The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  The sound of running feet thudded on the landing above. Her dress had hiked up, displaying her lacy garters and her stocking from knee to ankle. She lifted her kitten to rearrange her skirts. Her gaze caught on a small rent where she’d hooked the hem with her shoe. Tears filled her eyes as she stared down at her throbbing ankle. One seeped free and ran down her cheek. She sniffed and brushed it away with her free hand.

  “Rosalind!” Charles’s anxious face stared down at her. Mansfield appeared then, as did her husband.

  Lucien rushed down the stairs, stopping to crouch beside her. “Rosalind, I heard a scream. What happened? Are you all right?”

  Another tear slid free.

  “What is it? Where does it hurt?”

  A sob escaped. Rosalind’s vision turned blurry.

  “Talk to me.” Lucien sat on the stair beside her and placed an arm around her shoulders.

  “My dress,” she managed. Her shoulders heaved. Another sob escaped.

  “What about your dress?”

  “It’s…ru-ruined,” she wailed. With that, she burrowed her face in his chest and cried in earnest.

  Lucien set an indignant Noir aside and cradled her in his arms. He murmured soft nonsensical words until she quieted. She was dimly aware of Charles and Mansfield’s worried queries. Lucien spoke to them, and the two friends left, heading down the flight of sweeping stairs, leaving her alone with Lucien.

  Rosalind swallowed and pulled away. She wiped a self-conscious hand over her face, knowing she looked terrible with red eyes and an equally red nose.

  Lucien studied her for long seconds. He lifted one hand to wipe away tears on her cheek. “What is wrong? Did you fall?”

  “I tripped.”

  “Over this rascal?” He scooped up Noir, regarding him with a stern face.

  “No, it wasn’t Noir. It was a string of some sort tied across the stairs at ankle level. I didn’t see it and stumbled.” She waited for him to tell her it was imagination, but he remained thoughtful. She shuddered. If it hadn’t been for the curve in the stairs, she would have toppled all the way to the bottom.

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “All I saw was a shadow, and Noir pounced at them, whoever it was. It happened so quickly. It could have been a servant or a guest.” She held her breath, waiting for his next comment. He hadn’t believed her earlier, but another incident might make him accept that someone wanted to injure her or worse.

  “That makes three incidents in a week,” he said at last.

  “Don’t forget the men shooting at me.” The memory made her recall Mary, and she struggled against the onset of more tears. “You don’t think it’s my imagination?”

  “No.” Lucien stood. “Can you walk? Wait. Don’t try on the stairs. I’ll carry you.” After handing her the kitten, he picked her up and strode back up the stairs with a firm tread.

  Rosalind stiffened. “Where are we going?”

  “To your chamber. You’re injured so Aunt Augusta can pardon you from dinner for once.”

  “I’m fine,” she protested. “I need to tidy my appearance and change my dress, that’s all.”

  “You can’t even walk. How are you going to manage the stairs?”

  “I haven’t tried to walk yet.” Rosalind batted her eyelids at her husband. “Besides, I thought you’d carry me.”

  The sound of Lucien’s uninhibited laughter was a gift to treasure. “Vixen.”

  Rosalind turned pensive. “There’s another reason. I want to see if any of the guests seem surprised by my appearance.”

  “I don’t like it,” Lucien said.

  “But you’ll be there to watch. What more can happen?”

  Rosalind gritted her teeth and managed a smile for the maid who handed her a dish of tea. Boredom. That’s what could happen next. Apart from the minister’s wife, the women were ignoring her. During dinner, the snubs were not so obvious, but now that the women had left the men to their port and pipe smoking, Rosalind sat on the horsehair couch, along with the minister’s wife, in solitary splendor.

  “I so enjoy needlework,” Mrs. Wright said brightly.

  Rosalind smiled encouragingly when the woman faltered. “What do you stitch?”

  “I am working on new cushions for the front parlor. I designed the patterns myself.” The woman glanced across the room at the chattering ladies. She bit her lip, and her hands twisted in her lap.

  “I wish I were talented with a needle and thread.” Rosalind felt terrible for the woman whose only crime was to sit with her. Perhaps the other ladies feared a contagion of witchcraft. If only they knew. The sole thing they might catch from her was clumsiness, for she was a walking disaster according to Lady Augusta.

  “I know the rumors aren’t true.” Mrs. Wright glanced at Rosalind and looked away, a soft blush highlighting her embarrassment.

  “What rumors?” Rosalind asked, but she already suspected what Mrs. Wright referred to.

  “About you being a witch.” The woman’s gaze shot to her embroidered shoes. “I know it’s a falsehood. You do so much for the sick in St. Clare. And you don’t sell love charms and spells.” The woman babbled as if she had to get the words out before an interruption.

  “Spells!” Rosalind almost choked on her tea. She coughed and set her cup on the walnut pedestal table at her elbow.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t wish to distress you!” Mrs. Wright looked as though she might burst into tears, and her raised voice had attracted the attention of the other women.

  Rosalind’s lips firmed when she saw Lady Sophia and her bosom friends, Lady Margaret, and Lady Suzanna, put their heads together to whisper behind their fans. Their malicious eyes settled on her. Lady Augusta’s perceptive gaze searched the women’s faces. Her brow knitted, then settled into complacency.

  “No, not the harpsichord,” Rosalind said.

  “Mrs. Radcliffe, would you like to entertain us with some music? And perhaps Lady Suzanna will sing?”

  Relief struck Rosalind until she spotted Lady Augusta’s attention fixed on her. Her lined face had returned to a frown. A sigh escaped as Rosalind wondered what sin she’d committed this time.

  “Lady Hastings, there you are. What are you doing all the way over here?” Lady Sophia trilled. She glided toward Rosalind like a ship under full sail. Her silk sack dress was full, with a snug bodice highlighting her creamy skin and other charms.

  Rosalind whispered one of the coachman’s curses about St. Christopher’s body parts. A discussion with Lady Sophia was what she needed at this time. Her ankle and knee throbbed with a persistent demand for attention while her head ached in sympathy.

  Lady Margaret simpered. “Do you not want to join us?”

  “We wished for quiet conversation,” Mrs. Wright said.

  One pointed glower from Lady Sophia and the minister’s wife withered like a plucked flower left out in the full sun. Rosalind half expected her to flee, but Mrs. Wright stood her ground, resisting her transparent urge to scamper.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Rosalind stood, not liking the sly exchange of looks passing between the two friends.

  “Rumors are circulating in the village.” Lady Sophia tossed her head, making powdered ringlets bounce against her creamy shoulders.

  “You listen to rumors?” Rosalind’s soft laugh drew a frown from Lady Sophia and, thankfully, did not indicate her inner tension.

  “They are more than rumors,” Lady Sophia snapped.

  Rosalind’s heart slammed against her ribs, but her smile remained intact. Lucien had warned her, the village children had questioned her, so it was easy to guess the delightful tidbit Lady Sophia wished to share.

  Witchcraft.

  “Do tell,” Rosalind said in a playful tone, ignoring the panic cramping her stomach. If she belittled Lady Sophia’s words and treated them as nonsense, perhaps they’d cause less damage. Even so, she sensed her secure future slipping from her grasp. It was happening again. Soon, people would t
urn their backs when they saw her coming. Only her station would save her, but she’d become a prisoner, unable to leave the castle. In outlying villages, they still burned witches at the stake, even though authorities frowned on the practice.

  “I want a love spell.” Lady Sophia met and held Rosalind’s gaze, daring her to deny the demand.

  Lady Margaret blinked while a soft moan escaped from Mrs. Wright. Rosalind ignored them both.

  “Lady Margaret would like one too.”

  This time soft color flooded Lady Margaret’s face, but she didn’t gainsay Lady Sophia’s demands on her behalf.

  Mrs. Wright drew in a shocked breath. “The rumors are wicked. Wicked, scurrilous gossip.”

  “I have no idea how to make a love spell.” Rosalind laughed. “Wherever did you get the idea?”

  “You’re a witch. Everyone knows witches sell love charms along with dark spells. The cows on Mansfield’s estate have gone dry.” She thrust a finger at Rosalind in a dramatic statement. “Are you responsible?”

  Rosalind rolled her eyes just as the music of the harpsichord came to a crashing halt. She picked up her fan and opened it with a snap.

  “What’s going on?” Lady Augusta’s strident tones snapped across the parlor.

  Rosalind knew she must face the charge without a flinch. She might not stop the gossip in the village, but she could halt it here. “Lady Sophia was kind enough to repeat some unpleasant gossip doing the rounds in the village.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Wright stepped up beside Rosalind. “What nonsense. How could anyone think Lady Hastings is a witch? She’s an angel. Only yesterday my husband commented on how good she is in treating the sick in the village.”

  “Have those silly rumors about witchcraft surfaced again?” Lady Augusta demanded. “Stuff and nonsense! I expected better of you all. Lady Sophia, will you honor us with a rendition on the harpsichord? I’d like you to play a lullaby if you please.”

  Lady Sophia’s scowl and flashing eyes suggested Rosalind was in for a lecture. She swept away in a swish of skirts to seat herself at the harpsichord.

  Rosalind sat to take the weight off her aching ankle and knee and plied her fan. Maybe she could fan away her apprehension. “Thank you for your defense, Mrs. Wright.”

  “Call me Katherine. Please.” Katherine arranged her skirts so they wouldn’t crease. “Lady Sophia is spreading wicked gossip. I grew up in a village called Little Neston in Cheshire. When I was ten, one of the old women in the village was accused of witchcraft.” Katherine’s voice trembled. “My parents spoke of her. She wasn’t a witch. She was eccentric, but we all have our quirks. Stephen says we must accept each other’s shortcomings.”

  Rosalind nodded, smiling at Katherine’s speech. The minister’s wife never said much, but it was obvious she held strong opinions on this matter.

  The door of the parlor opened, and the gentlemen drifted inside.

  “Rosalind, how are you feeling?”

  “I am fine, Mansfield, thank you.” She set her fan on her lap.

  Charles sauntered up to them, holding his quizzing glass high. “Devilish clumsy, aren’t you?”

  “And you’re no gentleman, commenting on the fact.” Rosalind folded her fan with a flick of her wrist and stood.

  “Are you going to sulk?” Interest colored Mansfield’s voice.

  “No, I’m not! The two of you are impossible.”

  “Just like my brothers,” Katherine said. “Always teasing.”

  Rosalind turned to Katherine, surprised she was contributing to the conversation. “I’m an only child and grew up with my cousin Miranda. I’ve no experience with brothers.”

  “Lucky you didn’t grow up with us around,” Charles said with a grin. “We would have dared you to climb trees and crawl through dark passages. You’re so clumsy, we’d have been forever rescuing you.”

  There was a moment’s startled silence, then the four of them laughed aloud.

  “What’s the joke?” Lucien asked, coming up beside Rosalind.

  The casual slide of his arm around her waist caused a hitch in her breath, but she savored his closeness. “They’re laughing at my expense,” she said, shaking her head in mock sadness.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Katherine tense at Lucien’s appearance. Her gaze held both fascinated horror and pity. If Lucien saw, he gave no sign, but irritation on his behalf rose in Rosalind. It was a scar, that was all. He wasn’t a monster or a freak for people to pity. He was her husband. She rested her gloved hand on his arm to align her loyalties.

  “Is your knee paining you? Your ankle?”

  His warm, moist breath blew against her cheek, drawing a sweet shudder. In truth, her knee and ankle were both throbbing and, since the hour grew late, Rosalind had no compunction in retiring before the guests called for their carriages to leave. “I am a trifle sore.” The moment she uttered the words, the aches intensified. “Nothing some salve and rest won’t cure.”

  “Come, say your good-nights, and I’ll escort you to your chamber.”

  “Good night, Katherine. Thank you for keeping me company. Mansfield. Charles. No doubt I will see you on the morrow.”

  After further farewells, Lucien and Rosalind left the parlor and made their way through the Long Gallery. At the base of the stairs, Lucien paused. “Would you like me to carry you?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Lucien glanced at her pinched face and lifted her into his arms. She felt so tiny cradled next to his chest, a sensation he’d become used to recently. His English mouse possessed strength of character that made the rest of the women in the parlor ordinary. And it was becoming difficult to ignore her charms.

  He paused outside Rosalind’s chamber to open the door. A sound coming from inside the room made him halt.

  Rosalind tugged his sleeve in a silent demand for him to put her down. Lucien frowned and indicated with a hand gesture for her to stay outside. He tiptoed into the chamber. A whisper of silk behind him made his teeth clench.

  Rosalind sidled up to him and tugged on his sleeve once more. “Who is it?” Her blue eyes flashed excitement, and Lucien groaned.

  “Stay there,” he mouthed.

  A flurry of movement coming from Rosalind’s dressing room made her leap into action.

  “If someone is destroying my clothes again I will scream.” She limped past Lucien, evading his grasp and shot into the dressing room.

  “Damn.” Lucien hurried after her to avert further injury.

  Rosalind slammed to a halt. “What on earth are you doing?” Her stern voice sounded surprisingly like Lady Augusta at her most imperious. Her eyes narrowed a second before she darted from sight, then a feminine screech rent the air, loud enough to make his ears ring.

  “What’s going on here?” Lucien burst through the doorway in time to see Rosalind grab the dark-haired maid by the shoulders, the one who was always dropping sly hints about joining him in his bed and shake her vigorously.

  “I asked you a question,” Rosalind snapped.

  Beth glared at Rosalind, her mouth firmed in a stubborn line of mutiny.

  “Tell me.” Rosalind shook the maid again.

  “I came to turn down your bed and light the candles,” Beth said. “Ask Tickell. He sent me.”

  “He told Maria to do it,” Rosalind countered, releasing her.

  “No, he… How did you know?” The maid edged away.

  “I just do.” Rosalind folded her arms and glared down her upturned nose, her chin jutting upward in a pugnacious manner.

  Lucien bit back a smile. Rosalind was handling this interview well without his help. And she was right to question the maid. Several gowns lay on the floor in a puddle of silk, and the maid was still grasping a lacy shawl in her right hand.

  “Would you like to hand over the knife from your pocket?” Rosalind’s tone was as pleasant as if she were breaking a fast with acquaintances.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

&nbs
p; Rosalind pointed. “The knife in your pocket.”

  The maid’s shoulders slumped. She yanked the knife from her pocket, and Lucien stood poised, ready to intercede should she threaten Rosalind.

  “They’re right,” Beth said with a snarl. “You are a witch.”

  Lucien took two steps forward, but Rosalind stilled him with a frown.

  She grabbed the maid’s forearm. “Who says I’m a witch? Who’s spouting such falsehoods?”

  Beth tried to ease from Rosalind’s grip. “I have more rooms to ready for the guests. Tickell said I have to finish them by midnight.”

  “You will clean up the mess here first,” Rosalind said. “But before you do that, you’re going to tell me who suggested you destroy my gowns. I presume it was you who ransacked my room last week. You must have laughed when I asked you to help me clean up the mess. How much did Lady Sophia pay you?”

  The color fled the maid’s cheeks, leaving her pasty white.

  Lucien leaned against the doorframe and waited. He hoped Rosalind knew what she was doing because when she blurted out things like that without warning, damned if she didn’t sound like a witch.

  Beth refused to meet Rosalind’s gaze. She mumbled something, and this time Lucien heard Rosalind gasp of shock.

  “You were responsible for me falling down the stairs tonight. Why?”

  “I was not!”

  But one glimpse of the maid’s face told Lucien she was guilty. She had caused Rosalind’s fall.

  Lucien closed the distance between himself and the two women. Fury whipped him at the idea of losing Rosalind. Francesca’s death had been bad enough, but to lose another wife was unthinkable. “You could have killed Lady Hastings.”