The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  “She’s not what I expected,” a young man whispered.

  Rosalind glared down at her lap. Did they think she was deaf? She was beginning to feel like one of the prize-winning sheep from her uncle’s estate. She squirmed, eager for the meal to end.

  “Stop fidgeting, girl.” The earl’s sister, Lady Augusta, punctuated her words with a narrow-eyed glare that made her freeze.

  Rosalind battled straight-out rebellion. She glanced along the length of the table. Twenty were dining tonight, and she’d met most of them earlier. Neighbors. Family friends invited to witness the wedding nuptials. Four burly footmen dressed in the green St. Clare livery served with a calmness she admired, given that Lady Augusta scowled so ferociously. A profusion of candles illuminated the Royal Dining Room, creating shadows and reflecting in the sparkling glass and silverware. Rosalind wrinkled her nose at the myriad scents. The perfume from an urn of pink roses battled with the overpowering aroma of the gentleman seated opposite. Smiles and chatter abounded, grating her nerves.

  All the younger, more interesting guests sat at the other end, near Hastings and the Earl of St. Clare. She was ensconced between Lady Augusta and her friend, Lady Pascoe. A part of her wondered if it was a plot by Lady Augusta to assert her authority on the newcomer. No doubt, a subtle scheme to put her in her proper place.

  Rosalind pushed a slice of stringy roast beef around her plate and wished the night was over, that the wedding was over and all the guests had left Castle St. Clare. A sharp prod of a mystery lump with her fork did little to disperse her resentment, so she scowled down the table at Hastings, but he never looked in her direction. To lull her agitation, she picked up her glass of French wine and stared into the depths of the ruby liquid, only to set it down again with a soft sigh.

  Lady Pascoe laughed without warning. Rosalind glanced up in time to catch the curiosity in the older woman. “The gel won’t survive the marriage bed,” she declared. “Doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. Doesn’t drink much either. Get some of that good smuggler’s wine inside you, gel.”

  Heat stung Rosalind’s cheeks when she intercepted the amused glances from those seated within hearing distance. She speared a morsel of jugged hare, placed it in her mouth, and chewed stoically.

  “Enough, Elizabeth,” Lady Augusta snapped. “That’s not a proper topic for dinner conversation.”

  “It’s true.” Lady Pascoe directed a query farther down the table. “What do you say, Charles? This latest batch of wine from the smugglers should build the gel’s strength.”

  Her rusty cackle set Rosalind’s nerves even more on edge. The pounding in her head intensified, and she gave up all pretense of eating.

  A feminine titter at the other end of the table made her wince. It was bad enough that Lady Pascoe shouted sufficiently loud for those in the neighboring village to heed, but for Lady Sophia, daughter of the Earl of Radford, to hear and giggle was beyond embarrassing. Rosalind studied them furtively. The tilt of Lady Sophia’s head as she fluttered her eyelashes at Hastings made it obvious she was avoiding direct eye contact with his scar. Despite her coquettish behavior, the imperfection bothered her. Lady Sophia placed her hand on Hastings’s arm. Rosalind’s eyes narrowed at the familiar action. That was her betrothed Lady Sophia was flirting with.

  Rosalind bit back a nasty word, one she’d overheard the coachman use during the journey to St. Clare. Naively, she’d presumed her betrothal would be a time of celebration, of giddy happiness. Not for an instant had she suspected her betrothed would ignore her or suggest she cry off. She quaked at returning to live with her uncle and aunt. No, it was unthinkable.

  Dinner continued. The footmen removed the tablecloth to serve dessert.

  Finally, the meal ended, and Lady Augusta stood. “We will leave the men to their port and pipes.”

  Rosalind trailed after the rest of the women as they wandered through to the Chinese Drawing Room. She chose an upright chair, as far away from the roaring fire as she could, and tried to melt into the background. Lady Augusta waited for the ladies to settle before glancing around the expectant faces. “Rosalind, you may entertain us while I pour tea.”

  Rosalind wanted to refuse. She hated to play the harpsichord and always had. She hesitated, hoping one of the other women would offer, releasing her from obligation.

  But Lady Pascoe shooed her toward the harpsichord. “Go on, gel. Play. Something lively. Augusta, I hope you purchased tea from the latest shipment. The last lot you served tasted like straw dipped in water.”

  Several of the ladies tittered, and Lady Augusta’s gloved hand tightened around the teapot.

  “I serve nothing but the best at Castle St. Clare,” Lady Augusta said in an icy tone. “Rosalind, music, if you please.”

  Bowing to the inevitable, Rosalind settled behind the harpsichord, drew off her gloves and cast them aside. At least they hadn’t demanded she sing. She forced her lips to smile and arranged her cream skirts before running her hands over the keys. About one third of the way through the Bach hymn, she hit the wrong note.

  A flurry of whispers erupted. Rosalind bit her bottom lip and looked up to see Lady Sophia snicker behind her fan. She struck another discordant note. Her heart leaped as mortified color gathered in her cheeks. Somehow, she fumbled her way through the rest of the hymn, coming to a crashing halt as the men filed into the drawing room to join them.

  “Thank you,” Lady Augusta said. “Lady Sophia, perhaps you would care to take over?”

  Rosalind slid off the stool and escaped toward the open terrace doors that led out to the formal gardens at the rear of the castle. A quick glance confirmed no one would miss her, and she stepped outside.

  The sky glowed, the color of deep blue, almost black silk, neither day nor night but the time in between. Rosalind inhaled and detected a hint of salt. When she passed the North Tower, the muted surge of the waves became audible. She followed a gravel path, lit at intervals by torches, and savored the peace after the stuffiness and loud chatter in the dining room.

  As she rounded the sweeping curve of the path, Rosalind trailed her hand over the foliage of a leafy green hedge. A pungent aroma, peppery and spicy, rose when her fingers crushed a leaf, and she realized she’d left her gloves inside by the harpsichord.

  “There you are. What kept you?” a harsh voice demanded.

  Rosalind froze at the sound of voices coming from the other side of the hedge.

  “I had to wait for the courier, Hawk. He said to tell you the shipment’s due tomorrow night. On the tide.”

  “About time,” the man in charge growled. “Notify the men. We meet an hour before the tide. Go now, before someone sees you.”

  Smugglers? Not unusual in these times. Lady Pascoe had alluded to their presence at dinner. But even so, Rosalind instinctively hid, pressing against the foliage, despite the branches jabbing through her silk gown. It wouldn’t do for them to catch her eavesdropping. Most people ignored smuggler operations since their presence benefited everyone from villagers to the titled, but Rosalind had heard tales of the gangs farther down the coast—stories of murder and brutality.

  Stealthy footsteps passed a few feet away from her while the other man departed in the opposite direction via the gardens. When the firm steps were no longer audible, her alarm eased, and the tension left her shoulders. She edged from hiding. It was time for her to return to the drawing room and Hastings. She turned to retrace her steps and came to an abrupt halt, her nose flattened against a solid chest. The air hissed from her lungs, and a startled squeak escaped. She wobbled, and strong hands shot out to grasp her upper arms.

  “What are you doing out here alone?”

  The husky growl made her stomach lurch. Had it been Hastings she’d overheard? Rosalind stiffened with defiance before raising her gaze to meet her betrothed’s frowning visage. “I needed air,” she murmured.

  His bare hands sent a tingle racing up her arm. Rosalind wanted to move away, to free herself of this strange
sensation, yet contrarily she ached to edge closer to inhale the spicy, sweet scent of tobacco that had permeated his clothes. A flush of heat bloomed on her cheeks at the notion.

  “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

  “Why?” Was it because it worried him she might have seen something? “This is my home now.” The heat in her cheeks intensified, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice her unease. “After tomorrow,” she added hastily.

  His grip on her arms tightened. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Questions whirled through her mind, and not one answer presented a glimmer of understanding. This was the second time he’d asked if she wanted to call off the marriage. Why was he so insistent?

  “Now is the time to change your mind.” The strain in his voice made her stare. “I can’t make you happy.”

  Rosalind tugged from his touch while she struggled to control the panic sizzling through her veins. She wanted to get married. She wanted a husband.

  Security.

  Children.

  And since the men of marriageable age in Stow-on-the-Wold and the surrounding district had decided she was a witch, Hastings was her last chance.

  She didn’t expect love, but surely friendship wasn’t too much to ask? “I want to marry you,” she said, ignoring for the moment the conversation she’d overheard earlier.

  They stared at each other. Rosalind’s heart raced, but she refused to glance away before her betrothed.

  Hastings cracked first. “So be it,” he ground out. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He took possession of her arm and propelled her toward the drawing room.

  Rosalind hurried to keep pace with his long stride and finally dug in her heels, forcing him to stop by a rose bed. “Warned about what? I don’t understand.”

  In the light that spilled from the drawing room, she saw the tightening of his mouth, the slash of the scar down his cheek. The warmth of his hand heated her own and, without warning, a picture formed in her mind.

  It was the woman again. Heavy with child and bearing a broad smile, she skipped, happy and carefree along the edge of a stream. Rosalind’s insides churned with sudden fear, but the vision remained despite trying to block her betrothed’s thoughts. Her skin grew hot, and her clothes clung to her clammy body. She cast a quick glance at Hastings.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Nothing!” She swallowed, trying to disengage from him without being too obvious.

  No one must learn of her accursed gift. She didn’t want tales of witchcraft to find her here at Castle St. Clare. For once she wanted an ordinary life, to feel the same as others. Mary knew of her gift, but she was the only one. It must remain that way. If Hastings discovered she had the sight, he might call off the marriage.

  Panic made her voice sharp. “It’s nothing. A touch of indigestion.”

  Hastings snatched up her hand and, in her mind, Rosalind saw a couple dancing beneath the stars, a full moon hanging low in the sky. She bit back a moan of distress. The couple was in love. It was obvious in the way the man held the woman, the soft smile on his face when he gazed at her.

  Questions trembled at the tip of her tongue, but one glance of his visage made her choke them back. Dark and unapproachable. Brooding. His expression did nothing to encourage chitchat.

  The wedding would take place tomorrow. Rosalind couldn’t call it off. She wouldn’t. She refused, despite his rebuff.

  Rosalind glanced at her betrothed’s face then down at the ground. Tears stung her eyes, and she bit her bottom lip.

  How could she marry this man knowing his thoughts were for another?

  How could she not?

  “Good morning, Miss Rosalind.” Mary’s voice sounded seconds before she whipped back the damask curtains screening the bed.

  Morning? Already? Rosalind groaned in fatigue, not ready to rise from the comfort of the feather mattress. Not even for the enticing scent of hot chocolate wafting from the pot Mary had placed on the walnut dresser. She yanked the covers over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. It was dark under there, but not distracting enough to keep the shadows in her mind at bay.

  Today was the day.

  Her wedding day.

  Confusion had tied her stomach in knots, keeping her awake, twisting and turning late into the night. The fault of new surroundings, she tried to tell herself. Yet that wasn’t the whole truth. For despite the wail of the wind and the rap of a loose shutter throughout the night, the specter that preyed on her mind was that of the dark-haired man to whom she was betrothed.

  The enigma—the man called George St. Clare, Viscount Hastings, or the name he answered to, Lucien—and the man who spurned her.

  “It’s time for you to prepare for the wedding, miss.”

  “I’m tired,” Rosalind muttered, struggling to sit.

  “Oh, miss! I’m not surprised. Did you hear all the strange noises last night? Ghosts, I reckon. The other maids said people sometimes search for the long-lost St. Clare treasure. The ghosts haunt the castle to scare everyone away.” Her voice held distinct relish. A tiny shudder of delighted horror rippled down her body. “Or it could be smugglers. They employ many of the village men.” Mary cocked her head and pursed her lips in a considering manner. “The noises be like chains rattling and moans. Lots of moans.” She shuddered again, her gaze darting to all four corners of the chamber. “No, miss. I’m sure it was ghosts.”

  “It was the wind. There are no ghosts in this castle.” Rosalind swung her legs over the edge of the bed and slithered down until her feet touched the ground. Mary had a terrible penchant for gossip. Treasure! Rosalind didn’t believe the stories of ghosts and treasure for a moment. “I suppose I’d better get ready.”

  “I can’t find your hairbrush. Have you seen it?”

  “It will be here somewhere.” Rosalind smothered a yawn.

  Her wedding day. Fear danced down her spine as she slid her arms into the robe Mary held for her. She’d be glad when the marriage ceremony ended.

  “Are you still worrying about the marriage bed?”

  Rosalind grimaced. “I am now. Thank you for reminding me.” As if she didn’t have enough to worry about. Her betrothed hated her, and now it seemed he was a smuggler. Add the mysteries of the marriage bed her aunt had described in most confusing terms, then yes, she had plenty to worry on.

  For years she’d looked forward to this day. Yet, now her wedding day was upon her, she felt like a lamb being driven to Smithfield’s market for slaughter.

  The dainty Englishwoman looked as if she might faint. She appeared so fragile that if a gust of wind picked up, she’d take flight. There wasn’t much to her that Lucien could see, apart from her eyes. Her big blue eyes reminded him of the lakes near his home in Italy.

  Lucien frowned and concentrated on the drone of the vicar. How much more would he deem fit to say? He wished the whole procedure was over so his life would return to normal, as normal as it could be without Francesca. No more dinner parties. No more guests. He needed peace and privacy to investigate. His hands fisted at his sides, his muscles tense. The Englishman who’d sent men to murder them during their journey from Italy to St. Clare had a name, and he wanted it.

  He wanted to know why.

  An edgy agitation assailed him when he pictured his wife. Francesca. His tight jaw relaxed as he recalled her laugh, her love of life. The way she’d loved him, and the way she showed her love. His loins tightened, and he stirred restlessly, remembering too late she was gone.

  Murdered.

  And he was no closer to finding the person responsible for the despicable deed.

  The vicar cleared his throat, and Lucien snapped to attention. When the vicar repeated the words, Lucien swallowed before uttering a reply. Damn it! How could he pledge to this woman when he hated the idea? Frustration warred with necessity. How could he not? As long as everyone assumed he was Viscount Hastings, he was trapped into this marriage. For without his cover here at
Castle St. Clare, he had no hope of finding the elusive Hawk, his main suspect in Francesca’s murder.

  A loud cough echoed in the chapel. The vicar’s eyes beseeched Lucien to act. Behind him, feet shuffled, skirts rustled. He closed his eyes briefly and acknowledged the question in a clear, firm voice. “I do.”

  Minutes later, it was over.

  Lucien was married to the colorless woman at his side.

  Rosalind huddled under the covers, the flowered damask hangings drawn about the bed creating a private haven, while she considered the time that had elapsed since she’d retired. It seemed ages since Mary had helped her change from her bridal finery into her nightgown. When would her husband appear?

  A series of assorted creaks and thumps sounded in the passage outside her room. Settling noises, she assured herself. The foreign sounds were nothing unusual at all. The scurry of tiny feet across the floor made Rosalind bolt upright. Not mice! She detested the gray rodents.

  A door squeaked, and Rosalind stiffened. He had arrived at last. She strained to hear footsteps, her heart thumping with anticipation and fear of the unknown. Was that another footstep? Possibly the fine Persian carpet muted further sounds. Her heart thumped, and her deep, hurried inhalation did little to ease her anxiety.

  Tired of the strain and indecision, she called out, “Good evening?” The distinct wobble in her voice brought a frown. She sounded frightened, and that wouldn’t do at all. Experience with her gift had taught her that no matter what the situation, a brave façade worked wonders. “Is someone there?”

  There was no reply, but every one of her senses shrieked of a presence in her chamber. She chewed on her bottom lip and wondered how to proceed. Instinct told her if Hastings was in her chamber, he’d answer her greeting and not skulk like…like a mouse.