The Secrets of a Viscount

by Linda Rae Sande

  Giving the shopkeeper an apologetic shrug, Adam escorted Diana out of the modiste’s shop and directly into the store next door—Floris. The bow window on this particular establishment not only displayed a colorful array of bottles of various fragrances, but also a collection of hair combs. Diana’s gaze darted to several before they were suddenly inside the pleasantly scented shop. She inhaled, almost closing her eyes as she did so. Fresh citrus, she thought as she allowed the barest hint of a grin. “Exquisite,” she whispered, not intending for anyone to hear her.

  Regarding her expression from where he stood next to her, and hearing her whispered word, Adam felt a stirring in his loins. God, but she is beautiful. She looked as if she was in ecstasy, and he suddenly wondered if she might display that same expression when he made love to her. That same expression when she was on the verge of ultimate pleasure, brought there by his lips and tongue and manhood as he made mad, passionate love to her. On their wedding night, of course, because he already knew she wouldn’t be allowing him access to what had to be a delectable body and those succulent lips anytime before that night.

  They could be wed on the morrow, though. All he needed was a special license. He could acquire one in Doctors’ Common... he dared a glance at his Breguet, rather startled to find it was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon.

  Dammit!

  He rather doubted they could make it there before the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office closed for the day.

  Well, the day after tomorrow, then. He could wait until then, he supposed. Christ! He’d been waiting his entire life for this woman, and he hadn’t even realized it!

  “What’s wrong?”

  The query had him giving a quick shake of his head when he realized his future wife was staring up at him with those gorgeous blue-gray eyes. “We probably cannot marry until the day after tomorrow,” he replied in a quiet voice. “I’m so very sorry.”

  Blinking at his statement, and then blinking again at his apology, Diana shook her head. “You bounder,” she whispered, her lips curling into a grin.

  “I am not,” he countered, just as a salesperson approached them.

  “Are you in the market for a new scent?” the tall man asked as he regarded the pair. “Or something else, perhaps?” The shopkeeper closed his eyes as he surreptitiously sniffed the air around them. “Ah, Lord Breckinridge,” he said with a nod to Adam. “So good of you to pay a visit this afternoon.” He directed his nose to the air around Diana, and when he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for in the air, he simply opened his eyes and regarded Adam with a look of expectation.

  The viscount nodded before indicating Diana. “My lady wishes to peruse your combs. As you can see, her hair is of the utmost quality. Only the best will do.”

  Diana had to suppress the urge to giggle at hearing her escort’s comment. He is such a bounder! Why, he knew nothing about her hair, although the thought of his fingers removing the pins that kept her chignon in place had her body shivering just then.

  “Right this way,” the clerk replied as he led them to a glass case filled with a variety of combs and hairbrushes.

  Suppressing the urge to simply boggle at the variety, Diana took a deep breath and instead scanned the collection, one comb at a time. She pointed to one featuring a long, tapered handle and tines that ended in sharp points. The thought of that particular comb drawn over her scalp had a frisson shooting through her entire body. The viscount must have seen it—or perhaps felt it—for he pointed to the comb and said, “We’ll take that one.”

  Diana stared up at him. “How did you know?” she whispered in awe.

  Adam gave a one-shouldered shrug. “My lady, if we were ever to play cards, I should want to have your hand on my arm, for I would know exactly when to place a bet to my advantage,” he replied with an arched brow.

  Damnation! Am I really that obvious? Diana wondered as the clerk removed the comb from the case and wrapped it in tissue.

  “Will there be anything else, my lady?”

  “Yes. A toothbrush,” she stated in a voice barely above a whisper, rather embarrassed at having to place the order in front of the viscount.

  “One for me, as well,” Adam stated. “And a bottle of my regular cologne if you would.” He gave the clerk a quick shake of his head, indicating he wished to speak with the man away from where Diana stood.

  “Very well, my lord,” the clerk stated with a nod, moving away from the display case to join the viscount at a different counter while Diana continued to peruse the wares in another case.

  “Include the matching hairbrush in its own box,” Adam ordered, “Along with whatever that scent is that greeted us when we stepped into your shop.”

  The shopkeeper angled his head a moment. “That would be Limes Eau de Toilette,” he murmured. “Best worn during the summer months,” he added with an arched brow.

  Adam frowned but decided summer was only a month away. “A bottle of it in its own bag,” he whispered urgently.

  “Right away, my lord,” the man replied, apparently understanding the need for speed and for discretion. He hurried off to fill the orders.

  Diana dared a glance in the direction of where the shopkeeper was speaking with Viscount Breckinridge. She supposed she shouldn’t have been too surprised this man recognized the viscount, although she would have guessed him to be a customer at D.R. Harris & Co. His cologne reminded her of one she had smelled on a footman at her bank. She only knew its name because the man had divulged it when she sniffed the air around him and complimented him on his scent.

  When the shopkeeper stepped away from Adam, she moved to join the viscount. “How long have you been a customer here?” Diana wondered as she placed a hand on his arm.

  Adam considered the question for a bit before finally saying, “Eighteen years, my lady.”

  The number of years would have had her gasping, but it was the ‘my lady’ that had her jerking her attention to him. “It’s really not appropriate for you to address me as such,” she whispered.

  “We’ll be married in two day’s time, so... so you really should allow me to do so,” he argued.

  “Two days?” she countered, surprised he was continuing his charade.

  “I know, I feel awful about it, but given the time on the clock...” He paused to give a nod to the ornate gilt clock on one of the display cabinets. “It’s too late for me to make it to Doctors’ Commons today, which means I cannot procure a special license until tomorrow. I don’t believe we can actually marry until the day after that,” he explained with a sigh. “Please forgive me.” Although he apologized for the very same reason only moments ago, Diana’s reaction had been a bit unexpected. To accuse him of being a bounder had him a bit offended, but he had to give her some leeway.

  She had only just met him!

  Diana had to suppress the urge to laugh out loud. Why, the man still didn’t know her name, and yet he was claiming he was going to marry her in two days? “No apology is necessary, I assure you, my lord,” she replied, fighting with all her might to keep an impassive expression on her face. She placed her reticule on the countertop and went about capturing some coins to pay for her order.

  “What are you doing?”

  She finished counting before turning her attention back to him. “Paying for my order, of course,” she replied.

  “Put that away,” he said as his gloved hand wiped the coins to the edge of the counter. “It’s on my account,” he whispered, his words most urgent, as if he were embarrassed by her action.

  Diana’s eyes widened. “I cannot allow you to...” She was forced to hold back the rest of her response when the clerk reappeared at the end of the counter. She surreptitiously covered the coins with a gloved hand and shoved them back into her reticule.

  Apparently appeased by both her action and the assurance he needn’t have apologized, Adam asked, “Is there anywhere else you’d like to go on this fine day, my sweeting?”

  Feeling as amused a
s she did embarrassed by the viscount’s attentions—spending a few minutes in the company of an aristocrat was turning into an unexpected pleasure—Diana lifted a shoulder. “Why, Gunter’s, of course,” she replied in a teasing voice, not the least bit serious.

  “What a capital idea!“ Adam replied, ignoring her sudden look of shock. “Although I left my horse back at White’s, I can certainly acquire the services of a hackney,” he reasoned, making a move to head for the door.

  Giving her head a quick shake—was nothing beyond the ability of this man and his rank?—Diana said, “I was teasing, my lord.”

  Adam sobered. “But I was not,” he replied with a shake of his head. “I do believe I could do with a bergamot pear ice right about now.”

  The clerk must have overheard him, for he approached the counter with their order, the items wrapped in tissue and tucked into elegant paper bags with handles. “Our very own equipage can you see you to your destination,” the man said as he nodded to the bow window at the front of the store. “With our compliments, of course, Lord Breckinridge.”

  Through the bow window, Adam noticed the equipage to which the man referred. Parked at the curb was a coach-and-four. Adam gave the man two crowns and took the bag. “Much obliged,” he stated before offering his arm to Diana. “My lady? Your wish is my command.”

  Blinking in shock, Diana dared a glance at the town coach and then at the viscount. At this point, what did she have to lose? Half the stores in Jermyn Street thought her married to the viscount. “Lead the way, my lord,” she replied with a pained expression.

  Chapter 10

  A Viscount Mourns

  Meanwhile, back at the Thorncastle townhouse

  Godfrey Thorncastle stared at the divan for several minutes before he redirected his attention to the tea tray set before him. His own teacup, still half-full with a curl of steam rising from the surface of the black and orange tea, sat in the palm of one hand as he absently rested it on one knee.

  “Dammit all to hell,” he murmured. “Damn The Tattler. Damn...” He was about to say, “The Earl of Torrington,” but thought better of it. It wasn’t as if Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, ever claimed to have bedded Elise. Indeed, the earl was always quite discreet with his affaires prior to his marriage. He knew better than anyone how gossip could end someone’s standing in the ton. He knew how a woman’s reputation could suffer if gossip spread through the parlors of Mayfair. Why, the earl was a paragon of propriety, a testament to what was possible for an older, single aristocrat should he simply wait to find the perfect mate. The perfect countess. Simply wait and bide his time and see to a few widows’ comfort during the Season...

  Godfrey blinked. And blinked again when he realized something he should have realized a long time ago.

  Lady Lancaster was a widow, true. But she had been married to Charles Batey for nearly sixteen years—the same years Milton Grandby was squiring widows to the balls and soirées of every Season. Besides, it wasn’t as if Elise could have cuckolded her husband. He wouldn’t have allowed it, especially given the fact that she had never born him an heir. Charles Batey, Viscount Lancaster, still expected to father an heir before his untimely death of what some said was the ague.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Godfrey muttered to himself as he absently swirled his tea with his finger in the dainty teacup.

  My mother’s tea service, he thought as he studied the intricate details on the silver teapot and the matching cream and sugar-pot. Elise would have used it to serve her guests in the parlor, he thought with some dismay.

  Then he remembered Elise’s question about the sugar. She had remembered his preference for milk in his tea. She had stirred in just the right amount, and then added a rather large lump of sugar instead of two small ones, as if she knew he really wanted two lumps in his tea and not just the one he requested.

  She was so beautiful sitting here in my study, he thought with a good deal of melancholy. As if she belonged there. Perfectly poised. Perfectly ready to accept his offer of marriage.

  Godfrey blinked.

  Would she have accepted?

  I have questions, she had said. And conditions.

  “Dammit,” he murmured again. Had he been able to answer her questions and meet her conditions—whatever they were—and had he not brought up his beliefs about her having had affaires in her past, they might be drinking a toast to their future marriage with champagne at this very moment!

  “Dammit!” he nearly shouted, which is when he suddenly realized he wasn’t alone in the study. Nigel was there, quickly seeing to the removal of the tea service. Godfrey managed to snag a Dutch biscuit before the tray was lifted from the table. “I haven’t finished my tea yet,” he argued, his stern expression a clear warning to the butler to leave the tray exactly where it was.

  “Very good, my lord,” Nigel responded as he set the tray back down onto the low table. He stood for a moment before his master dared another glance in his direction. “If I may make a suggestion, my lord?” he added with a raised eyebrow.

  Godfrey regarded his servant for a moment before allowing a nod. “Be very careful in how you put voice to it,” he warned.

  Nigel seemed to consider the warning a moment before saying, “A heartfelt letter of apology will go a long way toward making things right with the lady.”

  About to argue, Godfrey realized his butler was absolutely right. He was far better with the written word than spoken ones, to be sure. The last fifteen minutes had been a testament to that!

  Moving quickly to his desk, Godfrey took a seat and pulled out a blank sheet of his parchment. Loading a quill with ink, he began to write.

  My dearest Elise,

  He paused. Could he simply use her given name like this without the proper title in front of it? He certainly didn’t want to address her as ‘Lady Lancaster’. The reference to the rogue’s name—even if he was a fellow viscount—merely brought up memories of what she must have endured being married to such a rake. Godfrey thought having kissed her before she was betrothed to the scoundrel gave him a bit of leeway when it came to how he addressed his missive.

  He continued, the pen scratching the surface of the vellum as it left behind his words.

  I wish to apologize for my mistaken assumptions as to how you have been living your life these past sixteen...

  Sixteen? Goodness! It had been more like... Twenty, he reasoned. But he certainly didn’t want her to think that he thought that she was older than she really was.

  He obliterated the word ‘sixteen’ with a generous line of ink and continued.

  Eighteen years. I admit to having assumed a woman of your poise and beauty would be a draw for any man, as you certainly have always been for me. I admit to having believed everything I have read in print, thinking it was the truth, for otherwise, why would it be printed?

  Thanks to your tutelage, I know better now. I have not been employing the traits of a critical thinker. I apologize and ask your forgiveness...

  Ask? Nay, beg...

  He started to rewrite the sentence before he sat back and wondered if he was admitting far too much with his words. It wasn’t as if he had ever looked at another woman with the intention of wedding her. Of bedding her. Elise had always been his intended. His written words were merely the truth. If she didn’t realize it when she read the missive, then she wasn’t the one for him, which had him in a bit of panic just then.

  Christ!

  What would he do if Elise didn’t agree to marry him?

  He continued to write, rather pleased with that last line about critical thinking.

  Too bad I didn’t employ critical thinking eighteen... twenty years ago, he thought as he metaphorically kicked himself in the shin. Well, twenty years was a bit on the long side. He didn’t kiss her until she was what? Fifteen? Sixteen?

  You see, I have always thought you should be my wife. Always.

  He drew a single line of ink beneath the word, wanting to be sure he made his p
oint clear. Angling his head as he reread the sentence, he then wondered if he was being too presumptive. He crossed through the sentence, but left it readable in the hope Elise would understand his motive with his next line.

  You see, I have always believed we would one day be married.

  There. Much better.

  He created a line beneath ‘believed’ in the hopes it would drive home the point.

  I love you.

  He swallowed. He had intended to say that line aloud, as if he thought it far too important than just written as a three-word sentence. Those words were sometimes said with such abandon, such lack of conviction. But he had overheard Lord Grandby say them about his wife—before she was even his wife—on several occasions at White’s. Why, the man would sit in one of the wingback chairs near the card players and say he loved Adele Slater Worthington for anyone and everyone to hear!

  I love you, he wrote again.

  There. After a moment, he decided that if he was in for a penny, he was in for a pound.

  I want you to be my wife. I want to live the rest of my life with you. I want you to be the mother of my heir (should we be so blessed) and a daughter (who will be beautiful despite my share of her).

  He reread that last sentence, suddenly wondering if Elise was still able to have children. Are thirty-two-year-old-women able to bear children? he wondered. Then he remembered that Queen Charlotte was still having babies, and Her Royal Highness certainly had to be older than Elise!

  Please forgive my mistaken assumptions. I thought the worst only because my fellow aristocrats can be such rakes when it comes to beautiful women such as you. Even if you had engaged in an affaire, please know this. It would not have made a difference to me. I love you, Elise. I shall always love you. Please marry me. I love you and only you, Elise.

  Yours forever, Godfrey.

  The viscount sat up straighter and read the missive from the beginning, murmuring and groaning as he did so. When he finished, he sighed and crumbled the parchment into a ball and tossed it into the basket next to his desk.