenly tormented by feelings he wasn’t sure what to do with. Perhaps, then, he had felt as much from the kiss as she had?

  Unable to continue holding the intensity of his stare, Rosalind looked down, her hand coming to Friday’s head. She didn’t know what to say, how to respond. Harold had kissed her, sure, but it was never anything like this. Harold had kissed her as a means to get what he wanted, to please himself without any thought of her or what she may have felt. This kiss, however, had been equally, if not more, about her pleasure as well as William’s.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Shall we return?” she asked softly, and William nodded tersely. Well, she thought, as they made their way back to the oak to gather her books and the quill and ink, was he to go back to the sour mood he had been in yesterday? She wasn’t sure she could keep up with this. One moment he was the light, affable man she had always known, and the next he was short and quick-tempered. This was why one shouldn’t give her heart away, Rosalind thought as she told herself to be careful, hesitantly taking his arm as they slowly walked up the hill, returning to the house in silence.

  William could hardly believe what he had done. He had kissed Rosalind, the woman his brother had abducted, who had been used as a pawn too many times in the games of others to trust anyone again. He had simply wanted to show her that she had worth, that she shouldn’t hide herself away forever, and the next thing he had known she was in his arms and his lips were on hers. If Friday hadn’t interrupted them, he wasn’t sure how far he would have taken the kiss. It wasn’t so much the action that had surprised him, however, but the emotion he had felt. She had touched something within him, and he wasn’t sure if he was happy about it.

  He hardly knew what to say to her now. Should he apologize? But how, when he felt as if she enjoyed it as much as he? Besides that, it wasn’t as though she was a blushing debutante. She was a widow and understood the acts of love and the like. She certainly didn’t seem as affected as he, however, as she kept the serene look on her face throughout their return to the house.

  When they reached the doors leading inside, he bade her good afternoon and strode off to his study, determined that all he could do now was put space between himself and Rosalind, who seemed to be growing ever lovelier each time he saw her.

  10

  Later that evening, William pushed open the door to his library, looking for some solace. Fortunately, his headaches had stayed at bay throughout the day, though Alfred had not. His brother had pestered him, asking for one thing after another, and William sorely wanted to tell him to shove off. Instead, he took advantage of his brother’s presence to have him help determine who the various items he had stolen belonged to. Even now, he had packages ready to be sent anonymously to various lords and ladies. Unfortunately, Alfred — and Richard, the bloody fool, who had not needed the money but actually enjoyed the thrill — had sold quite a bit of it already. At the very least, Alfred had not negated on his promise to stay away from Rosalind, for which William was grateful.

  Rosalind. He had tried not to think of her throughout the course of the day, but she continued to enter his mind. His thoughts of her were also not the purest of sorts, for which he was sorry, although what he was to do about it, he wasn’t sure. His house party was to start in a days’ time, and by then he needed to have a grip on his emotions or he would make a fool of himself.

  He could hardly believe that he had never noticed her before. Sure, she wasn’t as striking nor as vibrant as Olivia. But there was something … alluring about her. She had a peacefulness to her that drew him, that calmed him. No, she wasn’t a tall, beautiful blonde. But her hair was the color of … well, chocolate, he supposed, and when she smiled, her face lit up with a brightness that was hard to keep himself away from.

  His footsteps across the room suddenly halted when he noted a presence in the corner of the room.

  “Oh, William!” said the object of his thoughts, pushing herself into a seated position and then rising, as he had apparently startled her. “My apologies. I have availed myself of your wonderful library without invitation.”

  “It’s fine,” he said, waving her back down to her seat, as she had been curled into the corner of the
brown French leather club sofa, a stack of books on the table at her elbow and a leather-bound volume he couldn’t make out but recognized as having been with her that afternoon in her hands. “Have you found anything to which you have taken a fancy?”

  “You have a wonderful selection,” she said. “I am impressed. Why, you even have a Gothic novel or two!”

  He laughed at that. “Let’s keep that our little secret, shall we? But yes, I do enjoy a varied selection of books. I always have.”

  “As have I,” she said with her true grin, the one that dimpled her cheek. “I enjoy most books really. As long as they do not end in sadness. I find there is enough grief in our world that if I am to read, I would prefer to immerse myself in a story that will bring me joy at the end of it.”

  He nodded. “I suppose you are right. Although some would say that it is better to come to terms with our reality.”

  She shrugged. “That may very well be, but I know enough of it. I am not naive, as some may think. I simply prefer to lose myself in worlds where all ends happily.”

  He realized suddenly she was speaking of her own situation, and he felt like a fool for bringing it to the forefront of her mind when clearly she had come here for a peaceful evening.

  “You are not tired tonight?”

  “Oh, no,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I do not find I actually need that much sleep. In fact, most nights I stay awake reading before I fall asleep. Tonight I realized that I had already finished all I had brought with me and was looking for something new.”

  “Have you always enjoyed books?” he asked, interested suddenly in learning more about this woman with whom he had been acquainted for so long but realized he really didn’t know at all. He took a seat in the chair across from her.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, a gleam coming to her green eyes. “Since I was a child, really. I have always loved losing myself in stories. It’s a way to explore without leaving home, to learn to see the world through the eyes of others. One doesn’t always agree with an author or a character, but it does open one’s mind, does it not?”

  He nodded contemplatively. “You are very perceptive, Rosalind.”

  Her cheeks turned pink and she looked down at the book in her lap, her long eyelashes hiding whatever emotion she may be feeling.

  “Hardly,” she responded. “Now, tell me, William, what has been your latest book of choice?”

  It was his turn to feel his cheeks warm as he could not immediately think of a title that a respectable gentleman should currently be reading. “Err — a novel recently published by a Thomas Egerton,” he said.

  “Oh! Sense and Sensibility?” she asked, her eyes lighting in recognition as well as a bit of mirth at his expense. “It is a lovely romance, is it not?”

  “Yes,” he said with what he knew was a sheepish grin. “That is yet another secret, however, Rosalind, that I shall have to ask you to keep to yourself.”

  “Very well,” she said with a smile. “I promise to never reveal you to be the true romantic you seem to be.”

  He laughed then, pleased to see this side of her, the side that was witty, lighthearted, and fun. He had always seen her as the solemn, serious sort, but he realized now there was more to her, this other side that she kept hidden from most.

  “What is that you have in your hands?” he asked, curious about what she was currently interested in.

  “Oh,” she said, covering the book as if hiding it would make him forget about it. “Nothing at all. Just a journal.”

  “Ah, you are writer too, then?” he asked, interested. “Recounting your own experiences?”

  “I suppose you could say that,” she said, suddenly shutting down, as if sharing more with him would render her more vulnerable than she cared to be.

  “What do you write about?” he asked gently, probing, wanting to open her up, free the facade that so quickly shuttered back into place and hid her from him.

  “Stories,” she said, refusing to look at him, her face now a healthy pink, up to the roots of her hair.

  “Of…?”

  “People. Places. Relationships. Romance.” Her short, staccato words came quickly, but only served to further intrigue him. He opened his mouth to ask more when there came a quick rap on the door.

  “My lord,” his butler said, entering the room, stopping when he realized Rosalind was there. “My apologies, I did not realize you were entertaining. However, my lord, you asked that I inform you when it was time, and … it is time.”

  “Time for … oh! Yes, wonderful, thank you McGregor. Rosalind, my apologies, but I must go.”

  “Is everything all right?” she asked, concern cloaking her face.

  “Yes, absolutely. Well, I should hope so anyway.”

  “What is it?” she asked, and he hesitated. He really shouldn’t speak of such things in front of a woman; however, he supposed she was no longer an innocent young lady….

  “There is a dog having pups,” he said, to which her eyes widened.

  “You have more dogs?” she asked.

  “Well, this one, she is actually my neighbor’s dog. It seems she and Friday … well, ah, are having young. The dog’s taken a liking to my stable, and so that is where she has remained for the past few days. I asked the groom to keep an eye on her. I thought to ensure everything is all right when the birthing time came.”

  “Oh,” she practically purred, her eyes like saucers now. “May I come with you?”

  “Come with me? To a birthing?”

  “Yes!” she said, showing more enthusiasm than he had ever seen from her. “Please?”

  At that single word of entreaty, he sighed. He knew he shouldn’t agree to this. And yet, she looked so eager that he did not have the heart to say no.

  “Very well,” he said finally. “Come.”

  The stable was not far from the house, and Rosalind kept up with his quick pace. When he reached the stable door, he found a groom crouched over the dog, who was offering up pants and some whimpers.

  “Is she all right?” Rosalind asked breathily, following him to the corner, where the dog lay on soft straw. They crouched beside her and the groom.

  “I’m not sure,” the man said. “I’ve helped birth horses before, but never dogs. She seems to be having a bit of difficulty. No pups have come yet.”

  William, having grown up in the country, had been witness to plenty of births and leaned down to see if he could assess what was the issue. Rosalind, meanwhile, walked around to the dog’s head, lifting it and laying it in her lap, stroking the dog’s soft fur while whispering gentle words in her ear.

  “It’s all right, darling, you’re doing absolutely wonderful,” she said softly, and William wondered if she had forgotten he and the groom were present, or if she really didn’t care in the moment. “Soon, you will have birthed your puppies, and you will be a mother! How wonderful that will be.”

  William smiled for a moment, forgetting his ministrations. He looked at her, the gentle compassion and tenderness on her face, and he felt a strange twinge in his heart. Who was this enigma of a woman? His attention was brought back to the dog, and he found the problem, slowly turning the first pup within to help it come into the world. It slid out, and he caught the squirming bundle, to which Rosalind gasped in surprise and excitement. Four pups later, the mother was tending to her newborns, who he helped begin to suckle at their mother’s side.

  When William looked up, Rosalind had the most tender, loving look covering her face.

  “Oh William,” she said, wiping away a tear that fell down her cheek. “It is so absolutely beautiful.”

  He looked at her, at her lavender muslin skirts spread wide about her in the straw, her long, chocolate brown hair falling out of its usual chignon to wave about her shoulders, and he was captivated. She was the beauty here, which shone forth from the look of rapture upon her face as she looked at the animals around her.

  William felt like a bit of a fool for not noticing her earlier. Yet the
re had always been Olivia. Though it was funny — he hadn’t thought of Olivia in the past couple of days since Rosalind had arrived, despite the fact her presence should have reminded him of her friend, should it not have? No, Rosalind did not have Olivia’s spunk, but she had something else, something he couldn’t quite determine. And when he thought of Olivia now he felt … nothing.

  He walked to the corner of the stable and washed his hands in a pail of water. He returned to the dogs and extended his hand to Rosalind.

  “Well, Rosalind, perhaps that is enough excitement for one evening?”

  She took his hand, and he startled at the jolt the contact once again sent up his arm. When she stood, she was but inches away, and he slowed his breathing to try to still his racing heart.

  “Would you mind if I visited them on the morrow?” she asked, still gazing in awe at the dogs, and he couldn’t understand how she seemed so unaffected by their contact.

  “Of course not,” he finally said, shaking his head at his foolishness. “Come as often as you wish. Ah, Friday, you’ve decided to visit. Meet your children, boy.”

  He laughed as the dog meandered into the stable, and he and Rosalind began making their way back toward the house.

  Rosalind tilted her head back, and he followed her gaze up to the stars that shone down on them from the navy sky.

  “Do you not think it’s strange, William, the way we treat the children in our society?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, confused by her words.

  “We birth children and then are supposed to provide for them in every way possible. We give them shelter, food, and, all they might require. And then we hire other women to look after them, to see to their every need,” she said. “Does that not strike you as … wrong, in some way? Does a child not want his or her mother and father more than any other? You see the way the animals are. As babies, they spend all of their time with their mothers. And yet we practically give our children away to another.”