by Jo Goodman
KISSING THE VISCOUNT
“I am not of a mind to kiss you now, so you should not anticipate that I will,” Lily said.
“But I can anticipate that you mean to do it eventually, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will require your assistance negotiating the route back to the inn, for I am weak-kneed.”
“Fool.”
“Quite possibly.”
He was so cheerful about this assessment of his character that Lily reversed her own decision. She found a foothold for her heels between the stones and stood, then before he backed away, she steadied herself by placing her hands on his shoulders. She pressed her mouth to his and found at once that this was most sincerely more to her liking.
“You do not mind that I am kissing you?”
“No. I am perhaps too tolerant in this regard, but I do not think I will alter my views just yet.”
This time when Lily kissed him it had all the sweetness of her smile. She worked her mouth over his, paying particular attention to his lower lip.
“You will think I am splitting hairs,” she whispered against his lips. She flicked her tongue and it caught the upper curve of his mouth. “But I find I want the taste of you again . . .”
Books by Jo Goodman
The Captain’s Lady
Crystal Passion
Seaswept Abandon
Velvet Night
Violet Fire
Scarlet Lies
Tempting Torment
Midnight Princess
Passion’s Sweet Revenge
Sweet Fire
Wild Sweet Ecstasy
Rogue’s Mistress
Forever in My Heart
Always in My Dreams
Only in My Arms
My Steadfast Heart
My Reckless Heart
With All My Heart
More Than You Know
More Than You Wished
Let Me Be the One
Everything I Ever Wanted
All I Ever Needed
Beyond a Wicked Kiss
A Season to Be Sinful
Published by Zebra Books
A Season to be Sínful
JO GOODMAN
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
KISSING THE VISCOUNT
Books by Jo Goodman
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Epilogue
Copyright Page
For Aunt Ev and Uncle Bill
Love, Snowball
Prologue
L’Abbaye de Sacré Coeur, Avril 1810
“What about that one?”
The question startled Sister Mary Joseph, though she doubted her companion was aware of it. There had never been any pretense on his part to give her his full attention. He suffered the tour of the ruins, the walk through the scrupulously tended garden, his introduction in each of the classrooms, and finally the journey along the stone corridors to the old chapel, the stones themselves worn to a faintly concave smoothness by the silent, shuffling passage of penitents like her for more than two centuries.
Now Sister Mary Joseph’s pale green eyes shifted first to the man at her side, then to the object of his interest.
Lilith Sterling knelt at the rear of the chapel, her head bowed, the slim, fragile stem of her neck revealed by the thick plait of hair that had fallen forward over her left shoulder. Her head was covered by a fine white shawl that muted the dark copper color of her hair but did nothing to conceal it.
Sister Mary Joseph gave the young girl full marks for not looking up. At some other time, Lilith’s pious posture would have brought a skeptical, though tender, smile to her lips. That was not the way of it now.
Softly, indicating they should have a care not to disturb Lilith’s prayers, Sister Mary Joseph said, “No, she is just a child.”
The Right Honorable Lord Woodridge arched one brow but did not turn away from his regard of the girl. “I have children,” he said. “My daughter is eleven, my son, three. I think I know the difference. She will suit admirably.”
“I am sorry, my lord, but she is already promised.”
“Promised?” He frowned. “I would know the name of the man. Is he French?”
“No, my lord.”
“English, then. That is good. I do so dislike negotiating with the frogs at every turn. It is invariably unpleasant.” He ignored the slight stiffening that the sister could not conceal. He considered apologizing and immediately dismissed it as unnecessary. Mary Joseph was, after all, as English as he, which is why the Reverend Mother had chosen her to accompany him. Impatiently, he inquired again. “His name?”
“She is promised to Our Lord, Jesus Christ.” Sister Mary Joseph took considerable delight in offering this answer, though she was careful not to give herself away. She would confess the lie later and pray that she would be forgiven.
Wycliff Standish, Baron Woodridge, said nothing for a long moment as his attention returned to the girl. Each line of her face was finely drawn; there was a purity in her profile that he found much to his liking. Except for the faint movement of her lips as she prayed, she was as still as stone. The serenity that surrounded her was almost tangible.
It was difficult to suppress the shiver of pleasure he experienced at the thought of having it within his reach. Mayhap it could be touched. She could be touched, of that he was certain. She was young, yes, but not too young. Possessing her would bring him a measure of peace, at least for a time. And when she had served her purpose, been used, destroyed, and finally discarded, he would know his greatest satisfaction.
“Ridiculous.” His lips moved around the word much as hers did, giving virtually no sound to the pronouncement. That he offered it with a certain finality, as though it put a period to his prayers, was not lost on him. He had, after all, his own god to appease. “She is wasted on the church.”
Sister Mary Joseph hardly knew how to reply to that. She underscored her lie by telling it a second time. “Still, my lord, she is promised.”
Woodridge’s thin upper lip curled. “A bride of Christ? No, it is unthinkable.” Tapping the tip his crystal-knobbed walking stick sharply against the stone floor, he was not surprised when the girl flinched. Appearances aside, she was not in a trance at all, certainly not lost in applying herself to her penance. “Venez ici, mademoiselle.”
Lilith froze.
“We should not disturb her,” Mary Joseph said quietly. It was the most she thought she dared say. Lord Woodridge was more than a visitor to the abbey. He was a guest, invited by the abbess at the most particular suggestion of the bishop.
Woodridge ignored her. He was not accustomed to repeating himself, but he did so now, making allowances for the fact that he was not master here. “Ici. Tout de suite.”
Lilith came to her feet slowly, awkwardly, bracing her hand on the back of the pew in front of her so that she might have more support. She never straightened entirely; the pronounced curve of her spine would not permit it.
Sister Mary Joseph pressed the back of one hand to her lips to suppress the small gasp that hovered there. When Lilith limped heavily toward them, Mary Joseph realized her hand was insufficient to cover the b
ubble of nervous laughter that was lodged at the back of her throat. She coughed several times instead and drew out her handkerchief from beneath the sleeve of her habit.
Woodridge was caught. His distaste for the creature in front of him was palpable. In other circumstances he would have concealed his disgust. Had he been observed by anyone save the sister and the cripple, he would have schooled his features and made some pretense of sympathy. He might have even deigned to touch the girl, though he would have carefully calculated the benefits of doing so against the possibility that he would be sick.
Lilith approached. The drag of her right foot on the stones echoed eerily in the chapel. She stopped more than a yard in front of his lordship, halted by what she spied in his ice blue eyes. Here was aversion in its purest form. She had given him disgust of herself, not for who she was, but for what she appeared to be.
Her curtsy was as awkwardly accomplished as her rising had been. The slight grimace about her mouth was not feigned. It was painful to be in his presence. “Monsieur.”
“Does she speak English?” he asked the sister.
“Very little.”
He would have overlooked this deficit of education if she were not deformed. Indeed, he knew he would have found a certain enjoyment expanding her vocabulary. Those words shared between lovers, in particular, would have given him pleasure. To hear them whispered haltingly in his ear as he buried himself inside her . . . he reined in those thoughts before he was ill. Already he could taste bile at the back of his throat.
“What is wrong with her?” he demanded, though to his own eyes the answer was obvious. She was spoiled in the most fundamental way. If she was as pure as her profile had suggested, it was because she had no choice to be else. All that would be left to him was to defile her spirit, her soul, and it was not enough. It was his desire to begin with the butterfly, not the moth, and certainly not with this misshapen chrysalis. “Was she so deformed at birth?”
“No, my lord.” That, at least, was true.
“An accident, then.”
Sister Mary Joseph watched the baron closely. He seemed to be satisfied with his assumption and did not ask for the particulars. She tried not to consider the nature of his thoughts. That he was repulsed by what Lilith had become was clear to her and must be so to Lilith herself. His lordship’s reaction bore out all that Mary Joseph had supposed to be true about him in the first few minutes of their introduction. Upon taking his hand, she had felt a chill slip from his fingers into hers, then burrow under her skin until it raised the fine hairs on her arms and at the back of her neck. Time spent in his company had not altered that impression.
It would be difficult to ask for God’s forgiveness when she had no remorse for lying.
“Tell her to leave us,” Woodridge said suddenly. “She is an abomination.”
“Reverend Mother has often said the same.” Mary Joseph offered this observation quietly. Here again was the truth, something the Reverend Mother and the baron could agree upon were such a thing needed, although they had decidedly different perspectives on why the uncomplimentary description was also an accurate one. Turning to Lilith, Sister said, “Allez! Vite!”
Lilith hurried from the chapel as instructed but not before she risked a glance at the baron. He was no longer looking at her, but through her, his lips pursed in a rictus of a smile. Stepping to one side, he gave her a wide berth as she passed. She thought she felt him shudder but allowed that it could have been her imagination. She did not, however, imagine her own response.
For a moment, she’d not been able to breathe.
Woodridge waited for the uneven footfalls to recede before he spoke. This was not done because of any regard for the departing girl’s sensibilities—he was quite certain she had none—but because he needed a moment to recover his own fine ones.
“That was extraordinarily unpleasant,” he said without inflection.
“I am sorry you found it so.” Sister Mary Joseph’s eyes were downcast. She had replaced her handkerchief inside her sleeve, and now she lightly fingered the beads of her rosary.
“Are there no other girls? I was led to believe I would find a suitable governess for my daughter here.”
Would that were all he wanted, Sister thought. “You have seen all of them and dismissed each in turn.” She did not add thank God, but it was that sentiment that was in her heart. In truth, he had expressed no interest in any of the girls until his cold study had fallen upon Lilith. There were girls here who would have been flattered by the Englishman’s attention, taken with his fine patrician looks and distant regard. They would be frightened also, but excited as well, and as one emotion provoked the other, they would be made vulnerable.
Sister Mary Joseph understood that it had always been thus, but her knowledge of scripture and profound faith provided only one aspect of her understanding. She knew these things in a deeply personal way, and this she kept carefully guarded from everyone save her Lord.
“You will want to speak to the bishop again,” she said.
“You can be certain that I will.”
She nodded faintly, wishing it were otherwise. It was likely he had already made a substantial donation to the bishop, though perhaps not the church, in anticipation of finding la jeune fille who would fulfill his requirements. Sister Mary Joseph took a step toward the candlelit corridor and was brought up short by Woodridge’s next words.
“I wish to see the Reverend Mother before I leave.”
Hoping that he would not sense her distress, Sister Mary Joseph turned to face the baron. “Of course,” she said, bending her head slightly as she acquiesced. “This way.” The weight that had so recently been removed from her shoulders returned, redoubled this time so that her small frame could not support it. Long before they reached the Reverend Mother’s study, it had settled quite heavily around Mary Joseph’s heart.
The Reverend Mother’s study was as severely appointed as the woman herself. Strong, angular lines defined her features, and the same was true of the room where she spent most of her time. Books neatly lined three shelves on either side of the stone hearth, the volumes arranged by the height and thickness of the burnished leather spines rather than by subject. Still, the Reverend Mother could find any book she wanted in a matter of moments, and no one wondered, even upon brief acquaintance, if she had read them all.
She looked up, quelling her displeasure at the interruption, and carefully placed a red ribbon between the pages of her missal to mark her place. The door began to open in spite of the fact that she had given no indication that she welcomed the intruder. That breach alone told her who would cross the threshold.
“Ah! Bonsoir, monsieur.” From behind the ornate and imposing mahogany desk, the abbess stood. She accepted his lordship’s greeting, noting again that while he spoke with perfect grammatical correctness, his cadence was labored and there was effort applied here. She had little doubt that it was not to his liking to continue in French, but she would not speak English to put him at ease. There must be some small penance on his part for the rather bold manner in which he had shown himself into her private sanctuary.
The Reverend Mother’s eyes slid briefly to Sister Mary Joseph, who remained hovering on the threshold. “Pourquoi est-ce que tu ne partes pas?”
“She doesn’t leave,” the baron explained in his stilted French, “because I do not wish it.”
“Ah.” The Reverend Mother shrugged, then motioned Mary Joseph to enter and close the door behind her. “She is to be a witness to our discourse, then.”
“Exactement.”
“Please, won’t you sit?”
“Non. I will be brief.”
He was rude, but then she had expected nothing else. If his manner was offensive, his money was not. That was the bishop’s reasoning and, finally, her own. She inclined her head, inviting him to speak.
“I was led to believe I would find a suitable governess here. Bishop Corbeil was fully aware of my requirements and assured me t
here was just such a young woman at the abbey. I do not think I am mistaken that he had someone in mind when he spoke to me.”
Reverend Mother chose her words carefully. “He recommended no particular young woman to me, rather he shared the essential qualities you were seeking.”
“Then he told you I must have someone of more than moderate intelligence? My daughter is intelligent herself, you understand.”
“Oui.”
“And that the young lady should have experience instructing your younger students?”
The Reverend Mother inclined her head again, assuring him this had been related to her.
“He told you also that she must possess a modicum of grace and comport herself with dignity befitting a companion to my daughter?”
“Just so.”
“You understand that I am seeking someone who will have more than a little influence with Mina?”
“That was made clear to me.”
“Then you can appreciate that I desire a young woman of a certain moral character, preferably one that places her above reproach not only in my regard, but in the regard of society, and most especially of the ton.”
The Reverend Mother did not permit herself the luxury to bristle at this statement, but said calmly, “You may be certain that all of our young women, whether or not they will choose to serve God as a member of our order, are possessed of unimpeachable moral character.”
Woodridge did not trouble himself to hide the fact that he remained unconvinced as to the truth of this, but he did not press it further. Perhaps the Reverend Mother did not know, or care to know, that one of her young novices was enceinte. Granted, the pregnancy was in its earliest months, but the misshapen belly was there if one had but the eyes to see it. He had those eyes. He said nothing of this, however. It would be revealed soon enough to everyone that the girl was a whore and provide a delicious comeuppance to the supercilious mien of the abbess.
“For obvious reasons, I insisted that la jeune fille must enjoy good health. Corbeil promised me this would present no obstacle.”
