The Viscount's Valentine (Classic Regency Romances)

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “Sir Gordon made this request, and it is none of our business if Lord Bron Alvarice, Viscount Blackthorne, wishes to masquerade as simple Mr. Black. I have instructed—”

  “I know all this, Mr. Dennis,” the housekeeper’s voice boomed again. “An’ if it were just the gent’s title we was concealing, I would not care. What the quality does is no concern of mine, nor of my girls. But I will not send innocent maids into the room of a man who done what he done to that poor foreign girl. She might be Spanish, and popish, too, likely, but it don’t mean an English lord can kidnap her and take her innocence like he done!”

  Honey staggered and leaned against the wall. A dozen questions coursed through her mind. Bron, a kidnapper? And did the housekeeper really mean he took the girl’s innocence by force? It was the same story Nellie had related with such relish, but now, to hear that Bron was the man . . . She did not hear the butler’s reply, nor did she want to hear another word.

  Ultimately, she thought, as she crept away, back up the stairs and to her own room, it did not matter what part of that all was true. That he was concealing his identity clearly showed that he had done something wrong, even in his own estimation. She must tell Nellie as soon as possible so they could leave.

  • • •

  “What a villain,” Nellie gasped, after hearing her sister’s tale.

  The reaction would have been satisfactory to Honey, but Nellie’s eyes were wide and her lips curved up in a smile. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “Nell, this is a serious charge!” Honey paced to the window of her chamber and glanced out at the weather, wondering if it would be possible to pack, say her good-byes, and escape Longmoor Abbey by that very afternoon.

  “What a rogue he must be! I have never seen Lord Alvarice in person, and so did not recognize him, but I told you this very piece of gossip, did I not? He is called Blackheart for the number of women he has bedded and the number of girls’ hearts he has broken.”

  Honey did not like the thrilled accents of her sister’s voice. She eyed Nellie, who sat up on Honey’s high full-testered bed, and now clutched the thick walnut post, hugging it and stroking the red velvet curtains.

  “Then we must leave immediately!” Honey said. “I will summon Virtue and she can begin packing my things. Do you think you can be ready by afternoon?”

  Nellie’s gaze slewed to her sister and sharpened. “Go? Why would we go?”

  “We can’t stay in the same household as Blackthorne!”

  “What do you think he is going to do, rape you?” Nellie asked, derisively.

  Shocked by her sister’s offensive mockery, Honey gazed at her steadily.

  Nell rose and twirled on the pale rose carpeting beneath her feet. “I am not leaving until after the Valentine’s Ball. You can do what you want.”

  She flitted from the room, and Honey heard her footsteps as she skipped down the stairs.

  • • •

  Somehow, by that afternoon, everyone had openly admitted Blackthorne’s identity. He suspected that somehow a servant had let it slip, for he knew that the housekeeper had voiced her disapproval of the charade. Eleanor, although she had made her disagreement known to him on several occasions, would not stoop to tattling no matter how much she disliked going along with his little ruse.

  Perhaps it had never been necessary so far north, but in the months following that debacle with Doña Isabella, he had rather gotten used to being plain Mr. Black, except for that slip in conversation with Eleanor and Honey when he had talked about outranking his friend’s barony. As Viscount Blackthorne he did, but as Mr. Black he most certainly did not. Oh, how one became used to a title.

  Perhaps Honey would be impressed by his title. Did he hope so, or did he hope that he would have to win her favor just as diligently as poor Mr. Black did? Either way, he set himself to be charming.

  But she was even colder to him than before. He had gone a long ways to conquering her distrust of him, but as the company gathered that evening, he could see that she meant to avoid him. “What is wrong with your sister tonight?” he asked Nellie, who always seemed to be hovering at his elbow.

  “She disapproves of you, my lord,” she said, gazing up at him and fluttering her lashes. She took his arm and stroked, squeezing the muscled swell above his elbow and moving closer to him.

  “And why is that?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “Oh, you know how some people listen to gossip! She fears you are an unrepentant rake and a rogue, sir. She doesn’t know how to appreciate a man of your . . . quality.”

  In other circumstances Bron might have been entertained by her childlike attempts at seduction. But disturbed by what she had said, he pulled away from her and made his way across the room to Honey.

  She was standing next to Eleanor listening to a red-haired young woman tell a comic story of her “tragic” first season, but he grasped her bare arm and pulled her away. Eleanor glanced at them and raised her eyebrows, but Honey shook her head and turned to face Bron.

  “What do you think you are doing, handling me like that, sir? Or should I say my lord?”

  “Honey,” he said, lowering his tone and moving closer to her. “Is that what has upset you, my concealing my identity? Or is it that earth-shattering kiss we shared yesterday in the library? I have been able to think of nothing else all night and day.”

  The fire blazed in the deep hearth near them, and it was the only thing Bron could think of to explain the heat he felt when he moved closer to her. He stared into her eyes, and felt something within him twist at the sadness he read, the disappointment expressed in the droop of her lid and the downturn at the corners of her sweet mouth.

  “Lord Alvarice, I—”

  “Call me Bron,” he said impatiently. “We are friends.”

  “I have heard things I don’t care to repeat, Bron. I don’t say I believe everything I have heard. But I would ask you one thing: please do not repeat that very improper embrace from yesterday. I did not like it, and I would ask that you do not use me that way again. As a friend, please heed my request.”

  In the face of such gentle remonstrance he was helpless. He gazed down into the loveliest blue eyes he had ever seen, eyes that reminded him of summer skies and the days when he was a carefree boy, and nodded. “I will do what I can to respect your wishes, my dear. But please, believe that I am not guilty of everything of which I have been accused. For reasons I cannot divulge I am not free to exonerate myself, and that was my only reason for traveling incognito. I would not have you think ill of me.”

  “I think I understand you for what you are, Bron, truly.”

  And with that ambiguous response he had to be satisfied, for Eleanor moved toward them at that minute with a worried look on her plain face, to invite them to sit down for cards.

  The rest of that day and the next passed in such harmless pastimes. Bron, an ache in his heart, watched Honey’s laughter and her smile, her pensive moments and her frequent periods of calm reflection. She was a delight, he thought. Why had she never remarried? She would be a prize for any marriage-minded male. Even in the wilds of Yorkshire one would think some man would have seen her blossoming unnoticed and plucked her for himself.

  When asked, Gordon merely shrugged and suggested that maybe she didn’t want to marry. Some women were just cold by nature and did not want a man in their life, especially if they were independently wealthy, as she was. But Bron knew differently. She was not cold nor passionless, which made her single state a puzzle.

  He found himself enjoying her company. He relaxed with her, and found that when he did not pursue her, she sought his company on her own. He liked that. She was simply, quietly, uniquely irresistible, and the moments he spent with her were the sweetest hours he had ever experienced. There was no ulterior motive with Honey, no hidden, secret plan.

  Unlike her sister. He was aware that Nellie watched him constantly, now that his identity was out in the open. She was antagonistic toward her si
ster and boldly inviting toward him, but for Honey’s sake, he did not give her the set-down she deserved.

  Until the company started to part for the night. It was still fairly early by party standards, but the next night was the Valentine’s Eve Ball and most wanted to get a good sleep. Honey was just about to ascend the stairs when he stopped her.

  “Will you save me the first dance tomorrow night?”

  She blushed. “I—”

  “I don’t ask for the waltz. I promise I will not make you uncomfortable. Just say that I may have one dance. Or two.” He looked down at her, the chandelier light glinting off her hair, the soft curve of her cheek beckoning his hand. But he restrained himself. If he would achieve his object, restraint was necessary.

  “I will save you the first dance,” she whispered, gazing up at him.

  “Sweet dreams, then, and good night. I will count the hours until our dance.”

  She smiled, then turned and gracefully ascended the stairs.

  He watched her go up.

  “She will never come to your bed, you know,” a voice behind him said.

  He turned to find that he was alone with Nellie. His expression hardened. It was time the little baggage learned a thing or two about men. “But you would, am I right?”

  Hope lit her eyes, so like Honey’s in color and yet so unlike them in expression. She swept close to him and pressed herself against him shamelessly. “I would.”

  He took one of her blond curls in his hand and twined it around his finger. “What a difference between two sisters,” he said.

  “I know,” she said, smugly. “She doesn’t like men; I do.”

  Nellie rubbed herself against him, and he was reminded vividly of a cat in season. Would he feel differently if this was Honey so shamelessly beckoning him into her bed? Was part of the elder sister’s charm her elusiveness? Perhaps. But he rather thought that if Honey was rubbing up against him he would already have picked her up and carried her to his bed. As it was . . .

  He pushed Nellie away. “Go to bed. I am not interested in cuckolding your poor husband.” He turned and took the stairs two at a time and strode to his bedroom.

  • • •

  It was the early hours of the morning. The household was silent and slumbering, when a sudden hoarse shout, followed by a thumping, awoke everyone on the third floor.

  Honey pulled on her wrapper and stumbled into the hall, worried that someone was hurt. Much of the company stood blinking sleepily at each other in the dim light afforded by a night lamp in a wall sconce.

  “What the devil was that?” Sir Gordon shouted.

  “It came from Bron’s room,” Eleanor said. Her room was right next to his.

  “Maybe he has fallen,” the baron said, and strode to the viscount’s door, pushing it open with one thrust. He stopped in the doorway and made not another move.

  But the others were curious and Honey followed as they surged forward, spilling into the room. A collective gasp echoed in the chamber, and Honey looked toward the large bed in the center of the room.

  Nellie, clad in only a flimsy shift, knelt in the middle of the bed, and Bron stood next to it. A buzzing sounded in Honey’s ears and she felt light-headed. Bron had turned to the crowd. His eyes locked with hers.

  “It is not . . . we weren’t . . .” He stopped and shrugged helplessly.

  Nellie scrambled from the bed and pushed past the crowd, head down, cheeks a flaming red.

  After the initial shock, Honey felt a surge of fury course through her, and then, to her surprise, an even darker emotion swept the anger away. Jealousy turned and roiled in her stomach, jealousy that Bron would say sweet words to her and then bed her sister. She gave him one long, silent look, and then turned and went back to her room.

  Chapter Eight

  “Where is she?” Bron said, pulling the frightened abigail toward him by the front of her dress.

  “Sh-she said she was not staying another minute in this house, sir, and first light saw her a-tearin’ down t’ the stables to fetch a ridin’ horse.”

  “Damn and blast the little puritan!” he swore, releasing the woman.

  He had awoken at first light hoping it had all been a nightmare, but no. It was true. That little tramp Nellie Jordan had slipped into his room after the rest of the household was abed and was under his covers running her hands over his body when he awoke. For one fevered moment he had thought it was Honey who pressed herself to him and whispered that she would make him forget every other woman he had ever been with, but as he pulled her to him and felt her body, he knew it wasn’t her.

  He had leaped from the bed and lit a taper from the smoldering embers of his fire, and found Nellie Jordan blinking up at him from under his covers. He had lost his temper in that one moment, yelled at her to get out and had tried to pull her from his bed, but she had screeched, shaken off his hand, and he had fallen with a thump onto the floor. Just as he had stood and was about to try again to get her out of his room, Gordon burst in, and then the whole damn company was in his doorway gaping and staring.

  He would be the butt of gossip yet again, but that would have mattered little if he hadn’t seen the look on Honey’s face, as someone moved and she caught sight of the scene. Fury was quickly chased off her face by hurt, and then . . . was it jealousy? Maybe, but he would not refine on that too much. She would never forgive him, even if she had been coming close to succumbing to his blandishments. He felt compelled to explain, and so he had tapped on her chamber door, only to find that her abigail was packing her mistress’s things, intending to follow her home.

  She had taken a horse out, in this weather? During the night the snow that was already on the ground had been coated by a thick covering of frost and treacherous ice. She would not make it two yards in this! He raced down the steps and out into the bitter cold, down to the stable. Mrs. Hockley had indeed been there, demanding one of her carriage horses be saddled, a stable boy said. She would not even wait for her carriage, she said, she must leave immediately.

  The head groom shrugged when castigated about letting her go, saying there was no reasoning with her. His lordship surely knew what women were like once they had gotten a bee in their bonnet. Blackthorne demanded his own horse saddled, for he would never rest until he was sure Honey was safe at home.

  He was right to be concerned. He had gone only a mile down the slippery, icy road, when he heard a faint cry. He leaped from his horse and promptly fell on the ice, picked himself up, and climbed over a snowdrift. It was Honey! With a jolt of fear, he saw her cloaked form in a snowbank, and every angry word he had been about to say to her for her foolishness fled in the face of that terror. He scrambled over the deep drift to find that she had been thrown.

  “My darling, are you all right?” he cried, pulling her onto his lap as the icy water soaked into his breeches. He wore no greatcoat, so hurried had he been, and he was freezing, but one word from her would make all well again.

  There were tears in her eyes. “This is terribly embarrassing,” she sobbed. “I have been thrown. I’ve never been thrown!”

  “Do you hurt? Is there anything you cannot move,” he asked, gently running his hands over her limbs.

  “M-my bottom hurts from hitting the ground, but there was a cushion of snow, so it is not too bad.” Her face was pale and she trembled all over. Tears froze on her lashes.

  “What were you thinking?” he said, and then, pulling her against him, he muttered a silent prayer of thanks to God for protecting her. She could have died, and somewhere deep within himself he knew that he would never have been the same if he had killed her, for it would have been his fault, even though he could not foresee her silly sister climbing into his bed.

  “I only wanted to go home,” she said, her voice muffled by his chest.

  He stood, picking her up as well as he could, and waded through the drift with her firmly in his arms.

  “I can walk,” she said, struggling to get down.

  He h
eld her even more securely. “You are not getting down,” he said, his voice harsh with emotion. His horse had wandered, but moved back toward them. Bron set her up in the saddle, bade her hold on, and led the horse back up to the house.

  The alarm had gone up, and all of Longmoor Abbey was roused. Eleanor was on the front step and gave a cry of alarm when she saw them coming, but then calmed when she saw that Honey was well. She and Mrs. Wedge, the housekeeper, followed Bron as he lifted her off the horse and carried her into the abbey and directly up to her room.

  • • •

  She would be all right, Eleanor had informed him, her lips tight with anger as if he himself were to blame for her idiotic flight from Longmoor. Well, he was to blame . . . of course he was. He had been wrongheaded and foolish and an idiot. Bron paced back and forth in the library, having escaped from the company of the other men with difficulty. He was being treated as the hero of the day for having saved “poor Mrs. Hockley.”

  But he was the reason she was running in the first place. What did it mean that the scene from the previous night had shocked her so much she could not bear to stay? Had he read her expression right? A look of purest jealousy had twisted her pretty face when she saw a woman in his bed, and that woman her own sister.

  Perhaps he had been close to tempting her into an affair, but he rather thought all hope of that was over. He would never hold her in his arms again, never talk to her in the soft flickering glow of candlelight, admiring her loveliness, savoring her intelligence, enjoying her company. He had taken for granted all the wonderful moments when they just conversed, or played cards, or were simply in the same room, and he could look over and see her there, knowing she would be there tomorrow, and the next day . . .