The Vision of a Viscountess

by Linda Rae Sande

  Marianne regarded the leather binding on the book her aunt had just pulled down from the highest bookshelf in the library at Devonville House. “What is this?” she asked as she moved to open the front cover.

  Obviously something important.

  Aunt Cherice had seen to taking her to the library even before she had a chance to go up to her bedchamber to shed her ballgown in favor of a nightrail. The fact that the book was leather-bound made it even more important since not all books on the shelves had benefited from the expensive binding procedure.

  “An attempt to quell your fears about the marriage bed,” the former Viscountess Winslow replied with an arched brow. Her current title of Marchioness of Devonville seemed to suit her much better. “Seeing as how you don’t have a mother to explain it.” She furrowed a brow. “Come to think of it, my mum didn’t explain it to me.” Rolling her eyes, she finally directed them on her niece and gave a shake of her head. “I had to learn it all from Winslow,” she said as her entire body seemed to quake with disgust.

  Marianne was about to put voice to a protest at the same time she was struggling to keep an impassive expression on her face. She hadn’t said a word about the marriage bed whilst they rode home from the ball in the Devonville town coach.

  She, in fact, hadn’t had a chance.

  Cherice had spent the entire time in conversation with Lord Devonville about the impending nuptials, although “conversation” probably wasn’t the right word. The marquess was barely able to get a word in as Cherice espoused a series of “to-do’s” she claimed were necessary to prepare for a ton wedding.

  Her uncle had managed to remind his wife that Lord Henley wouldn’t be in London much longer. “My love, do not fash yourself. There won’t be time for a large wedding breakfast. Henley and Marianne will be departing for Italy in a week,” he said as he patted Cherice’s knee.

  His marchioness blinked, as if she had to rethink every plan she had formulated. “But there will still be a wedding,” she countered, her comment almost a question.

  The way her uncle sighed had Marianne wondering if he thought Lord Henley would be sending his regrets. He couldn’t though. If he broke off the engagement, she would be ruined! I could break it off, she thought. Without so much as a logical reason.

  “I spoke with Henley—just to determine his willingness, of course—and he assures me he has every intention of marrying our niece. As for Marianne, I think we should ask her if she’s truly willing to marry a man she hardly knows.” He said the words as if his niece wasn’t sitting just two feet in front of him in the coach.

  “Of course, I am willing,” Marianne piped up as she leaned forward a bit, her face illuminated by the carriage’s interior lantern. Hearing that Lord Henley truly intended to marry her was a bit of pleasant news. She knew the two men had taken their leave of the ballroom, presumedly to discuss the terms of the marriage. “I feared he thought me... too old,” she hedged.

  Too blind would have been her first choice of reasons, but Lord Henley didn’t seem bothered by her lack of eyesight. Had it been any other man, she thought he might find her near-sightedness a liability. That he might change his mind about wanting to marry given she was essentially blind. Hearing Lord Henley still intended to marry her even when given the opportunity to opt out had her assessment of the viscount changing.

  He’s honorable and handsome, she thought.

  Relieved there would be a wedding—and within a week—Marianne settled back into the squabs and wondered at how her body had reacted to the viscount’s kiss. She remembered how pleasant the kiss had been. Pleasant and exciting. Then she wondered if their marriage bed might be the same.

  Pleasant and exciting.

  Staring at the color plate that was on display in the book she was holding over one arm—she had allowed it to open of its own accord to the middle of a series of color images—Marianne suddenly wondered if the marriage bed might be a bit too exciting.

  Embarrassing, actually.

  Cherice must have noticed her look of shock, for she quickly said, “Oh, don’t be alarmed. Some of those color plates are rather... well, the whole book is French, so there’s bound to be some... positions you may find distasteful. But you’ll want to give most of them a try as you’ll find it necessary to keep your husband entertained in your bed. You don’t want him to have an excuse to employ a mistress.”

  The spine still resting on a forearm and the book wide open to a rather salacious image, Marianne listened to her aunt’s comments and found she couldn’t not be alarmed.

  Faith!

  Were those two people?

  And just what were they doing?

  They looked as if... Marianne gasped despite Cherice’s warning and shut the book. She blinked. “Necessary?” she nearly cried out, briefly trying to imagine the viscount to whom she found herself betrothed doing what the man in the painting was doing with some poor young woman.

  Or perhaps she should be pitying the poor man.

  “Necessary, or else someone else will be entertaining him in their bed,” Cherice replied with an arched brow. She “tsk’d” and took the book from Marianne. Cherice flipped through several printed pages until the series of color plates flashed by. She stopped at one and angled the book so it faced her niece. “Now, this position is easy, and men love it because... well, let us just say I think Viscount Henley will appreciate it because you’re rather well-endowed...”

  “I am?” Marianne countered, one arm going up in an attempt to hide her bosom. The man in the painting had his face planted between the woman’s breasts as she sat facing him, her bottom on his lap and her legs wrapped about his torso and the back of the chair in which he sat. “Oh, no,” she whispered as she dropped her gaze down the front of her rather chaste gown. Is that why Lord Henley saw fit to speak with me? she wondered then. Because he thought me well-endowed?

  “Oh, darling,” Cherice sighed. “Most men love a pair of plump breasts. A pair of peaches they can’t quite completely cover with their mouths but can hold in their hands,” Cherice explained as one of her hands went to her own bosom. The tops of her rising moons were mostly on display in the bright pink silk deNaples gown she had worn to the ball that evening.

  Had Marianne not become so flustered at hearing her aunt’s outrageous claim, she might have countered it with her late mother’s comment that men didn’t appreciate women who were too fleshy.

  Am I too fleshy? she wondered.

  “They also love it if you leave your hair down at night. No mob caps. Ever. And don’t braid it, either, for they’ll just undo the ribbon, and then it will be lost in the bedding.” She paused a moment before her face crinkled into a mischievous grin. “But if you do find it, you can always tie it around his...” She stopped when she realized her niece looked as if she was thoroughly scandalized.

  Or about to faint.

  “Well, never mind about the ribbon.”

  Marianne blinked, not about to ask how a ribbon might become lost. Or tied around... well, whatever her aunt was about to suggest it could be tied around. She could imagine what that might be, especially after seeing some of the images in the book she still held.

  She rather doubted any of her hair ribbons would be long enough, though.

  Marianne turned the page and blushed red at seeing a painting of a woman bent over a huge bed, her bare bottom pressed against the front of a man’s nether region. “Surely he won’t expect me to do this?” she half-asked. The woman in the painting obviously wore cosmetics and was probably a mistress or a courtesan engaged in a rather scandalous dalliance with a man wearing a periwig and nothing else.

  Cherice sighed. “My mother always said it’s why she gave birth to five boys and just one daughter,” she claimed with an arched brow.

  Her aunt’s implication quite clear, Marianne tried to hide her look of shock as she once again shut the book. She ignored the puff of dust that blew into the air, her attention on the fact that she would be expected to b
ear an heir. And preferably a spare, as well, before giving birth to daughters.

  Wouldn’t she?

  Cherice angled her head. “I remember my first wedding night, although I don’t know how. I must have drunk an entire bottle of champagne. Thank the gods, or I think I would have fainted over what Winslow did to me,” she claimed, referring to her late husband. She didn’t go into detail, which suited Marianne just fine. “I know you’ll be quite scandalized at some of the paintings in the book, but do read the narrative,” Cherice encouraged. Then she paused a moment and lowered her voice. “After the first time, and if Henley is only a half-skilled lover, you’ll find yourself enjoying the marriage bed.”

  Sure her cheeks were bright red, Marianne nodded. “I’ll read some of it tonight,” she promised, wondering why her aunt found it so important she know about such things when Marianne was still trying to decide if she should break off the engagement with Lord Henley.

  For she just realized something rather important.

  What engagement?

  The man hadn’t even proposed!

  He had simply acquiesced to her uncle’s implication that he was expected to marry her given they had been caught kissing.

  I can call it off, she reminded herself. Women were allowed to break off betrothals without so much as a hint of scandal.

  She dared a glance at the mantle clock, wondering if it was too late to ask for a carriage to take her to Lord Henley’s residence—wherever that was—and admit it was all just a mistake. Apologize profusely for ever joining him in Lord Attenborough’s gardens.

  She blinked when she realized it was three o’clock in the morning.

  Well, she could just have the coach take her to the nearest posting inn, board a stage coach, and make her way back to Canobie. Leave a note claiming she and Lord Henley wouldn’t suit, although...

  Who was she kidding?

  If all she and Lord Henley ever did was kiss one another, they would have a happy union.

  A frisson shot through her entire body, and she nearly put voice to a curse. The thought of Lord Henley doing to her what the periwigged man in that one painting was doing to the rather fleshy courtesan had her stays suddenly feeling entirely too tight.

  She dared a glance down, wondering what was happening to her fleshy breasts before she returned her thoughts to the situation at hand.

  Who even knew they were to marry?

  There were just the three witnesses to her indiscretion. Aunt Cherice, Uncle William, and Aunt Adele. Surely Aunt Adele wouldn’t say anything to the visitors she would be hosting for tea in the afternoon.

  Marianne rolled her eyes. Of course Aunt Adele would mention it. Why, she probably intended to announce the impending nuptials to all her morning callers. And then, when she went to call on Lady Norwick in the afternoon, she would tell all the afternoon callers in the parlor at Norwick House. The next issue of The Tattler would feature an entire paragraph—maybe two—about them, if the last issue was any indication.

  Sighing, Marianne bade her aunt a good night and made her way to her bedchamber, the book held under one arm. Despite not wearing her eyeglasses, she found her bedchamber and spent the rest of her waking hours reading and then studying the rather graphic paintings.

  And feeling ever so scandalized.

  Chapter 6

  Seeing to a Proper Proposal

  The following afternoon

  Jasper regarded the missive a footman had just delivered to his study. The Devonville crest was emblazoned in the dark red wax that sealed the four corners in the middle. Popping the wax, he unfolded the parchment to reveal the marquess’ reply to his earlier query.

  Dear Henley,

  In response to your query as to the suitability of taking Miss Slater to the park on a phaeton ~ I give you my permission. Seeing as how you’re betrothed, you have my permission to do whatever you see fit to do with her. She is yours now.

  Devonville

  Blinking at the short, rather curt reply, Jasper felt a combination of relief and dread. Of course Lord Devonville would think a phaeton a suitable form of conveyance. He had no doubt courted his second wife on his sporty red phaeton. Jasper’s black model was as staid as they came. He chose it over yellow only because he thought the yellow would display the dust and dirt of Rotten Row to poor advantage.

  Since Devonville’s missive didn’t mention anything about Miss Slater having changed her mind—or perhaps arranged to flee London on a stagecoach bound for Scotland in the middle of the night—Jasper had to assume she still wanted to ride with him in the park.

  At half-past three o’clock in the afternoon, he took the reins from the stableboy in the mews behind his townhouse and tossed the urchin a coin.

  “Much obliged,” the boy called out as Jasper led his single horse into traffic on South Audley. He was leaving a bit early, to be sure, since Devonville’s residence was just a mile away at the north end of Park Lane, but he didn’t want to arrive too late. He figured Lady Devonville was probably a stickler when it came to appointments, and he didn’t want her to develop a poor opinion of him. Even though Cherice DuBois Winslow Slater wasn’t Marianne’s true aunt, she was seeing to the young lady’s come-out in London. Better he stay on her good side until he could wed Marianne Slater.

  As to if he could manage the same after the wedding, Jasper felt a profound sense of relief when he remembered he wouldn’t have to. He and Marianne would be on a ship bound for Italy, his archaeological expedition keeping him in Sicily at least six months. Possibly longer.

  When he halted his horse in front of the white Palladian mansion bearing a brass lion’s head knocker on a door flanked by spiral topiary trees, Jasper took a deep breath. He would be forced to wait for fifteen minutes or more in the vestibule of Devonville House, he was sure, but better he sit there than to wait out in Park Lane for anyone to see. He hobbled his horse and made his way to the front door, not the least bit surprised when Hatfield, the butler, answered his knock.

  “Lord Henley for Miss Marianne,” he said as he presented his calling card.

  The butler gave a nod. “I’ll see if the young lady is in residence, milord,” Hatfield said as he took the card. At least the butler allowed him to enter the vestibule. Jasper didn’t want to be seen loitering outside the marquess’ mansion.

  The fifteen-minute wait turned out to be only a few minutes when he realized the young lady was descending the stairs.

  He gave a bow even before she had come to a complete stop in front of him. “My lady,” he said as he reached for her gloved hand.

  “You came,” Marianne said as she dipped a curtsy and watched with fascination as he brushed his lips over her knuckles.

  Jasper blinked. “Of course I came.” He frowned. “Did... did you think I would not?” he wondered, rather dismayed by the thought that she didn’t consider him honorable enough to keep their engagement.

  Marianne gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I wanted to believe it, truly I did. But I fear I have become somewhat jaded since my arrival in London.”

  “Jaded?” he repeated, his brows furrowing.

  The young woman colored up. “My aunt warned me that young bucks might find my lack of... clear vision... a detriment.”

  His frown still firmly in place, Jasper asked, “Do you lack vision?” he wondered. “Or merely the ability to see clearly?”

  Marianne blinked, her gaze rising to meet his. “They are not the same?” she countered in a hoarse whisper.

  Jasper allowed a slight grin. “They are not. If my lady will allow me, I shall explain their differences as we make our way to Hyde Park.” He glanced around, rather surprised a lady’s maid hadn’t yet joined her.

  “I will allow it, of course,” Marianne replied, her manner most sincere. “I look forward to it, in fact.”

  “Very well. Will your lady’s maid be joining us? Or... or a footman, perhaps?” He thought it rather unlikely he would be allowed to escort the young woman into the park for the fa
shionable hour without the benefit of a chaperone.

  And then he remembered Devonville’s earlier missive.

  Seeing as how you’re betrothed, you have my permission to do whatever you see fit to do. She is yours now.

  “No,” Marianne replied with a shake of her head. “Uncle William said the ton will simply know we are betrothed if I am seen without a chaperone.”

  Jasper blinked, rather surprised at this bit of news. If anyone from the Royal Society saw him with a woman at his side, they would probably pass out from shock. He had already been admonished for how long he had stayed in mourning, evident from the black arm band he always wore in public. Given the nature of his ride today, and the fact that he was due to remarry—and rather soon—Jasper had tucked away the arm band in the back of a dresser drawer.

  He hoped that he might never have to wear it again.

  With the assurance they didn’t require a chaperone came Jasper’s relief there wouldn’t be one. He didn’t know where he might have space for one on his phaeton. “Shall we?” he asked as he offered his arm.

  “Yes,” Marianne replied with a nod, placing a gloved hand on his proffered arm. “I would be remiss if I didn’t admit I have been looking forward to this all day,” Marianne stated as they made their way down the front walk to where his phaeton was parked. “I have spent at least three hours in parlors drinking tea and listening to old matrons repeat their impressions of last night’s ball,” she complained.

  Jasper wondered how he was going to get Marianne up and onto the phaeton’s high bench. He would have simply lifted her up there, but he wasn’t sure she would welcome his hold on her waist. The safer alternative was to lace his fingers together and provide a step much like he would do for a lady mounting a horse.

  In the end, he didn’t have to do either, as Marianne simply raised her skirts and took the step up of her own accord, although she did place a gloved hand on his shoulder for support. “Were their impressions... agreeable?” he asked, having a hard time keeping his voice even.