The Secrets of a Viscount

by Linda Rae Sande

  As for the ones he didn’t know personally...

  He shook his head. The very last thing he wanted to do was buy a subscription to the Wednesday night dances at Almack’s. The thought of the tepid lemonade and lobster cakes had him as disgusted as the thought of having to deal with the mothers of the available chits in attendance.

  He could accept an invitation or two for the soirées and balls this Season. Why, his sister-in-law’s mother, the Countess of Mayfield, always hosted a crush for her ball.

  Then there was last night’s ball at the Weatherstone mansion. As famous for its fabulous lobster cakes as for its always-flowing champagne, it was best known for what happened in the gardens behind the ballroom. Rather wishing he’d taken advantage of the last opportunity he’d had to impress the statue of Cupid in those particular gardens, Adam sighed. Perhaps the archer might have shot him—and the young woman he was kissing at the time. She was married now, though, and living in the country. Last he’d heard, she had three children and another was on the way.

  Faith! Eight years had gone by since university! He almost banged his head against one of the glass panes that made up the bow window of White’s, a move he thought might put him out of his misery by putting him out for a time, but a vision in peach had him suddenly straightening.

  A young lady walked as if she owned St. James Street and every building on it. Her steps had her hips swaying gently from side to side, her reticule following suit from her wrist. Her almost-black hair, simply coiffed but elegant, was apparent because she didn’t wear a ridiculous bonnet favored by so many of the young women. Instead, she sported a rather tasteful hat. And not one of those hats that featured plumage too tall for doorways. No, this woman’s hat was adorned with small flowers.

  No sooner had he taken note of the flowers when he was suddenly taking note of her large eyes. And doing so because she was suddenly staring at him.

  He didn’t look away. He couldn’t. She had him mesmerized. Her heart-shaped face looked as if it were made of porcelain with just the slightest hint of pink atop her high cheekbones. Her lips formed a perfect rosebud, plump and ripe and a shade of pink that somehow managed not to clash with the colors of her gown and spencer.

  The woman obviously wasn’t fresh from the schoolroom. Not with the pleasing figure promised by the gown and pelisse she wore, and certainly not given how she held her head and shoulders. The way his mother did. As if she ruled the country rather than Prinny. Mum would probably do a better job of it, he thought just before he decided the young woman must be in her mid-twenties.

  But her most beautiful features were her eyes.

  Why, she had the largest eyes! Doe eyes, although hers weren’t brown, but an arresting shade of blue-gray, and they were topped by dark eyebrows that gave her an air of elegance one found in only the purest of English misses.

  I should know her, Adam thought. But I don’t.

  She held herself as if to the manor born. She appeared a bit older than a typical unmarried daughter of an aristocrat, but she certainly wasn’t a spinster. She certainly wasn’t on the shelf.

  Who the hell is she? he wondered as he stared at her.

  Adam had half a mind to fetch his hat and coat and go after her. And he almost did except she stopped in her tracks, gave him another glance that included a slight arch to one of those gorgeous eyebrows, and suddenly made her way up the walkway to the front door of the club.

  What the hell?

  Adam blinked, and he had to quell the urge to rap his knuckles on the window to regain her attention.

  Women weren’t allowed at White’s!

  What is she doing?

  A bit of panic gripped him just then. This was his chance, though. Perhaps he could meet her at the front door. Save her from certain embarrassment when she realized what she was doing—or worse, should the snob of a butler be the one to inform her of just where she was. He could feign being an acquaintance. Escort her to wherever she was going.

  Marry her.

  Explain himself later.

  For Viscount Breckinridge’s best friend was due to lose a lot of money if Adam wasn’t married soon.

  Very soon.

  Chapter 8

  An Answer to a Proposal

  An hour later...

  An unmarried woman never paid a call on a man at his residence, unless of course she was his sister or his daughter. Or his mother, perhaps, but whoever heard of a bachelor informing his mother as to his whereabouts?

  So it was with a bit of trepidation that Elise Burroughs Batey, Dowager Viscountess of Lancaster, approached the townhouse of one Godfrey Thorncastle, Viscount Thorncastle, on the gloomy morning following Lord Weatherstone’s ball, rain threatening at any moment. She supposed her royal blue umbrella would shield her from the curious eyes of those who might have noticed her as she made her way up to the front door. In the dim light, her royal blue carriage gown and pelisse probably looked black.

  Perhaps mourning clothes were more appropriate for just such an occasion.

  Elise sighed. What had such a sense of melancholy settling over her? It wasn’t as if Godfrey Thorncastle was a poor choice for a husband. If she’d known back then what she knew now, she might have refused to marry Charles Batey. Proposed to Godfrey and suggested they head to Scotland for a quick wedding. Her father would have disowned her, of course. Refused to pay her dowry. Made it difficult for Godfrey—politically as well as socially. Why, he probably would have blackballed his membership application to White’s!

  But then she could have avoided the disastrous marriage in which she had played the suffering wife to an impossible beast for sixteen years.

  Elise shook her head as if to clear the ‘what-ifs’ from her thoughts. She needed to look to the future. Their future. Just because they hadn’t ended up married as Godfrey claimed he wished them to be way back when didn’t mean they couldn’t start now.

  As long as he agreed to her conditions.

  She dared another quick glance down Bruton Street, rather impressed with the townhouses lining the lane. No one could deduce her identity from the equipage in which she arrived. Her town coach was unmarked, but only because Tilbury had just finished building the glossy black coach with royal blue squabs the month before. The gold crest of the Duke of Ariley would eventually be painted onto the doors. Since the Lancaster coach was now in the possession of her brother-in-law, the current Viscount Lancaster, her brother, James, insisted she have at least that much protection. Elise wasn’t always in the company of a footman or a companion, after all, one of the benefits of being an independent woman.

  Perhaps a different crest might be painted on the doors. She was pondering how the Thorncastle crest might appear in bright gold paint when she reached the house.

  The front door opened before she could lift the brass lion-head knocker, a stout butler giving her a quick bow before stepping aside. In true staid form for his profession, he allowed no hint of surprise or recognition at her appearance.

  “Good morning, Nigel. Is Lord Thorncastle in residence?” she asked as she collapsed the umbrella and stepped into the vestibule. Her white pasteboard calling card was out of her pocket and into the butler’s hand before he could answer her query.

  Nigel, rather surprised the woman knew his name when he couldn’t immediately place her identity, was quick to take the umbrella and drop it into a nearby urn. Without giving the pasteboard a glance, the butler took it and said, “I’ll be but a moment. Would you prefer to wait in the parlor, my lady?”

  Elise didn’t bother to hide her surprise at hearing the bachelor house possessed a parlor. “That won’t be necessary,” she replied with a shake of her head.

  “As you wish, my lady.” The butler turned and made his way into the grand hall but only managed to make it halfway to the study before Godfrey Thorncastle stepped out of it, his attention directed to the vestibule.

  To her.

  Elise inhaled and held her breath. She hadn’t seen Godfrey Th
orncastle in an age, but the years had not been unkind to him. He looked exactly like his father had looked just before he died, his light brown hair ruffled a bit, his hazel eyes suggesting mischief, the line of his jaw matching that of nearly every aristocrat in the ton. Common ancestors, she thought before allowing a brilliant smile.

  But then her attention was forced to his mouth, to lips that had once smiled easily and that had kissed with a tenderness that made her weep.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding, realizing from his expression that he at least recognized her.

  What if time hadn’t been as kind to her as it had been to him?

  Bobbing a quick curtsy before stutter stepping in his direction—Elise wasn’t sure if she should make her way to him, or if he would close the short distance between them—she was suddenly in front of him, staring up at him. She couldn’t help it if her hand went up to the side of his clean-shaven face, if the tips of her gloved fingers pulled it down so their lips met, couldn’t help that her lips met his for a brief kiss of greeting.

  When she pulled away, it was because she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand up on her tip-toes. She was afraid she might pitch forward and end up pressed against him, and, oh, dear, the butler was right there staring at them, his staid professionalism suddenly taking its leave of him for a moment before he blinked and resumed his normal air of boredom.

  “I do believe that’s where we left off when last we were in each other’s company,” she said brightly—and with enough volume for the butler to overhear.

  Stunned at what had just happened—no woman had ever simply walked up to him and planted a kiss on his lips—Godfrey was left speechless.

  Even his mother hadn’t done such a thing.

  Thank the gods.

  But Godfrey certainly wasn’t about to complain.

  He stared at the vision before him. Dressed in a royal blue carriage gown with a matching petite feathered hat, Elise looked as if she could have been part of Queen Caroline’s contingent. Her ash blonde hair, caught up in a series of perfectly placed curls, was piled atop her head. Age had not only been kind, but had left a quiet confidence and an elegance few other ladies of the ton possessed. A complexion he thought of as peaches and cream set off her blue eyes and pink lips. Make that red lips, he thought with a bit of satisfaction, realizing they were red because of his kiss.

  Or rather, her kiss.

  It had been far too long since their first kiss. The thought reminded him that it was his turn to speak.

  “You received my letter,” he stated, immediately regretting the comment. Of course she had received his letter. She wouldn’t have come to his residence out of the blue—wearing royal blue—for any other reason, especially on a gloomy, rainy day such as this.

  “I did, indeed,” Elise replied, giving a sideways nod toward what she realized was his study. “Perhaps we can discuss it over a cup of tea?” she hinted, well aware the butler finally had his eyes back in his head.

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” Godfrey replied, tearing his gaze from Elise to give a wave in the direction of Nigel.

  The butler gave a nod in return and hurried off while Godfrey offered his arm to Elise. “I was hoping you might attend Weatherstone’s ball last night,” he murmured. He led her to a divan at one end of his small but elegant study, managing to avoid a wince at thinking of the last divan he had sat in. Last night, at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. The Carlingtons had probably defiled said divan shortly after he took his leave of them, although perhaps it had already suffered a similar fate before he had even taken refuge in the room.

  The rich leather covering of this divan, butter soft and smelling of tobacco and spirits, was surprisingly firm as Elise settled onto it. Godfrey waited a moment before taking the wingback chair across from her. Covered in a matching leather, it looked from the worn armrests as if he favored it over any of the other chairs in the small room.

  Elise dared a glance at the coffered ceiling and at the phalanx of bookshelves that lined the wall behind his oak desk. Nearly every shelf was stuffed with books. “I did, in fact, although I never actually made it into the ballroom,” Elise admitted when her attention returned to the viscount. “Rather, I sat in the gardens for a time,” she added as she folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes were drawn down to where a tasteful patterned Turkish carpet seemed to flow over the entire floor. The dark green suited the room, setting off the furnishings to good effect.

  Godfrey’s eyes widened at this bit of news before he frowned. “A dalliance?” he whispered. The two words managed to sound almost strangled as he said them.

  Her words obviously had him thinking the worst.

  Elise showed a frown to match his. “Of course not. I merely wished to spend some time thinking, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do so inside the ballroom. The Weatherstone ball is always such a crush,” she complained.

  Relief at hearing she hadn’t been in the company of another man must have showed on his face, for Elise angled her head to one side. “Just because I’ve been on my own for the past year does not mean I engage in dalliances,” she added with a shake of her head. There was no need to admit she hadn’t had a single lover since Lancaster’s death. What would Thorncastle think of her then?

  Godfrey sighed. “It’s heartening to hear you say it, especially after the affaire with Lord Reading. I take it that arrangement is... over?”

  Elise blinked. And blinked again as she straightened on the divan. “I am quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she countered with a shake of her head. “I most certainly have never had an affaire with the Marquess of Reading, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  His mouth suddenly closing, partly because he had intended to state that the affaire didn’t matter and partly because he was left speechless by her claim, Godfrey instead cleared his throat. “Oh,” he finally managed.

  Still stunned by his comment and not the least bit happy with his brief response, Elise huffed. “From whomever did you get the idea I had an affaire with the Rake of Reading?” she wondered in a hoarse whisper.

  Godfrey allowed a sigh. “Not a ‘who,’ but rather a ‘what’, I suppose,” he replied finally. “I admit to occasionally reading The Tattler. I saw an entry last Season that mentioned a ‘Lady E’ and Reading were seen in each other’s company at a number of events. I, of course, assumed ‘Lady E’ was you.”

  Elise continued to frown, the expression causing a fold of skin to develop between her eyebrows. “Godfrey, do you have any idea how many ‘Lady E’s’ there are in the ton?” she asked, angling her head to one side.

  The marquess considered the question for a moment. “Well, there was Lady Elizabeth, but she’s Lady Bostwick now. And Lady Eleanor, Middleton’s daughter.” He paused to think a bit. The sound of a huff had him sitting back in the chair.

  “Eloisa, Edna, Eugenia, Edith, and any number of Elizabeths, and those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head,” Elise stated, her manner rather indignant. “And since you seemed to have forgotten, I would be referred to by The Tattler as ‘Lady L’.”

  Godfrey’s eyes widened more with each lady’s name, apparently a testament to his ignorance of their existence. “I apologize, my lady,” Godfrey replied with a sigh. “It’s just, I thought the worst because, well, I was rather envious of the marquess,” he managed to get out, his words sounding ever so unsure.

  “Envious?” Elise repeated.

  Godfrey seemed to color up a bit. “He’s my age and rather popular with the ladies,” he added with a shrug.

  Elise settled back into the divan just as Nigel appeared on the threshold with a tea tray. She wondered if he had been just outside the door, listening to their conversation until he thought it was safe to enter.

  The butler set the tray on the low table in front of the divan. When he moved to pour the tea, Elise leaned forward. “I can serve,” she said as she took the handle of the teapot before Nigel could reach it.<
br />
  The butler allowed a nod. “Of course, my lady.” Apparently disappointed he wouldn’t be able to remain in the study for what he probably thought would be interesting nuggets of information, he gave a bow and took his leave of the study.

  “Do shut the door, Nigel,” Godfrey called out, apparently of the same opinion as Elise as to the butler’s desire to eavesdrop.

  The snick of the latch had Godfrey allowing a sigh. “Now, where were we?” he asked as he turned his attention back to Elise.

  “I remember you seemed to favor milk in your tea,” she said as she poured a dollop into a cup and then filled it with tea. “One lump or two?” she asked as she held the cup and saucer in one hand and the sugar tongs in another.

  Godfrey swallowed, noting how she had removed her gloves to pour the tea. A vision of Elise offering the same thing every day for the rest of his life passed before his eyes.

  Except she wouldn’t, of course.

  Once she knew his preference, she would simply add the sugar and give him the cup of tea. “I think just one this time,” he finally answered.

  Elise lifted an elegant eyebrow but plopped a rather large lump of sugar into his tea and stirred it before offering him the cup. “I wished to speak with you in regard to the letter you sent me,” she said as she turned to prepare her own tea.

  The marquess held the teacup to his lips and held his breath. “And?” he prompted.

  “I have questions. And some conditions.”

  Godfrey continued holding his breath. “I shall do my best to answer them.”

  Elise didn’t respond right away but rather sipped her tea. Then she finally allowed a nod. “Why now, Godfrey? Why not... why not eighteen… nineteen years ago?” Before Lancaster made his bid and convinced my brother it was a good idea for us to marry? She didn’t put voice to the latter, but she was tempted to do so. Despite her brother’s explanation the night before, she wanted to hear Godfrey’s side of it.