Just Another Viscount in Love

by Vivienne Lorret

  No doubt the busybody wanted to fill him in on all the details. However, Sam would rather hear it from Gemma’s own lips.

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw a footman carrying an empty silver tray toward the kitchens. “Barnes, if you would be so good as to escort Lady Tillmanshire and Miss Ashbury to their rooms . . . ”

  The footman nodded. Then, saying nothing more to the baroness and her daughter, Sam strode forward, determined to find out what Gemma was hiding.

  “ . . . the scandalous Miss Desmond.”

  Icy dread dowsed Gemma as she looked from Sam to the older woman with the broad tan hat, heavily browed scowl, and an overbite that resembled a camel’s. Panic quickened her pulse, the sound of it like a windstorm in her ears, drowning out whatever else the woman said. All Gemma knew was that it made Sam frown. His brow furrowed in confusion as his gaze met hers.

  In that instant, she knew she’d betrayed his trust.

  She’d waited too long to confess. Now, everything she said would cast a shadow over their entire acquaintance, and he would believe her to be the most secretive and conniving of all women.

  Her stomach churned at the thought of his despising her. He had every right to turn his back on her and follow the women who’d shown their disapproval.

  Yet he surprised her by walking forward. “Your Grace, if I may have a moment of Miss Desmond’s time,” he said without taking his eyes from Gemma, and searching her countenance all the while.

  “Of course, Lord Ellery, though I shall keep to the garden as well.” From her clipped tone, it was clear that Aunt Edith’s hackles were standing on end. Right then, she was very like a white feathered cockatoo, protecting her hatchling.

  Sam inclined his head and lifted his hand, gesturing to the garden path.

  When he did not say anything, Gemma knew he was waiting for her to begin. But where to begin? Back to when her mother died? Or when her father decided to remove Gemma from the only family she’d known to begin a life of deceit in the desert? Perhaps she should start with the years of her father’s gambling, and how that led him to a group of men who had a talent for making forgeries and passing them off as artifacts. Living a life in the company of scoundrels, there were so many instances she could name.

  However, in order to clear her own conscience, it was most important to start where she’d deceived Sam.

  “I never intended to tell you my name at all,” she confessed quietly, just audible above the rasp of her skirts brushing against the stalks of lavender beside the path. “Our meeting at the pond was so strange and perfect that I did not want to ruin it by revealing my surname. As you’ve likely realized, it causes revulsion in anyone who speaks it.”

  He looked up at the sky and, after a lengthy exhale, shook his head. “If you never intended to tell me, then you must not have imagined ever seeing me again.”

  “I was not arrogant enough to believe that I left you with the same pleasurable impression you imprinted on me,” she said, even though that was not entirely the truth. She had dreamed of meeting him once more, but at the time, it felt like a fool’s fantasy.

  “Yet surely when I arrived at the inn shortly after you and your aunt had, you knew the truth.”

  Hearing his frustration in the harsh edge of his tone, she nearly reached out to set her hand upon his arm but drew back. It was too late for such familiarity. A vast emptiness seemed to open inside of her, a void telling her that she had lost what she might have had.

  “And I was overcome with joy to learn that I was wrong. But even then, I thought that too was doomed to be short-lived, once you learned my surname.” She swallowed down a rush of guilt. “When my aunt introduced us, and you did not immediately recognize the name, I considered myself fortunate that, at last, I was able to escape it. I even told myself it was a harmless omission.”

  “The name of Desmond did spark some familiarity, but not enough to warrant the reaction I just witnessed from Lady Tillmanshire,” he growled, expelling a hiss between his teeth. Then he suddenly stopped on the path and turned to her, his severe expression pinning her in place. “Your explanation is plotting a slow course and leaves me to conjure dozens of reasons in the space of each step we take. Please tell me now if your name is attached to a husband or to a man to whom you are promised.”

  Taken aback by his assumption, she blinked for clarity. Was that the worst nightmare he could imagine? He did not leap to conclusions that she was ill bred but only wondered if another man might have laid claim to her heart before he could?

  That thumping organ beneath her breast swelled, giving rise to a renewed urge to fling herself at him, arms wide. She kept her face a practiced mask of severity while inside she was gaily clapping like a lunatic. Then, to keep herself still, she clasped her hands together. “It is not.”

  He seemed to consider this as he drew in a breath and nodded. “Are your affections otherwise engaged?”

  “They are not,” she said on a breath, chiding herself for wanting to smile and hold on to this moment. However, knowing what terrible news she must impart kept her sober. “Nor am I free to allow such an occurrence.”

  She had to keep walking. Facing him, standing as they were and able to see every nuance of his open expression, made her want to delay the inevitable. So she turned and continued on the path as he kept pace beside her.

  “Do you recall the London news event in which someone kidnapped and attempted to murder Miss Adeline Pimm?” She shuddered at her own question, recalling every detail of how her father had ordered one of his men to put Miss Pimm—now, the Countess of Wolford—inside a crate with a marble bust and to toss her to the bottom of the Thames.

  “I do. Your cousin Lord Wolford borrowed my horse that very morning,” Sam said, his brow furrowed as if in memory. Clearly, he was starting to put the pieces together on his own.

  Emotion seized her throat as Sam’s brow flattened, and he stared down at her with some unnamed expression. She had not seen this one before, and it made her nervous not to know what cards he held.

  “Your assistance that day likely saved my cousin-in-law’s life. Adeline is a dear friend now, and I have you to thank,” she added quickly, knowing that they were reaching the end of their brief acquaintance. She felt pinpricks at the corners of her eyes as tears threatened. It was unpardonable to feel sorry for herself and even worse to reveal it.

  She did what she could to keep the tears at bay. Straightening her shoulders, she said, “My father is Albert Desmond, the man who orchestrated the events of that day. The very name I hold is a black mark against my entire family. And I cannot, in good conscience, tarnish your household with my presence.”

  Before she lost her battle and gave in to tears, she turned to escape past the hedgerow.

  But Sam did not let her get far. Taking hold of her arm, firmly but gently, he stopped her. “Where are you going?”

  Still turned away from him, she shook her head. Surely, she did not need to explain any more. Her fate was evident to everyone who knew the story. “First to fetch my aunt, then back to Banfern Glenn, and after that, I could not say.”

  He didn’t release her. Instead, he stepped closer and settled both hands over the sleeves at her shoulders. The warm, comforting pressure breached the door where she’d locked her tears, and down they tumbled in heavy drops that dotted the bodice of her dress with small, wet ocher ovals.

  “Please, Sam, just let me go.”

  “I cannot,” he said softly. “By your own admission, you are unable to escape the stain upon your surname. So then why bother running at all? You could just as easily stay here.”

  “Stay?” If she weren’t so miserable, she would laugh. Lifting her hand, she surreptitiously wiped away the self-serving tears. “Your own name is now in jeopardy because of my foolish”—she stopped herself before the word wish escaped her lips—“and fraudulent scheme against you.”

  “A scheme against me?” He let out a low laugh that tempted her to lean back against
him in order to feel it rumble inside her. “What? Had you plotted to marry me in order to alter your name?”

  She could not answer him. There had been a moment when she’d thought about it. Truth be told, she’d imagined it more than once, believing that if anyone had the nature to forgive her for such a plot, he would have. Eventually.

  “By your silence I am left to wonder if that same thought”—he hesitated, as if unsure—“occurred to you.”

  “Only briefly,” she said in haste. “I never would have gone through with it.”

  “And why not?” He almost sounded affronted.

  Because I’m already too fond of you, she admitted to herself, squeezing her eyes shut.

  “Would you mind repeating that? The breeze must have carried away your whisper.”

  Her eyes sprang open. Had she muttered that aloud? After all the years of carefully shielding her emotions and thoughts from others, this was the absolute worst time to lose control of them.

  Embarrassed, she cleared her throat to recover, thankful that he hadn’t heard her. “Because you deserve someone better than I am.”

  “I preferred your first answer. Then again, that quiet admission might have been part of this . . . scheme of yours.” Strangely, he sounded more contemplative than angry by the supposition. “Which could mean that you began your plot at the pond, making sure to lure me with your wit and a fine display of leg.”

  She blushed, the remaining tears drying in splotches on her heated cheeks. Again, she tried to pull free, but his deceptively gentle hold would not allow it. “You should not mention that you saw me en déshabillé.”

  “Of course, you are right,” he said, all seriousness, his thumbs moving over the crests of her shoulders in slow, hypnotizing sweeps. “I will not speak of it but only think of it fondly.”

  “If you are trying to make me laugh, it won’t work.”

  “Oh, I think it might. After all, I was able to get you to smile, wasn’t I?” He turned her then, the evidence displayed on her lips as she gazed up at him in wonder. There was something about him that soothed her tattered nerves and hushed her dire thoughts.

  But did she have a right to feel even an ounce of happiness with him?

  Abruptly she sobered. “I apologize for deceiving you.”

  He shook his head, his gaze tender as he reached up and settled his hand beneath her chin. Then, withdrawing a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat, he carefully blotted away the last traces of dampness from her cheeks. “Gemma, I can think of no person who introduces herself by cataloguing the sins and misdeeds of her family. If that became the practice, then I daresay, people would be so frightened from making new acquaintances they would hardly leave their houses.”

  “That is no excuse. Because of my presence at Dunnock Park, your own very good name may fall under scrutiny.”

  He tilted up her face, searching her gaze. “Is that what you have endured—gossip and castigations—since you arrived in London?” Then his expression turned hard, his jaw set. “Well, no more—not while you are here.”

  Wait a moment. She could not have heard him correctly. “You still want me to stay?”

  “Of course you are staying,” he said, as if there had never been a question in the first place.

  She was stunned by his easy acceptance and readiness to defend her. Not to mention enthralled by his utter confidence. The weight that had been pressing upon her for months lifted somewhat, making her feel lighter. Hopeful.

  “You know nothing of me. So how can you believe me faultless, especially after all that I have told you?”

  “Many people have experienced dark deeds in one form or another, but that does not put the fault on their shoulders,” he said, shifting closer, his thumb brushing over her chin in a tender caress. “Do we blame the puffed dandelion for losing its seeds in a storm?”

  She could scarcely breathe. Each time he touched her, she felt so completely connected to him, as if they were of the same mind and body, with the same frissons of sensation that begged for a closer proximity. That anxious churning in her stomach suddenly transformed into tightly wound spirals, and she swayed slightly toward him.

  Then, anchoring herself, she placed her hand over his and cupped it briefly to her cheek. It didn’t even occur to her that this was too intimate a gesture for a garden in the full light of day, let alone between an unchaperoned debutante and a marriage-minded viscount. All she knew was that it felt exactly right to be here with him.

  His gaze dipped to her mouth as the tip of his thumb slipped into the sensitive valley between her chin and the flesh of her bottom lip, making her lips feel plump and tender and desperate for the pressure of his. If she would have known how perfect it felt to be close to him, she may very well have schemed her way into his party and onto his list of potential brides.

  “More than ever,” he said, his voice low, “I believe it is my duty to help you fulfill the plan you made with your aunt.”

  “To . . . to marry you?” She gasped, wondering if she’d spoken aloud again. Her blush sparked instantly to flame, and she dropped her hand, taking a step back. “But that was merely a . . . a passing thought, and I never fully intended to . . . to—”

  Her stammers stopped abruptly when he flashed a smile, the warm gleam in his eyes doing strange, wonderful things to her.

  “Or I might have been speaking of your intention to enjoy this holiday trip to the fullest.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” she said on a breath, more mortified than she cared to admit. She shifted from one foot to the other, knowing her cheeks must have turned eight different shades of red. “But there is one thing you have not considered. By playing host to Albert Desmond’s daughter, you might very well ruin your chance to find a bride among your guests.”

  His gaze flitted sideways to the whitewashed cottage just down the hill and to the gardener who stood outside, trimming a conical juniper. “It is a risk I’m willing to take.”

  Gemma only hoped he would not regret his decision.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The following afternoon, the guests gathered on the lawn for a rousing game of ground billiards. Sam stood off to one side of the manicured lane, having missed the hazard and ending in the rough. He wasn’t one to complain, however. Not with Gemma nearby and standing with her back to him, the heart-shaped curve of her derriere on display through lavender muslin as she bent at the waist in order to line up her mallet for the shot.

  Until this moment, he never knew how much he enjoyed the game.

  “So who’s the girl, Ellery?”

  Sam frowned at the interruption. He’d been careful to linger in the shadows beneath the canopy of elms that bordered either side of the alley, believing the direction of his gaze was well concealed. Leave it to the dark-haired man who now joined him to find him out.

  Lord Asher Holt had arrived before dawn that morning and straight from a house of ill repute, by the look and smell of him. Now, however, he was cleanly shaven, pressed into a dove gray coat, and wearing his signature black cravat that matched the gleaming onyx color of his irises. “Still in your pre-mourning garb, I see.”

  Holt’s mouth twisted in a wry smirk. “My father is bound to die at some point. I’m merely showing my respects ahead of time. After he’s in the ground, I plan to bury all my black cravats with him; wear only gleaming, angelic white; and then live a life of sainthood.”

  With a chuckle, Sam lifted his mallet and stepped to the side. “Warn me the next time you’re about to spew an abominable falsehood. I should not wish to be too near the spot of your smiting.”

  Holt glanced heavenward, his jaw set in stone and his eyes hard, as if in a dare. “One born to a Luciferian father quickly loses all hope of divine intervention.” Then his mask of boredom returned as he lowered his gaze to the players scattered about the lawn. “You didn’t answer the question—who’s the girl?”

  Sam was hoping he hadn’t noticed. “There are many young women here. At the
middle hazard stands Miss Creighton, doing her best to hide beneath that enormous straw bonnet as Hollander Two stands nearby, doubtless teasing her to make her miss her shot.” Hollander One was busy entertaining the chaperones, having been caught early on by Lady Tillmanshire, who wanted to know about his fortune. “On the far right, behind Miss Creighton, is the dimple-cheeked Miss Stapleton with her father. The latter of the two appears to be taking this game rather seriously, considering how he tossed a handful of grass in the air to gauge the direction of the wind.”

  While Holt chuckled at the sight, Sam glanced to Gemma just as she sent her ball reeling with a sharp crack of her mallet, whizzing through the arch. His fist clenched with a sense of shared triumph before he reluctantly had to return his attention to the others.

  “The trio still deciding who should go first among them is Miss Ashbury, Miss Leeds, and Lady Cantham, her new stepmother,” he said dismissively.

  Holt arched one eyebrow in hope. “Dowries enough to tempt me?”

  “By your standards, the daughter of Midas would leave you wanting.”

  “Don’t be too certain. After all, a young woman turned into gold would be unable to plague me with demands; therefore, I may find myself quite content,” Holt said with a smirk. “Though I’m not opposed to settling for a . . . cousin of that family. Is there a Miss Midas among them?”

  Sam glanced at the group. “I’ve heard that Miss Stapleton has a solid ten thousand pounds.”

  Holt made a sound of disgust. “I’d need ten times that to pay off Father’s debts.” Even so, he took a second look at Miss Stapleton. “Why the hell did you invite me?”

  “Solely to ensure that the bride I choose witnesses what horrors await her on the marriage mart, should she not accept my suit,” Sam said, deadpan.

  In truth, he wanted Holt to enjoy himself, perhaps to find happiness, and to stop planning his life around his father’s death. That was no way to live.