The Impoverished Viscount

by Allison Lane

  But she had proven to be the prudish sort, leaving him ready to explode with frustration. And that was dangerous. Runaway passions could cloud his judgment. He had barely escaped disaster several times before.

  The Willingford party was a prime example. He had known the husband was possessive, yet he had continued the liaison. Willingford had returned early from a jaunt into Lincoln to find the delectable Carla with her dress down around her waist. If the man had entered the folly even five minutes later, Charles would have been facing him at dawn instead of just nursing a bruised jaw. He had already enjoyed Carla’s lustful charms several times that week. The lady was insatiable.

  His groin tightened painfully. Just such a situation now loomed. Nothing else could account for his growing desire to kiss Miss Sharpe. She was as unattractive a package as he could imagine. Every time she chewed her nails, he wanted to shake her. And she was the only female he had ever met who openly disparaged his touch. Even in the drawing room, when she could not object to him kissing her fingers, he could feel her fury. So he paced the house, his mind cycling between his grandmother’s demands and his unaccountable attraction to a dowdy schoolroom chit.

  Please let this be over.

  The solicitor finally retired to draft Lady Lanyard’s last will and testament. The dowager immediately summoned Harriet to her bedside, and Charles’s nervousness increased. His future was in the hands of an immature, lower-class stranger. He belonged in Bedlam! He should have stuck to his original plan, pointing out the impossibility of his grandmother’s demand and suggesting that she either bypass him or leave the inheritance in trust until he wed.

  But there was nothing he could do about that now.

  * * * *

  “We need to talk,” Lady Lanyard began as Harriet seated herself in a chair. “You will make a satisfactory wife to my scapegrace grandson, but there are things you must understand.”

  “Yes, my lady?” she responded in surprise.

  “Are you aware of his financial standing?” she asked.

  “Yes. He has been open about it since the beginning,” she truthfully stated. “It was what finally prompted my acceptance. He could hardly afford a dowerless wife, given his own need, yet he insisted upon marriage.”

  “He has always known that he would inherit my fortune.”

  Harriet raised her brows.

  Lady Lanyard continued in a hard voice. “But I will not tolerate a continuance of his frivolous ways. His grandfather gamed away much of his inheritance. He made himself a byword in London, losing so consistently that it became a standing joke in the clubs. Anyone needing money need only challenge the ninth Lord Rathbone to cards, and his troubles would vanish. Charles’s father was shamed by his predecessor’s excesses and vowed to recoup the family fortunes. It was why we allowed Althea to accept him. What a mistake! He may have eschewed the tables, but he was as much a gambler in his own way, losing the remains in bad investments that even the most obtuse cloth-head should have seen were doomed to failure. His only virtue was dying before he mortgaged Swansea. Charles claims to despise them both, but he has shown little inclination to assume responsibility. Since leaving school, he has spent his life in London, doing the pretty in society, lolling about the clubs and sporting circles, and sowing more wild oats than are seemly.”

  Harriet blushed but nodded agreement.

  “My first husband taught me a healthy respect for achievement,” continued her ladyship, pinning Harriet with an icy stare. “I believe you share that view.”

  “I do. I prefer to judge men on character and accomplishments – and that does not necessarily mean money. Our neighbor, Lord Mitchel, loves learning and has become an expert on Chaucer and other medieval writers. He recently completed a book on the subject that will share his insights with others. One can applaud his expertise regardless of how little interest one has in his subject. Even the wealthiest peer should not believe that setting a good steward over his lands frees him to idle about town the rest of his life.”

  “I have judged you well, then. I expect you to challenge Charles. See that he does something useful with his life. First he must learn how his estate operates. It will not be easy, for he has shown no interest there in eight years of ownership. Once he accomplishes that, you will have to decide what to encourage next. You know where his interests and abilities lie, probably better than I. Despite our blood relationship, he spends only a short time here each year. But I love him dearly. He inherited the charm and vivacity that bypassed my son and daughter. Take care of him, Harriet.”

  “I will do what I can,” she promised.

  “You will also raise your children to accept responsibility,” ordered Lady Lanyard.

  “Certainly, my lady.”

  “We must leave the world a better place than it was when we were born,” she declared. Though still firm, her voice was noticeably weaker.

  “Lady Tanders’s favorite saying,” murmured Harriet without thinking, her mind focused on terminating the conversation before her ladyship tired.

  “You are also related to Lady Tanders?” asked Lady Lanyard. “She was my grandmother.”

  “No,” lied Harriet, cursing herself for forgetting her role. “You are not the first person to quote her. I met a lady in Bath some years ago, who often spoke of Lady Tanders. Her philosophy influenced my own thinking.”

  She was fighting off panic as she groped with a horrifying realization. Her grandmother, Lady Castleton, was also a granddaughter of Lady Tanders, making her Lady Lanyard’s first cousin. Thus Charles was her third cousin. Dear Lord, please let the two branches of the family be estranged! Fancy almost revealing her identity by absent-mindedly repeating her mother’s favorite adage. She hoped her claim was vague enough to satisfy Lady Lanyard.

  Talk wandered idly for another hour. Lady Lanyard reminisced about Lady Tanders, a forceful, opinionated woman dedicated to good works. She had loved her family with a deep devotion, spending many hours with the children. They passed her ideals to their children, and so on. Only Charles lacked training in the Tanders philosophy of dedication, self-reliance, achievement, and frugality. His mother had died when he was three, depriving him of that influence, and his father was no pattern card.

  Charles accosted her as soon as she emerged from Lady Lanyard’s room, hauling her into a dimly lit state apartment where they would not be overheard.

  “You are spending too much time with my grandmother,” he charged angrily. “How can you maintain the fiction for so prolonged a period?”

  “Jealous?” she snapped, unwilling to put up with his arrogance another minute. “How do you suggest I refuse her commands, my lord? My dear lady, I cannot sit with you any more because his toadship fears I might inadvertently reveal what a scheming bastard he is, and upset his plans to inherit your fortune. Is that what you want?”

  Her biting condemnation seemed unexpectedly to soothe his temper, for he smiled. “Forgive me, Miss Sharpe. This uncertainty is amazingly frustrating.”

  “I suppose you are unused to waiting for anything,” she observed tartly, wandering across the room to examine a portrait of a typically dour Elizabethan Lanyard. “A little disappointment would probably improve your character.”

  “You wouldn’t!” He sounded aghast.

  “Do you think me capable of dishonoring a vow, sir?” Her voice was again hard. She shrugged. “Of course you do. Your opinion of me remains unspeakable.”

  “Nonsense,” he swore. “I spoke without thinking, out of my own fears. Your performance has been marvelous, and I am grateful. But what do you talk about for so long?”

  “Today she was reminiscing about her childhood, recounting tales of her grandmother, Lady Tanders.”

  His shoulders relaxed and he joined her before the fireplace. “Ah. I might have known she would wish to talk of the past now that she has reached the end. And thank you for sparing me that. She can become remarkably tedious, for all I love her.”

  Selfish prig. His devo
tion to his grandmother was rooted in avarice. But it was not her place to judge. Nor would she continue this masquerade any longer. For good or ill, the will was written. She would apprise him of her impressions, and then wash her hands of the whole sordid mess.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure the end is near,” she warned.

  “What do you mean?” He turned her to face him.

  “How long has it been since you visited her?”

  He frowned. “Yesterday, briefly. And a fortnight ago. I’ve been ill.”

  “Did you really look at her?”

  She could feel his hand trembling. “I’m in no mood for games, Miss Sharpe.”

  “She may well be at the end of her life, but I doubt this chill will kill her,” she stated firmly, her eyes holding his. “She is much better than when we arrived, her skin less transparent, her eyes clearer. Her relief that you are well situated has restored her will to live. She could linger for months or even years.”

  “Damnation!” he exploded, dropping her arm and striding furiously away. By the time he returned, his brows were creased in desperate thought. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course not. I am no doctor,” she demurred. “She is elderly and frail. This chill could still prove fatal, or something else might claim her tomorrow. The body has an unfortunate habit of wearing out with age. But you must be prepared for any eventuality.”

  “What should we do now?” His fingers tangled in his hair.

  “There is no question of we. This is your problem, my lord. Our agreement is concluded. My grandmother should have reached home by now. I plan to leave tomorrow.”

  “But what will I tell her?”

  “You will think of something.”

  “You can’t leave me in the lurch like this,” he protested, grabbing her arm and shaking it. “You promised to see that I received my inheritance.”

  “You twist our agreement,” she accused him, hardening her tone and pulling free. “I promised to pose as your betrothed for two weeks in exchange for a roof over my head. I have satisfied that bargain. You do not own me. Nor will I continue this charade in the future. I should be shot for joining so dishonorable a scheme.”

  “Don’t pretend righteousness with me, my girl,” he growled. “No one forced you. And you will help me again should the need arise.” His face hovered only inches from her own, an odd gleam growing in his eyes.

  “Never, my lord. You do not own me,” she repeated, trepidation warring with some other emotion as his pupils blurred.

  “Perhaps I should,” he murmured, dragging her into his arms and kissing her.

  For a moment she was too surprised to react, giving excitement a chance to build. His mouth was open, the unexpectedness of it thrilling her as his tongue traced the line of her lips. This was so different from the terror Heflin had raised.

  Charles’s hands caressed her back, and she arched closer, reveling in the warmth of his embrace.

  What was she doing? He despised her!

  Furious, she fought free. “Arrogant oaf!” Her hand flashed up, leaving a red print on his face. “Do you really think yourself so irresistible that you can seduce me into continuing this deceit? I owe you nothing, my lord.”

  “It need not be a deceit,” he said rashly, his voice rasping as he gasped for breath. His fingers brushed across her breasts. “Marry me.”

  “I would sooner live in hell than with someone who would wed for money,” she snarled, ignoring the tingles radiating from that feather-light touch. Oh, treacherous, untrustworthy body! “Find some other poor fool. Surely there is someone so desperate for a title and fortune that she would overlook the selfish conceit that rules your life. As for me, I will never wed a greedy fribble, and you have shown no inclination to anything else.”

  Turning on her heel, she slammed out of the room. She should never have agreed to come. The only worthy person in this entire family was Lady Lanyard, yet Harriet had spent a fortnight deceiving her.

  Guilt assailed her for stooping so low. She had allowed a charming rogue to seduce her will and had continued lending her support despite everything. He had twisted facts to elicit her agreement. His reputation as an unprincipled libertine should have warned her off, yet when he had insisted on touching her more than was seemly, she had only halfheartedly protested. Even when he tried to seduce Bea, she had done nothing. Why? Because she was enjoying her stay too much to face leaving.

  She was as selfish as he.

  Bitter and ashamed, she set Betsy to packing and sat down with Beatrice to plan how they could depart without leaving a trail to Lady Castleton.

  “He is your cousin?” choked Beatrice when Harriet had recounted her latest conversation with their hostess.

  “I am afraid so. And that complicates matters. I have no idea if Lady Lanyard and Lady Castleton are close. Nor is there anywhere else I can go for shelter. We must trust that Rathbone does not turn up on the doorstep.”

  In the end they decided to continue traveling as Mrs. Sharpe and Miss Harriet as far as Bridport. There they would change inns, resume their identities of Lady Melissa Stapleton and Mrs. Stokes, then take the further precaution of traveling separately. Melissa and Betsy would take the mail to Exeter, then double back on the stage to meet Beatrice and proceed to the Castleton dower house.

  * * * *

  Charles remained in the state apartment for some time. What devil had possessed him? It was bad enough to maul an innocent under the protection of both himself and his uncle, but it was insufferable to have offered marriage to an insignificant nobody. How could he have been so stupid?

  But you were on fire for her, whispered a voice.

  Dear Lord! He was rapidly losing his mind. It was time he headed for Brighton.

  He called on his grandmother as soon as his temper cooled. Harriet had been astute. Lady Lanyard looked better than he had seen her in at least two years. He hid his horror, keeping up a flow of inconsequential chatter during his brief visit, referring to Harriet only to refuse his grandmother’s suggestion that they schedule their wedding at Christmas. He insisted that his betrothed deserved a formal come-out before settling down.

  “Who will be sponsoring her?” asked Lady Lanyard.

  His heart sank. “Her grandmother.”

  “And she is?”

  “Mrs. Sharpe,” he murmured, hoping that she had forgotten that the lady was the poor widow of a country vicar who could never hope to launch a granddaughter in London.

  “Of course,” she agreed, a half-smile pulling at her lips.

  He took his leave, new worries haunting his thoughts. And he insisted on escorting Harriet and Beatrice to the coaching inn.

  “Good-bye, my dear,” he murmured over Harriet’s hand as he helped her out of the carriage in Litton Cheney. He had scarcely seen her since they had parted the previous afternoon. Nor could he see her now. Her bonnet concealed her features, for she refused to look at him. “Where can I reach you?”

  “There is no need,” she insisted firmly. “I have no desire to meet you again, and you have no further claim upon my time. This adventure has been dishonorable enough without prolonging it. Let it go, my lord.”

  “You are hard.”

  “And you are selfish. It has been quite an education, but not a course I care to repeat. Good-bye.”

  He turned pleading eyes to Beatrice, but she merely bade him farewell and turned away.

  Chapter Six

  London, April 1817

  Lady Melissa Stapleton rose from her dressing table and dismissed her new maid – Betsy had recently married one of the Castle Windcombe tenants. She glanced at the mirror as she gathered her reticule, fan, and gloves for an evening at Almack’s. The face that stared back was so different that she still had trouble believing it was hers.

  The black of her disguise had long since vanished, and even her usual dull brown color was gone. Frequent lemon rinsings had lightened her hair, raising golden highlights that turned it a rich, honey blonde that made h
er light brown eyes glow like amber. Nine months of safety and relaxation had erased the tension lines, the haunted eyes, the rigid shoulders. Also gone was the sallow thinness that had characterized her last year at Drayton Manor, when illness and short rations left her looking like a waif. Smooth, creamy skin now glowed with care.

  But the biggest difference was in her figure. Lady Lanyard had been right. She had already shown signs of maturing before she left home, but the changes since then astonished her. She was five inches taller, with curves in all the right places and a bosom best described as bountiful.

  Lady Castleton had been shocked at Melissa’s sudden appearance on the doorstep. The lady had barely returned from Bath and had not yet perused the mail that had accumulated in her absence. Thus she did not know of her granddaughter’s situation.

  Melissa’s first look at her grandmother revived memories of the summer ten years earlier when that lady had visited Drayton. Tall and spare, with silver hair and a classical bone structure, Lady Castleton looked at least a decade younger than her five-and-seventy years. Even now, her face displayed few wrinkles. As a girl she must have been a beauty. But there was no doubt she could make a formidable opponent. The dowager Marchioness of Castleton was remarkably haughty, which was why Melissa had originally balked at approaching her. Now that she had no choice, Melissa could only trust her fate to the Tanders philosophy of judging people on deeds rather than breeding.

  Lady Castleton had looked her granddaughter up and down, a frown creasing her forehead. “You’re not much to look at.”

  “Nor was your cousin, Lady Lanyard, at my age,” countered Melissa.