Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Copyright
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The Viscount Always Knocks Twice © Grace Callaway, 2016
ISBN: 978-1939537072
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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A Hoyden’s Prejudice
A spirited and unconventional miss, Violet Kent has a taste for adventure. All she wants is the freedom to be herself—and to not be judged, especially by that stuffed shirt Viscount Carlisle, her best friend Wickham’s older brother. When an impulsive act brings her into scandalous contact with Carlisle, animosity flares, along with shocking, smoldering desire…
A Gentleman’s Pride
A man of duty, Richard Murray, Viscount Carlisle, has always protected his brother Wickham, whose latest trouble involves a debt to a cutthroat. To survive, Wick must marry an heiress; instead he’s distracted by that improper minx Violet Kent. As Richard strives to extricate his brother from Violet’s wiles, the last thing he expects is to find himself ensnared by passion…
When Murder Leads to Love
Sparks fly when Violet and Richard are thrown together at a house party. Yet their forbidden passion and blossoming romance are not the only adventures afoot. For a guest is soon discovered dead—and Violet and Richard must join forces to solve the mystery and protect their loved ones… before the murderer strikes again.
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Praise for Grace’s Books
“Her Husband’s Harlot is a pleasing, out of the ordinary read.”—Dear Author
“Erotic historical romance isn’t as plentiful as many would think, but here you have a very well-written example of this genre. It’s entertaining and fun and a darn good read.”—The Book Binge
“I devoured this book in a couple of hours!…. If you love a story with a heroine who is a wallflower with a backbone of steel or a damaged hero then you will love this one too.”—5 star review from Love Romance Passion on Her Wanton Wager
“I found this to be an exceptional novel. I recommend it to anyone who wants to get lost in a good book, because I certainly was.”—A Top Pick from Night Owl Reviews
“I thoroughly enjoyed this story. Grace Callaway is a remarkable writer.”—Love Romance Passion on Her Prodigal Passion
"The depth of the characters was wonderful and I was immediately cheering for both of them."—Buried Under Romance
~~~
Explore other books by Grace:
HEART OF ENQUIRY
The Widow Vanishes
The Duke Who Knew Too Much
M is for Marquess
The Lady Who Came in from the Cold
The Viscount Always Knocks Twice
Never Say Never to an Earl (Fall 2016)
MAYHEM IN MAYFAIR
Her Husband's Harlot
Her Wanton Wager
Her Protector's Pleasure
Her Prodigal Passion
CHRONICLES OF ABIGAIL JONES
Abigail Jones
Abigail Jones and the Asylum of Secrets (2017)
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Chapter One
At the Yuletide ball, Violet Kent was having the time of her life. She adored dancing, and her favorite partner was her friend Wickham Murray. Nobody spun her like Wick. His turns were so outrageous that, twice so far during the waltz, they’d veered within a hair’s breadth of neighboring dancers before twirling away at the last possible second. Once, they’d actually crashed into a plaster column, laughing uproariously when it teetered.
Dancing was tip-top—as much fun as galloping through an open field or playing cricket with the lads back in Chudleigh Crest, the village where she’d lived most of her life. After her beloved papa’s death three years ago, she and her four siblings had moved to London to be near their eldest brother Ambrose. For Vi, the transition to Town had been rocky, but she’d kept her chin up and eventually found a band of merry cronies much like the ones she’d had back home.
The number ended all too soon, and Wick escorted Vi off the dance floor. The fete was a crush, the crème de la crème herding into the festively decorated ballroom and grazing on the abundant food and drink. Wick steered her to one of the niches lining the room’s perimeter. From an archway festooned with ivy and holly, she cast a furtive glance around the room; seeing no sign of her chaperoning family members, she expelled a sigh of relief and sank onto the red velvet bench, her butter-yellow skirts settling in a silken swish.
A bit more freedom before the watch comes looking, she thought.
Wick sat beside her and stretched out his long legs. “Fancy some lemonade or punch?”
“What I’d truly like is another dance,” Vi said wistfully.
As always after physical activity, she felt at home in her own skin. Her heart pumped pleasantly; her mind—which her exasperated papa had compared to a frog leaping about on hot coals—was calm and clear. “But Emma will have my head if you and I dance for a third time. Of late, my sister has become an authority on proprieties.”
“I suppose that’s part and parcel of being a duchess?” Wick’s hazel eyes twinkled.
Vi didn’t bother to stifle a snort. “Seeing as Emma wed the most notorious rake in all of London, I fail to see how she’s suddenly an expert on proper behavior.”
At present, Violet resided with her eldest sister Emma and brother-in-law, the Duke of Strathaven, and she loved them both. Yet ever since Em had given birth to Olivia, she’d become even more of a mother hen—and she’d always been broody, having raised her younger siblings after their mama’s death almost a dozen years ago. At present, Em fussed over Vi as if she were the same age as Olivia rather than the mature age of two-and-twenty.
“You’re no longer in Chudleigh Crest,” Emma would lecture. “Here in London, your tomboyish antics will land you in the suds. I’m not saying you need to change completely… but can’t you curb your instincts a little, Vi? For your own good?”
Easier said than do
ne, Vi thought ruefully. She tried, she really did, but curbing her instincts was like stopping the flow of the Thames. An impossible task.
There was no denying that she was the eccentric one in her family… which was saying a lot. As unconventional as her siblings might be, however, none of them had Violet’s history of getting into scrapes. She didn’t mean to fall from high perches (trees, fences, horses, et cetera), hit unintentional targets during slingshot practice (Tabitha, Em’s cat, still held a grudge), or blurt out inappropriate things, yet trouble had a way of finding her.
Vi had learned to live with her own shortcomings. Whenever she did something mortifying without thinking, she’d learned to laugh and shrug the whole thing off. She simply kept her chin up and carried on. The last thing she wanted was for others—especially her family—to witness her embarrassment or hurt.
She’d never been a watering pot or one to wear her feelings on her sleeve. Pulling herself up by the slipper laces was her preferred strategy and one that she’d had to employ frequently since her three eldest siblings had all married titles, plopping the middling class Kents in the midst of the ton. In Society, one was expected to follow rules—a skill Vi could not claim as her forte. At times, she fancied herself an explorer in an exotic jungle, hopping from foot to foot to avoid the steaming pits of Scandal and Ruin.
“All older siblings are experts. Or, rather,” Wick said with a touch of aspersion, “they think they are. My brother Carlisle being a case in point.”
At the mention of Viscount Carlisle, anger ignited in Violet’s chest, her gloved fingers curling in her lap. Typically, she didn’t take offense easily and let bygones be bygones. But Wick’s older brother had earned her hostility fair and square.
At a ball last month, the high and mighty viscount had been overheard making disparaging remarks about her, his callous words becoming fodder for gossip. Being fair-minded, Violet could understand if she’d actually done him wrong, but she and Carlisle had met only once before and briefly at that. She’d done nothing to deserve his scorn.
“I still haven’t forgiven Carlisle for what he said about you.” Wick ran a hand through his windswept brown locks, his ornate signet ring burnished by the light of the chandeliers. “Will you accept my apology on his behalf?”
Although Vi had no intention of forgiving Carlisle, she didn’t want to place her friend in an awkward position. Wick complained frequently about Carlisle… but family was family, after all, and she didn’t want to add to the tension between the brothers. Being a Kent, she understood loyalty and the importance of kin.
Sighing, she said, “You don’t have to apologize, Wick. You didn’t say anything.”
“But I feel responsible for my brother’s rudeness. Ever since he lost the family fortune, he’s been an ill-tempered tyrant.” Wick’s mouth took on a sullen edge. “If he had his way, I’d spend every waking moment heiress hunting. Can you believe he wants me to court the likes of Miss Turbett?”
“What’s wrong with Miss Turbett?”
“Her name sounds like a fish. And she looks like one, too.”
“That’s unkind, Wick. She’s quite nice.” Vi had a passing acquaintance with the heiress, who seemed reserved but pleasant. “But the point is your brother isn’t your keeper. You shouldn’t have to marry someone unless you want to.”
“Carlisle threatened to cut off my allowance if I don’t do what he says,” Wick said bitterly. “He wields the purse strings like a master puppeteer, and I’m but a hapless toy at his command.”
“How horrid of him.” Indignant on Wick’s behalf, she said, “Must you rely on Carlisle’s beneficence? Couldn’t you make your own living somehow… find some sort of employment?”
“Egad, Violet, I’m a gentleman.” Wick sounded aghast. “A gentleman doesn’t work.”
Vi frowned, thinking of her brother Ambrose. He’d wed one of the ton’s wealthiest widows, yet he continued to run a private enquiry business for the satisfaction of putting in a good day’s work and delivering justice to those who most needed it. To Vi, this made Ambrose the epitome of a true gentleman, even if he didn’t quite fit with Society’s definition.
Mulling it over, Vi said, “If you can’t work, perhaps you could economize?”
In the past, her family had known lean times, and she could recall many a meal where a loaf of bread and some cheese had been stretched to feed them all. Her belly rumbled at the memories.
“It wouldn’t be sufficient.” Color crept up Wick’s jaw; his gaze slid away. “I suppose I’ll have to pursue Miss Turbett and her twenty thousand after all.”
“I’m sorry, Wick.” Vi didn’t know what else to say.
“There’s no need for pity. An advantageous marriage will help not only me, but my family.” He drew his shoulders back, the gold buttons of his blue waistcoat gleaming like miniature medals. “I’m willing to make the sacrifice for the good of all.”
“That’s awfully noble of you,” Vi said admiringly. “You’re a jolly fine chap.”
She wished with all her being that she could help her friend, to whom she owed so much. Before Wick, the ton had been a lonely and hostile place. Subtlety wasn’t her strong point, but even she couldn’t miss the snubs of the other debutantes, the way their circles closed when she came near. Coy, overly loud voices had oft drifted in her direction.
... her gown is fashionable enough, but her manner—so unrefined! She’s a veritable hoyden…
… I vow I’ve never seen a lady laugh with her mouth open so wide. She’ll catch flies if she’s not careful. And the way she eats, like a horse…
… that hurly-burly will never land a husband—unless one of her brothers-in-law can purchase one for her…
Violet had soldiered through those first months. Not wanting to worry her family (or give them further ammunition for lectures), she’d kept things to herself, silently repeating her motto: pull yourself up by your slipper laces. She told herself that it didn’t matter what others thought. But the snide glances and whispers had gradually doused her excitement at being in London, and she’d begun to dread social events… until Wick had come along.
Dear Wick—he’d changed everything. The two of them had hit it off from the start. He’d introduced her to his friends, and the jovial bunch had welcomed her into their fold.
With Wick and his cronies, she’d found a place of belonging. Being with him was as easy as being with her older brother Harry, who’d been her closest companion growing up. Wick was a ripping chum, and she was never bored in his presence. Best of all, be it a game of cards or a bet to see who could tolerate the most spins during a dance, he never let her win just because she was a female. He treated her as an equal, took her seriously. He didn’t try to control or change her.
He accepted her; for that, he’d have her gratitude and friendship forever.
Now he gave a doleful shake of his head. “Enough palavering about my let pockets. You’re so easy to talk to that sometimes I forget that you’re a female—no, scratch that. What I mean is you’re like one of the fellows… bloody hell.” His mouth had a sheepish curve. “By the time this conversation is finished, I’ll have dug a hole all the way to China.”
“Bring back some tea, will you?” she quipped. “I’m particularly fond of the Souchong.”
“Wretch.” Wick’s smile deepened. “Never mind my future prospects—what about yours? See anything of interest on the Marriage Mart tonight?”
Violet wrinkled her nose. To her, the prospect of marriage wasn’t the least bit appealing. It would mean having one more person telling her what to do. Her family was overprotective as it was, and the last thing she needed was the added supervision of a husband.
Moreover, romantic attraction remained a mystery to her. It was, she thought with a smidgen of worry, one more way in which she was different. One by one, her older siblings had fallen passionately in love—and she couldn’t even figure out how to carry on a flirtation. Or why to.
Growing up, she
’d found boys to be excellent co-conspirators in adventures, yet the notion of forming a tendre for one of them was… puzzling. She’d witnessed her companions engage in spitting contests, brawl in the mud, and scratch their unmentionable areas in the manner of flea-infested canines. They cussed in colorful terms (usually referencing the same unmentionable body parts) and seemed to find anything pertaining to chamber pots hysterically funny.
Then, as the lads had gotten older, the discovery of the opposite sex had turned them either into moonstruck greenlings or dedicated skirt-chasers. Wick was an excellent example of the latter. He was a charming rake through and through and thrived off female attention.
None of these male tendencies bothered Violet. They didn’t make her want to marry one of the dolts, however. Freedom held far more appeal.
Rolling her eyes, she said, “You know I’m not shopping, Wick.”
“How lucky you are,” he said with such heartfelt emotion that she laughed. “Well, I’d best go troll the waters. Shall I return you to the loving bosom of your family?”
She cast a furtive glance around. Seeing that the coast remained clear, she decided she wasn’t yet ready to surrender to the shackles of chaperonage. “I think I’ll explore a little first.”
“Suit yourself. But stay out of trouble, you hear?”
“Did the pot just call the kettle black?” she returned.
Exchanging grins, they went their separate ways.
Keeping to the potted palms and other concealing foliage, Vi trotted along, idly observing the revelry around her. Already she could sense the return of the restlessness that had bedeviled her since she was a child. She’d frustrated her scholarly papa to no end with her fidgeting and inability to focus on books and lessons. Unlike her brother Harry, who could work on mathematics problems forever, she felt ready to burst from her skin just moments after her bottom came into contact with a chair.
Luckily, one of her favorite forms of distraction caught her attention. She followed the tantalizing smells to the queue at the heavily laden buffet table. When it came to her turn, she happily inspected the offerings and took one of everything. She was finishing the last bit of a tasty mince tart when her gaze caught on a gleaming golden spire peeping above a row of potted ferns.
The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) Page 1
