The Impoverished Viscount

by Allison Lane

* * * *

  As was true for any affair hosted by an Almack’s patroness, the Sefton ball was a sad crush. Lady Sefton was delighted. Charles was less happy, for he had never enjoyed the marriage mart rounds and was already regretting his offer to squire his cousin for the Season. Granted, she was lovely, and there was something about her that haunted him. But he should be hunting for Harriet so he could begin the monumental job of convincing her to marry him.

  Yet he could not renege on his vow, for Melissa drew him unwillingly to her side. He had sometimes felt that his soul was bound up in his grandmother’s portrait, trapped in the painted half-smile and creamy face. The feeling now returned with a vengeance, concentrated on his cousin.

  “You will grant me the first dance, of course,” he stated as they descended the staircase into the ballroom.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” she apologized with a smile. “I have already promised that one to George.”

  Scowling, he grabbed her card, surprised to find most of the dances already allocated. He rapidly scrawled his name next to two open sets.

  “Your arrogance is showing,” she chided him softly, steel spiking the words.

  Rufton was approaching, so Charles had to content himself with a curt, “Until later,” though her voice whipped his flesh. It was a familiar sensation, though he could not identify why. Collecting a glass of punch, he joined a group of friends who were practicing looking bored while offering humorous critiques of each dancing couple.

  Melissa was furious that Charles dared dictate her actions when he must remember that she despised that trait. That had been the cause of most of their fights. But she curbed her anger, for she was unwilling to become the subject of speculative on-dits. By the time George joined her, she was calm.

  Mindful of the expectations of society’s dragons, Melissa kept her smile coolly polite, cursing the ton for deciding that boredom was de rigueur. It seemed ridiculous to plan exciting entertainments where the guests must appear disinterested. Sometimes she longed to burst into laughter. Like now. George was relating a story that had her sides aching.

  “She had hardly recovered,” he continued blandly, “when a squirrel appeared – a candidate for Bedlam if I ever saw one; the nearest tree was thirty yards away. Her mastiff took off with no thought to Miss Appleton, who had foolishly wrapped the lead around her wrist. She hadn’t gone three steps before she tripped, sprawling headlong into a flower bed where she succumbed to hysterics. Pansies lodged in her bonnet, and ivy looped around one ear. The dog tried to soothe her, administering exuberant kisses, but all he accomplished was wrapping her in the lead. It required three gentlemen to rescue her."

  Melissa thrust aside the vision lest she burst into laughter. “You are hoping I’ll make a cake of myself, aren’t you, George?” she charged, her eyes sparkling in unison with his. “Why can’t you save stories like that for informal occasions?”

  “Sorry, my dear,” he lied, winking at her.

  She rapped him sharply with her fan.

  Two sets later, she smiled as Lord Ampleigh attempted one of the more intricate patterns of the quadrille. Considering his girth, he was surprisingly graceful, but dancing was not his forte. She had already complimented him on his elaborately embroidered waistcoat, but believed he would look better if he chose more restrained cravats and a more conservative line to his jackets. His figure did not display his wardrobe to advantage. But he was a knowledgeable and amusing companion, regaling her now with a description of the telescope at the Greenwich Royal Observatory. She knew little about the heavens, but his words were easy to follow. He would make a good teacher. And when he discussed something he enjoyed, his shyness fled.

  When the arrogant Charles claimed his first dance, Melissa’s anger resurfaced. He had signed for two of her waltzes, dances she usually sat out as she distrusted such closeness. It raised disturbing sensations that were best left dormant. She could not afford clouded judgment and did not want to encourage anyone’s attentions until she had decided whom she wished to attach. So far, she had waltzed only with George.

  “You dance very well,” he smiled as they twirled around the room.

  “You sound shocked,” she countered. “And I am not pleased with the way you thrust yourself forward tonight, my lord. I rarely waltz and resent anyone demanding the privilege.”

  He raised his brows. “Are you setting yourself up as a puritan?”

  “Not at all. But waltzing implies a closeness I do not wish to encourage, especially with you.”

  His eyes suddenly glared, though his lips retained their social smile. “And what have I done to draw your ire, cousin?”

  He honestly did not recognize her. What a relief! Hastily backtracking lest a fight trigger his memory, she lightened her voice into teasing. “I do not know you, sir. Nor am I sure I wish to. Your reputation is not what I would look for in a friend.”

  “I thought most young ladies were attracted by rakes.” He smiled charmingly.

  “I am not most young ladies. You may be as debauched as Lord Thornhill, for all I know. Imagine being caught au naturel at a ball with two ladies of the evening!”

  “Where did you hear that?” he demanded in shock.

  “I imagine everyone in town has heard by now. It’s been two weeks. Most gentlemen sound envious when they laugh over it.”

  He sighed. “You made your point, cousin. You’re no prude. I presume you know enough not to mention this to others.”

  She mentally kicked herself for forgetting her training. Charles’s closeness made her regress to Harriet’s vulgar behavior. “Of course, my lord. And you know enough not to commandeer my dance card.”

  He nodded. “Surely waltzing with me is not that bad.”

  “On the contrary. I have always enjoyed the dance.” It was far too pleasing, she conceded. And for that reason alone, it must never happen again. “But I am uncomfortable in your company. The way you stare is rude.”

  “My apologies, Lady Melissa,” he begged. “I will restrain myself in the future. But you look so much like a youthful painting of my grandmother that I cannot help myself. It does not seem possible.”

  That explained that blaze of shock. But it provided yet another reason to hold him at arm’s length. Continued scrutiny must surely reveal her identity. “I can understand your surprise, my lord. But staring in public makes you look like a mooncalf. I’ll not have my name linked to such behavior. Nor am I attracted to fribbles.”

  “That was youthful excess,” he protested. “I have spent the last nine months working on my estate.”

  “The exigencies of mourning mean nothing, my lord. And you can hardly plead mourning when you are here now.”

  “My grandmother ordered that mourning cease after three months,” he stated firmly. “I loved her dearly and will mourn her in my heart for much longer, but I can hardly counter her expressed wishes.”

  “Very well, my lord. I will grant you that. But I expect you also to honor mine. Should you behave in so highhanded a fashion again, I will not suppress my natural desire to rake you over the coals, even in public. Nor will I dance with you at all if you do not squire other eligible young ladies. I will not be singled out in such a manner.” She was the first one he had led out.

  He sighed. “You win, Lady Melissa.”

  She pondered their exchange several times during the evening when she caught him staring at her. She had forgotten the details of that portrait since leaving Lanyard Manor and had never realized that she resembled it. He was abnormally attracted to it.

  Rumor credited him with many liaisons. Only now did Melissa realize that all those women shared characteristics with Lady Lanyard – tall, full-bosomed, light-haired. What did that mean for her?

  Chapter Nine

  Covent Garden was packed the night of Kemble’s last performance, excitement surging as people flocked to witness the end of an era. Kemble might not project the magnetic intensity that Kean had recently brought to the stage – his performances
were characterized by stiff, studied mannerisms and a coldly oratorical delivery, even when playing opposite his sister, the incomparable Sarah Siddons – but he had been part of theatrical circles for more than thirty years, so he would be sorely missed. He had chosen a perfect vehicle for his adieu – the haughty, arrogant Coriolanus.

  Melissa enjoyed the play, but the crowd was as inattentive as ever, paying more attention to one another than to the stage. Few had any real interest in the theater, attending only because it formed part of the social rounds. The excitement on this occasion arose from earning bragging rights in Mayfair’s drawing rooms.

  Lord Rufton had filled his box to capacity. Charles escorted Lady Castleton, fuming every time his glance noted Melissa and Rufton – which was ridiculous! Why should he be upset just because she so often laughed at Rufton’s sallies? The man had no known vices. He drank and gamed in moderation, and only occasionally dipped into the muslin company. His main interest was horses, which made him an excellent match for Melissa.

  Charles had already discovered her expertise, accompanying her on morning rides twice. She rode even better than Harriet, although she exuded the grace that Harriet had lacked. He had never expected to find a lady who could combine both femininity and skill. Away from London’s rigidity, Melissa would be a neck-or-nothing rider. And Firefly was one of the finest horses he had seen.

  His irritation again flared.

  It had done so with increasing frequency. George leaned close to murmur something in Melissa’s ear, and Charles forced his fists to relax. She responded with a comment that set them both laughing. Charles determinedly addressed a remark to Lord Hartford, and was soon engrossed in a discussion of horses.

  * * * *

  “Don’t make me laugh during the performance,” George begged when he had recovered himself. “I’d hate to be thought rag-mannered.”

  “You asked for that one,” Melissa riposted with a grin. “If you hadn’t compared me to Titania, I never would have mentioned it.”

  “At the risk of offending your dignity, would you like to visit Astley’s next week? I have promised to take my godson.”

  “I hope that I never use dignity as an excuse to avoid fun.” She glared at him, but her twinkling eyes gave her away.

  She spent the first interval talking with Lady Hartford, who had become a close friend. Caroline also believed in accomplishment and often helped others achieve their goals, particularly the crippled veterans who still littered London two years after Waterloo.

  “Did I hear George invite you to accompany us next week?” she asked now.

  “To Astley’s? Yes, though he didn’t mention that you will be there.”

  “George is Robbie’s godfather. Robert is three and a half and anxious to see the performing horses. He already rides so well that I fear he may try to duplicate their tricks.” She grimaced. “But Thomas promised, so here we are.”

  Melissa laughed. “I suspect that if Robbie tries to mimic their stunts under Thomas’s eye, he will rapidly become as expert as the performers.” Lord Hartford had long been acknowledged the best rider in the ton, though Charles was nearly as accomplished.

  “You are good for George,” said Lady Hartford, her voice now serious. “He has become much too solemn in recent years.”

  “I have done nothing for him,” protested Melissa. “And I doubt he has changed. It is true that he smiles more than when we first met, but that is mostly for show. There is an urgency beneath his surface that belies pleasure.”

  Lady Hartford frowned, her eyes studying George as he laughed with Thomas. “I see what you mean. Determination underlies even his relaxation. I must talk to Thomas. He might know the cause.”

  It was Melissa’s turn to frown. “I may be wrong. It would be mortifying if my unthinking words started a groundless rumor.”

  “Fustian,” snorted Lady Hartford. “This is not for public consumption. You are astute and merely focused my own impressions. George is too dear a friend to do anything that might hurt him. But neither should he try to bear burdens alone. Not when he has others with whom to share them. That’s what friends are for.”

  “I hope the problem is a small one.”

  “Do you care for him?” she probed, then slapped herself on the wrist. “Forgive my impertinence, Melissa. But I would hate to see him hurt. He is clearly infatuated with you.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Caroline,” sighed Melissa. “I care very much for him, but I cannot decide how.” Blue eyes flashed before her own, but instead of the bright sapphires that blazed below George’s russet locks, she saw a beguiling aqua complementing riotous blond curls. She frowned. “How can one choose a husband in so short a time? There is little chance for serious discussion. I don’t feel like I really know any of them, including George.”

  “You must remember that the London Season evolved when marriages were arranged solely for dynastic and financial reasons,” said Lady Hartford. “It allowed both parties to meet before the nuptial agreements were signed. Many marriages are still based on those principles. But for those who want to marry for love, it does pose frustrating restrictions.”

  “How did you manage?” asked Melissa. The Hartfords were as close a couple as she had ever encountered, sharing an emotional bond that often allowed them to read each other’s minds.

  Caroline laughed. “Actually, we were involved in a coaching accident and inadvertently compromised. Luck sometimes plays a large role. But not everyone is so fortunate. Be sure before you choose. This decision will be with you for the rest of your life.”

  Melissa nodded. How did she feel about George? He was amusing, comfortable, intelligent, and respectful. He had a serious nature and a long history of responsible behavior. He was generous with his assets but never wasteful. She could not imagine him becoming a dissipated weakling like her brother. She cared deeply for him and wanted him to be happy.

  Did that form a good enough foundation for marriage? His attentions were so marked that he would certainly offer for her. And his underlying urgency made it likely the offer would come soon.

  She pondered her feelings as the second act opened on stage. How would she feel as this man’s wife? Her eyes peeked sideways, taking in his solidity and recalling his protectiveness. He had never kissed her.

  Her skin prickled, though she didn’t know why. Was it from love or was it just another manifestation of physical infatuation, brought on by the sudden image of a man’s hand brushing her breast?

  Charles commandeered her for a stroll during the next interval, leaving George trapped in a ponderous discussion with Lord Peregrin.

  “You aren’t seriously considering Rufton, are you?” he scoffed, leading her away from the crowds.

  “Yes, not that it is your concern,” she replied.

  “He is too stuffy for you.”

  “And how would you know?” she demanded. “You are hardly qualified to judge, being an irresponsible fribble with a reprehensible reputation. No lady could consider you a suitable spouse.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  His steely voice and heavy glower ran shivers along her arms. She had never expected aqua eyes to look so menacing.

  But they were no longer aqua, having darkened to slate. She had forgotten that tendency, though it had been less noticeable at Lanyard Manor. Their quarrels had usually occurred in dimly lit rooms. Perhaps that was why he did not recognize her now.

  But she had no time to reflect on the past. As so often happened in his company, her temper was rapidly fraying. He had no right to criticize her. “You’ve hardly been subtle in your choice of companions or in your indolent way of life, my lord,” she snapped. “Lazing about town every Season, lolling in Brighton every summer, frolicking through hunting parties every fall that no decent lady would tolerate.”

  “Hardly every year,” he denied. “In fact, I skipped most of that last year.”

  “Only because you were dancing attendance on your grandmother durin
g her summer illness.” She forgot that Lady Melissa would not know of his movements.

  His brows raised in surprise. “And what do you know of my grandmother’s health?”

  “She has always been close to my own grandmother,” she reminded him. “Grandmama’s eyes are not what they were. I often read her mail aloud.” The lie was out before she could censor it. She would have done better to claim Lady Castleton had told her. He might know that the dowager’s eyesight was unusually keen for her age.

  But Charles had his own worries. This was another aspect of Lady Lanyard’s recovery that he had not considered. She would have continued all her usual correspondence during the months between his visit and her death. He prayed she had maintained convention and not mentioned his supposed betrothal. It had not been officially announced. But what might she have said about Miss Sharpe?

  He was so wrapped up in horrifying possibilities that he forgot why he had intended to chide his cousin.

  Melissa noted his grimace. Very interesting, she reflected as her own thoughts took wing. Charles was upset that anyone might know of that summer visit. Surely he was not suffering from a guilty conscience. The arrogant Lord Rathbone was not one to regret his actions. He was too far above mere mortals to care what they thought, so he must fear that his supposed betrothal was known. His consequence would suffer if people believed he had been jilted.

  But Lady Lanyard had told no one. If even the faintest rumor had got out, Lady Beatrice would have said something. The woman always knew everything. She would never have kept so delectable an on-dit quiet.

  They returned to the box in near silence. George focused his attention on Melissa for the remainder of the play and the farce that followed. Charles was so caught up in his new worries that he hardly noticed the rest of the evening.

  * * * *

  Melissa was leaving Mademoiselle Jeanette’s modiste shop the next morning when she bumped into another young lady who was about to enter.

  “Clara!” Melissa exclaimed in surprise. “When did you arrive?”