The Impoverished Viscount

by Allison Lane

  “Oh, George.” She drew his head onto her shoulder so he could hide the sheen in his eyes. His arms came around her, one sob escaping before he regained control of himself. “I am so sorry, my dear. But you are intelligent enough to understand that a union that must last all your life should not be contracted just to ease his mind at the end.”

  “I know,” he said. “But you are so lovely and kind that I really believed we could make it work.”

  “See. You are nearly ready to thank me already.” She smiled. “And perhaps I can help you yet. I have a friend who just arrived in town. She is seventeen, but I trust you will ignore that long enough to get to know her,” she all but ordered when he flinched. “Had I not told you her age, you would never have guessed. I know you well enough to believe that you and Clara would suit. If you call this afternoon, I will introduce you. You needn’t worry that she will expect anything. I’ll not warn her of your visit. You will simply be another new face. Nor will I tell her aught but that we are friends. We are still friends, I hope,” she finished.

  “Yes, Melissa. We are still friends. Perhaps even closer than before. You are right, of course. Without that spark that unites Caroline and Thomas, marriage must be a dull business. I have let urgency overset my usual caution and good sense. Thank you, my dear.”

  Hugging her close one more time, he straightened his cravat and bade her farewell. Melissa was left with the task of explaining to her grandmother why she had refused so eligible a gentleman.

  Chapter Ten

  Charles spent the next fortnight watching Melissa charm her way through society’s bucks and beaux. She grew more desirable each day, setting his loins on fire if she so much as smiled in his direction. He tried to concentrate on the traits he hated – such as her continuing disdain for his character – but it did no good. Not even thoughts of the fortune he would forfeit if he gave up his quest for Harriet could calm his raging appetites. But he refused to give in. Once she was safely married, he would seduce her and get her out of his system.

  But who was she to wed? Rufton’s regard had shifted in recent days. He still hovered, dancing with Melissa twice at every ball and including her in theater and opera parties. But he was showing equal attention to Miss Clara Rosehill. Surprisingly, Melissa showed no irritation at this defection. In fact, she and Miss Rosehill appeared to be friends.

  Melissa’s conduct puzzled Charles. She had been on the verge of accepting Rufton at the Wharburton masquerade, unless she had exaggerated the relationship as part of her tirade against his own misbehavior. He had often regretted losing control of himself that night, for it had severely hampered his chance to become her friend. Now he had no idea whether she had settled on someone else.

  Lord Ampleigh still danced attendance, but there was no indication that he was serious. Likewise with Mr. Parkington, though Melissa was deflecting him for herself. But Graffington was becoming a problem. The man’s eyes gleamed whenever he looked at her, and Charles could imagine the lust stirring in that black heart. It made his own desire even harder to bear. Graffington had made no mistakes, hiding his vices and appearing to be all that was proper. But the delectable Melissa would be devastated by marriage to so heavy-handed a lecher.

  Charles had tried to warn her, but she was either obtuse or deliberately defying him. His efforts had produced another conversation overshadowed by his unthinking attack at the masquerade.

  “Beware of Graffington,” he had advised her as they danced a quadrille one night. “He is not the pillar of rectitude that he pretends.”

  “He is sweet,” she countered. “And delightfully humorous.”

  “It is an act,” he repeated, glaring, though his face still displayed the correct social smile. He always lost his temper when he was with her, his usual charm and address blasted to shreds. He had never met a female who so consistently reduced him to a witless coxcomb.

  “You sound jealous, my lord.”

  “Fustian! Me jealous of a black-hearted scoundrel? You have windmills in your head.”

  “I will make my own judgments,” she glared back. “And I prefer to base them on character and behavior rather than on questionable hearsay from people with a history of pretense.”

  “What?”

  “If you were not a consummate liar, my lord, you would have been forced into innumerable duels by now,” she charged.

  “He is so bad he has even been banned from the better brothels,” Charles informed her in a low voice, ignoring her comment. Her eyes widened, but the movement of the dance separated them before she could respond.

  She’d stalked back to her grandmother’s side at the end of the set, then had disappeared into the retiring room during the cotillion he had signed for later in the evening.

  Charles hoped she would not encourage Graffington just to spite him, but he could not be sure. The situation was too critical to take a chance. And his delivery of the warning had been cow-handed. Instead of trying to force agreement, he should have challenged her ability to see past a social facade to the character lurking beneath. It might have given her something to think about.

  He did not care if she admitted her error as long as she distanced herself from a dangerous man. Despite the impossibility of pursuing her himself, he felt responsible for her. There was no other gentleman available to screen her suitors and weed out the undesirables. But his clumsy handling of the affair left him no option but to deflect Graffington himself.

  The chance occurred several nights later at White’s. He had been watching the faro table for a couple of hours, an activity he had enjoyed since he had first come down from Oxford. At that time he had deliberately established himself as a student of human nature who chuckled over the foibles of others. It had given him a unique identity and an opportunity to mingle with his friends without risking his reputation. But in truth, he eschewed gaming because he could not afford to lose.

  “Here’s to the delectable Lady Melissa.” Graffington drunkenly raised his glass when he again lost.

  Charles grimaced, holding his tongue until he had managed to draw the man away from the crowd.

  “It is not the thing to bandy a lady’s name about in that fashion,” he reminded him stonily.

  “I’m going to marry the chit, so what difference does it make?” he slurred in response. “I’ll answer for m’wife’s honor.”

  “Come, come, Graffington. You cannot believe her family would approve your suit.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let me be clear, my lord,” stated Charles coldly. “The Castleton household is under my protection. I am aware of your reputation and aware of how you treat your women. Never would I place my cousin in your hands. Besides, you would certainly not suit.”

  “Never met a lass I didn’t suit,” he leered. “And her brother is her guardian. She is all I need in a wife – beautiful and well-dowered. Drayton would never listen to a word you say.”

  “Fustian! He may be indolent, but he cares for his sister.”

  “Hah!” snorted Graffington before lurching back to the tables.

  Drayton really would hand her over to the first man who offered, Charles realized as he walked back to his derelict room. Especially if he received something in return. Lady Castleton had increased whatever paltry dowry Melissa’s father had left her. Thus Graffington would continue his pursuit unchecked. The man’s finances were almost as bad as his own. There was no way Lady Castleton would reduce the dowry in Graffington’s case. She would balk at the deceit. If word became public, Melissa’s reputation would be badly damaged. Lying about a dowry was dishonorable.

  Loathe as he was to stoop so low, he had no choice. A word here and a phrase there soon had all Mayfair buzzing about the evil Lord Graffington. His financial status was laid bare to the world. His reputation for violence became public knowledge, until even drawing rooms were buzzing with tales of how he had been barred from brothels. The clubs rang with estimates of how many courtesans he’d injured. The talk made the a
uthorities wonder if he might be responsible for the recent deaths of several prostitutes. Haughty to the end, Graffington had no choice but to retire to his estate in hopes that the furor would eventually blow over.

  Charles breathed a sigh of relief and returned his mind to the problem of finding Harriet. But Melissa continued to invade his dreams. If only she didn’t look so much like his grandmother’s portrait! There was something about that picture that drew him, though he could never explain what. Certainly it was not lust, for he had never wished to meet the young lady on the wall. But Melissa’s similarity plagued him now. Otherwise, she would have been just another pretty girl.

  Or would she? Restlessly he strode the streets, trying to force impressions and emotions into coherent thoughts. She was young and alive, in startling contrast to the picture. Her unpowdered honey gold hair glowed.

  Perhaps that was the fascination. The contemporary clothing and vivid coloring added desire to an image that had previously piqued only curiosity. And her vibrancy was the antithesis of Harriet’s black hair and sallow complexion.

  He shuddered as a sudden memory of Harriet’s bitten fingernails flashed through his head.

  He remained caught up in looks, he berated himself. Yet Melissa was more than a pretty London face. He was not the only gentleman affected thus. She exuded an aura of … wantonness, he realized in shock. Innocent wantonness, a sensuality that attracted men like flies to honey, more potent because she seemed genuinely unaware of it.

  So it was lust after all.

  But there was more. Much more. He admired her views, even those she cited to his detriment. Judging people on character and accomplishment was an attractive idea. He had a hard time accepting the prevalent theory that title and breeding defined a man’s worth. His gamester grandfather and inept father had done nothing praiseworthy in their lives. Neither the dissolute Lord Drayton nor the sadistic Lord Graffington deserved respect. Nor did he, for that matter. His cane sliced the leaves off a branch that overhung a garden wall, scattering ragged fragments into the street.

  That would change, of course. As soon as he found Harriet, he would rescue Swansea and improve the lives of his tenants.

  He shivered. A vision of skeletal, sharp-tongued Harriet shimmered in sharp contrast to his cousin. Anger over his untenable position returned, now deflected toward Melissa. Why did she plague him when he was committed to finding Harriet? Yet how could he endure Harriet when his body and soul yearned for another?

  In a blinding flash, he recognized his problem. He loved Melissa. And he could do nothing about it. Devil take it, what had he done to deserve this fate? He must forego the woman of his dreams to carry out the insane wishes of a dictatorial old lady.

  He spent the rest of the night in his room, drinking himself into a stupor.

  * * * *

  Melissa stared broodingly at the sheets of rain pounding the square. Rathbone had been right. Lord Graffington would have been a disaster as a husband. She had failed to discern his true character. He had seemed an ideal mate, speaking enthusiastically about his estate, respecting her ideas, demonstrating concern for other people. But it was pretense. Under his charming social facade lurked an arrogant tyrant worse than Charles at his most officious.

  Charles. In retrospect, she could not condone Lady Lanyard’s dictums. Why had the woman chosen to test him in that way? Surely she had not expected him to beg for mercy. Even the most responsible man would hesitate to grovel. Had she wanted him to thumb his nose at the fortune he had been promised so long?

  But she was too canny for that. Perhaps it had been a plot by Lord Lanyard. He might have traded on his mother’s worries about her grandson’s irresponsibility in an attempt to cut Charles out. Lord Lanyard’s position had seemed sound, but Melissa was learning that many men were capable of deceit.

  She sighed. This sidetracking merely avoided the admission that she could not trust her own judgment. The world was more deceitful than she had ever imagined. Despite the emphasis on honor and truth, people even hid enjoyment behind careful social masks. Town bronze did not mean social ease, as she had always thought. It referred to the armor that hid all emotion from the world.

  But it also hid truth so effectively that even the most canny observer was often fooled. All of society could be hiding monstrous faults. The fact that Charles had hidden his financial woes for years was obviously not unusual. Graffington had done the same, as had others. She had best listen if Charles offered advice on suitors again, for information was often traded in the clubs that did not surface in drawing rooms. Even her cousin’s debauched past had its uses. How else had he discovered that Graffington was being blackballed by the better brothels?

  The rain increased, falling harder than ever and blocking her view of Gunter’s across the square. There would be no promenade today. And just as well. She needed to discourage Mr. Parkington. He was a nice enough gentleman, but not someone she could love.

  She had sung that refrain before, she recalled, laughing without mirth. In George’s case, events had worked out even better than she had hoped. Clara was starry-eyed. There was little doubt that she was deeply in love, and George seemed the same. Melissa delighted in the glances they exchanged, though it hurt just a little to watch. Not that she was jealous, for she would never have formed that kind of attachment to him. But she was envious. If only she could discover such a partner for herself.

  Lady Hartford approved of the match. “I hope he did not hurt you by turning his attentions elsewhere,” she probed one afternoon when the two found themselves alone in the corner of Lady Debenham’s relentlessly Egyptian drawing room. By choosing a cluster of the most uncomfortable chairs ever designed by man, they assured that no one would join them.

  “Certainly not,” Melissa murmured, then gave in to temptation. “He offered for me some time ago. I refused him. His father’s illness had pushed him into rushing his fences. I introduced him to Clara the next day, and he has since thanked me for saving him from himself.”

  “Ah.” Caroline relaxed. “It wasn’t until yesterday that I learned how desperate his father’s condition is. Poor George. They are very close. It will be hard on him when the end arrives.”

  Melissa had absently agreed, again wishing there was someone who could love her as she needed.

  Charles, whispered a voice.

  “Fustian!” she now exclaimed aloud. Despite her disapproval of Lady Lanyard’s test, his behavior had been despicable. There was no way to respect a man who would use trickery to acquire a fortune. And he was still lolling about town when, by his own admission, Swansea needed his attention. The fortnight he had planned to stay had already lengthened to nearly a month.

  Lady Lanyard had wanted Charles to demonstrate responsibility by achieving something noteworthy. But all the time, he had been deceiving her. Nor had he been truthful when he implied that he would use the money to improve his estate. He had spoken of problems the day he returned to town, but beyond releasing his steward, he had made no mention of solutions.

  At least he was being unusually circumspect about his liaisons. No rumor identified his current partner, something odd enough to cause comment. She snorted as inelegantly as Harriet ever had. He’d probably used some of his ill-gotten gains to set up a high flyer instead of preying on society’s matrons.

  But despite this recital of his faults, memory of his kisses made her blush. She turned away from the window, accidentally brushing the draperies with her bosom. Excitement tingled all the way to her toes.

  Wanton, she accused herself. It was shameful to feel this way. Why did Charles affect her so strongly? His attentions were very annoying, for she suspected he was trying to seduce her. He had denied debauching innocents, but with his history of deceit, there was no reason to believe him. After that attack on the terrace, she could not trust him to be alone with her. It was almost as bad as the weeks when Lord Heflin was visiting Drayton Manor.

  Thinking about Charles was a waste of time. She
would never consider him as a mate. His effect on her wayward body was nothing more than curiosity aroused by her talk with Beatrice, plus the forbidden titillation exerted by any of society’s rakes – witness Lord Thornhill! Shaking her head, she picked up a book and forced her eyes to read.

  But try as she might, wanton thoughts kept returning. When she reached the Brookfield ball that night, her eyes locked onto Charles’s. From halfway across the room, she could see the desire that blazed in those aqua depths. Without volition, her body tightened, her mind conjuring pictures of his long, slender fingers caressing her, of his powerful arms crushing her into his muscular being.

  Horrified, she tore her gaze away, praying that her color had not heightened. Shame washed over her. Why had she been cursed by unseemly desires? Other girls did not feel this way.

  Her eyes scanned the ballroom. Take the elegant Lady Barbara, or the flighty Miss Wanstat, or even the pea-brained Lady Mary. Their imaginations did not run amok. Something was seriously wrong with her. Beatrice should not have awakened her awareness. This continued obsession with her body made her feel a freak. Or perhaps the Drayton dissipation had affected her after all. She showed as much penchant for lechery as the most debauched male.

  * * * *

  Charles suddenly realized that he had not inhaled in nearly a minute. Black spots swirled before his eyes.

  Forcing a deep breath, he directed his feet outside, where he could think. The electrifying bolt that had passed when Melissa’s gaze locked onto his had nearly knocked him unconscious. Her aura of sensuality was growing, affecting him to the point of insanity.

  And she felt it, too. That was what had paralyzed him – the awareness in her eyes. Not that she deliberately employed her body against him. Confusion and terror battled her longing. But she perceived his desire, responded to his admiration, and was learning to recognize passion.