How to Catch a Wicked Viscount

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “Well, you are,” she flashed. “I don’t understand why you should treat me so coldly. Unless you think it’s because my wanton behavior last night was so shocking that you cannot bear to interact with me.”

  “No. No of course not. It’s not that . . .”

  “Then what’s wrong? Please tell me.”

  Nate’s eyes darkened as his gaze locked with hers. “Do you want me to be frank with you? Because I will be if that’s what you really want.”

  Nate’s expression was so intense and somber, Sophie’s heart began to race in a most uncomfortable way. Oh, dear. She licked dry lips. “Yes. Yes I do.”

  Nate inhaled deeply as though bracing himself to deliver devastating news. “Sophie, this infatuation I have with you . . . it’s fast becoming an obsession. A sexual obsession. And while I desire you a great deal, and yes, I care about you, I’m afraid I do not care for you. It’s just not in my nature. To that end, it is essential I distance myself from you, because if I don’t, I’ll ruin you completely. I may be a scoundrel, but I could never do that to someone as lovely and sweet as you. You deserve someone better. A man who will love you the way you want to be, and ought to be loved. And that man isn’t me.”

  Sophie’s breath caught. It felt as though Nate had just pulled out her heart and stomped all over it with his shiny black Hessians. But what had she expected? Hadn’t both he and Charlie warned her from the start that he was incapable of love? Still, she whispered, “There’s no hope then, is there?”

  Compassion flickered in Nate’s eyes. “I’m afraid not.”

  She nodded even as despair began to clog her throat and a strange viselike pressure squeezed her chest. Her lungs burned. Where had all the air gone? The bright waters of the Serpentine blurred before her eyes. “I’m such a fool,” she whispered.

  Nate extended his gloved hand, as though he was about to touch her. “Sophie, I—”

  “Lord Malverne!”

  Nate glanced past her shoulder and smiled. “Lady Astley,” he called, lifting the hand he’d been about to touch her with in a waved greeting. “Good morning to you.”

  Sophie attempted to blink away her tears but it didn’t really matter. When the beautiful blond countess stopped her horse by Nate’s, she only had eyes for him.

  “You remember Miss Sophie Brightwell, don’t you, Lady Astley?” prompted Nate.

  Lady Astley barely turned her head toward Sophie. “Yes, of course. Good morning, Miss Brightwell,” she said before immediately returning her attention back to Nate. “Lord Malverne, could you spare a moment to talk privately?”

  Nate frowned. “My apologies, Lady Astley, but I don’t think—”

  “It’s all right, Lord Malverne.” Sophie was surprised that her voice sounded relatively normal. “I shall take Aurora for a short ride, just to that copse and back. I’d like to put her through her paces.” Without giving him the chance to respond, she nudged the mare’s sides and moved away toward the grassy expanse on the other side of Rotten Row. Some time alone, away from Nate, would be welcome right now. She was already humiliated enough. She didn’t want him, or Lady Astley for that matter, to see her cry.

  “Sophie,” he called, but she ignored him and urged Aurora into a smart trot, then a canter.

  Aurora’s gait was smooth and swift, and in no time at all, Sophie had reached the copse of oaks and maple trees on the other side. She turned Aurora around but then reined her in. She wasn’t ready to go back. Even though she was some distance away, she could easily see Lady Astley in her smart hunter green riding habit; her head was bent toward Nate, and Sophie thought she might even be touching his arm.

  She wondered what they were speaking about. Lord Langdale perhaps and where he’d gone? Or was Lady Astley in the market for a new lover? A man she presumed to be the countess’s groom waited a discreet distance away on his own horse.

  Either way, it was none of her business what the woman wanted. Lord Malverne had made his position abundantly clear. He felt no more for little Sophie Brightwell than the passing lust he’d feel for a mistress. He didn’t really care about her. His regard was superficial. She was merely his sister’s friend. An acquaintance.

  She had no claim on him. None at all. Which meant that, somehow, she needed to ignore the stab of jealousy that pierced her heart when Lady Astley laid her hand on Nate again. Lord Malverne, she mentally amended. She must not think of him in such familiar terms anymore.

  Dashing away a fresh rush of tears with a gloved hand, Sophie decided she didn’t want to watch the intimate exchange a moment longer. There was a well-worn path running through the thick copse, and bluebells nodded along the edge. If she took Aurora that way, she could then circle the trees before heading back to Lord Malverne. Perhaps Lady Astley would have moved on by then. As much as she wanted to be by herself, she wasn’t silly enough to ride all the way back to Berkeley Square on her own.

  She steered Aurora into the trees. Save for the warbling of a blackbird, it was very quiet in the shade. And cool. A shiver ran over Sophie, raising the hair at her nape at the exact same moment that Aurora’s ears flicked back and forth. Shying to one side of the path, the mare tossed her head, her nostrils flaring. And then a low growl suddenly emanated from the bushes.

  Aurora reared and screamed as two mongrel dogs hurtled onto the path. Barking, their teeth bared and their eyes wild, they lunged.

  Oh, God! Somehow, Sophie held on as the mare bolted, the dogs snapping at her hooves. A man shouted, perhaps at the dogs, but it was impossible to tell as Aurora was flying down the path and then across the grass, straight toward a hedgerow.

  Oh no! It is too high.

  Her heart in her mouth, Sophie leaned low, preparing herself for the jump. She closed her eyes as Aurora cleared the hedge, but as the mare landed heavily, Sophie lost her seat and hit the ground hard on her rump.

  All the air was knocked out of her in a huge whoosh, and when she tried to lift her head, the world spun. Black spots danced before her eyes, and she gasped for air like she was drowning.

  “Miss Brightwell!”

  Nate? Is Nate here already? Sophie shook her head, trying to clear it, but it was to no avail. She couldn’t see straight.

  “Miss Brightwell, here, duck your head down,” the man urged gently, a hand at her back. His deep voice was vaguely familiar, but right at this moment, Sophie couldn’t place it. “It will help you to catch your breath.”

  Sophie did as he suggested, and very soon, the gasping and wheezing subsided and she felt as if she could actually breathe properly again.

  “That’s it,” murmured the man, and when Sophie looked up, it was into the soft blue gray eyes of Lord Claremont.

  “My lord . . . ,” she whispered. “What . . . what are you doing here?”

  Lord Claremont smiled. “At the moment, rescuing a pretty dark-haired damsel in distress. But before, I was doing much the same as you, I expect—enjoying the lovely morning by taking a jaunt around Hyde Park.”

  Sophie frowned and pushed her hair out of her eyes. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost her hat. “Is my horse all right? She was startled by some dreadful dogs.”

  The viscount gestured toward the bridle path. Aurora was standing beneath an oak tree by a smart-looking phaeton. “She seems fine,” he said. “But when I saw your fall, I must confess, I was more worried about you, Miss Brightwell.”

  Sophie attempted a smile. “Thank you.” She really didn’t know what else to say. She was too light-headed and heartsore from Nate’s rejection to really think about the significance, or otherwise, of Lord Claremont’s unanticipated intervention.

  “Well,” said Lord Claremont, sitting back on his heels. “Perhaps we should get you up.” He placed a hand beneath one of her elbows. “Do you think you can sta—”

  “Sophie. Sweet Jesus!” Nate was sliding off a still-moving Invictus when sh
e looked up. Within a flash, he was on his knees, at her side, tilting her chin up, examining her face. “Are you all right? I heard those dogs and Aurora.”

  “I’m . . . I’m fine,” she murmured, turning her head away. She couldn’t deal with Nate’s concern right now. Now that she knew she didn’t mean anything to him. Not really.

  He put an arm around her back. “Here, lean on me—”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I can manage.” She attempted to push herself up without help from either Nate or Lord Claremont, but as she put her weight on her left wrist, she cried out in pain.

  “You’re hurt,” declared Nate, lifting her left arm with great care.

  “It would seem so,” added Claremont wryly.

  Nate shot him a narrow-eyed look. “I haven’t seen you around town in a while, Claremont.”

  “No. But I’m here now.”

  “Gentlemen, my apologies for interrupting, but might I stand? I should like to go home.”

  “Of course,” said Lord Claremont.

  Both he and Nate helped her to her feet, and then Nate gently pushed up the sleeve of her azure blue riding habit. He frowned. “I think your wrist is beginning to swell a little. I hope there are no broken bones.”

  Before Sophie could protest, Nate had loosened his cravat and tugged it from his neck. The fabric was still warm from his body heat as he began to wrap it gently around her wrist. “When we get back to Hastings House, I’ll send for the physician.” He raised his eyes to her face. “Do you think you can ride?”

  Sophie bit her lip to stifle a whimper of pain as Nate continued to bind her wrist. “I’m not sure. I still feel a little dizzy . . .”

  Lord Claremont cleared his throat. “Perhaps I could be of assistance. My phaeton is just over there. I would be more than happy to take you.”

  Sophie smiled. “That would be greatly appreciated.”

  “That’s good of you, Claremont.”

  Ignoring Nate, the viscount inclined his head to Sophie. “It’s the least I can do, Miss Brightwell.” He raised an eyebrow as Nate tied off the makeshift bandage. “If you’re done, Malverne . . .”

  Nate tilted his head and took a small step away. His gaze touched Sophie’s. “I am. I’ll take care of Aurora. I’ll see you at home.” And with that, he turned on his heel, mounted Invictus, and then went to retrieve Aurora, who was now quietly cropping the grass.

  Lord Claremont settled Sophie in his phaeton, and after claiming the seat beside her, he flicked the reins, and the horses were off at a gentle trot.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Miss Brightwell. About the Penriths’ spring ball and . . . and my absence from town. I only returned yesterday.”

  Sophie’s wrist was now throbbing, and she had to hold on to one side of the phaeton with her good arm to help maintain her perch, but nevertheless, she cast Lord Claremont a look of interest. “To be honest, I didn’t know you’d been away.”

  “You must have thought me terribly rude then. And I do apologize for not sending word, but I’d only just met you . . .” Lord Claremont’s thigh brushed against hers as they rounded a gentle corner. “You see, my poor mother took ill. In fact she’s been gravely unwell. After I bade you farewell at Penrith House, I returned home to find a courier had arrived with a letter, informing me of my mother’s decline and the urgent need for me to return to my estate in Hertfordshire.”

  “I’m so sorry, my lord.” Sophie’s heart clenched. “I can’t even imagine how awful that must have been for you. May I ask how your mother fares now?”

  “I’m pleased to say she is much improved and well on the way to making a full recovery.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad to hear that.”

  Lord Claremont’s gaze caught hers. “You see, the thing is, Miss Brightwell, I had wanted to send you flowers the day after the ball, and to begin calling on you. But fate conspired against me. And now I wonder if I’m too late . . .”

  “What do you mean?” Sophie breathed.

  Lord Claremont paused as he concentrated on steering his phaeton into the traffic on Park Lane. “Well, after witnessing Lord Malverne’s deep concern for you just before, I rather wondered if I might have a rival for your affections after all?”

  Sophie’s heart did a strange little somersault. What should she say? From what she’d seen, she liked Lord Claremont, but her heart belonged to Nate.

  Only he didn’t want it . . .

  “I . . . I do believe Lord Malverne has no interest in courting me,” she said at last.

  Lord Claremont’s grin was brighter than the spring sunshine glancing off his silver waistcoat buttons. “So there’s hope for me yet, Miss Brightwell?”

  Sophie blushed. Lord Claremont was not only a lovely man, he was titled, wealthy, and handsome. He clearly cared about others, especially his mother. And despite his rakish reputation, he’d always behaved as a gentleman ought to in her company. Indeed, he met every criterion on the list the Society for Enlightened Young Women had created. So she would be foolish to discourage his suit, wouldn’t she?

  If Nate was not for her, then she really should give someone else a chance to win her heart. She returned his smile. “Yes, there’s hope.”

  “Then I am a happy man indeed.”

  Sophie blushed again and turned her gaze to the passing traffic and town houses. She should feel abuzz with happiness but she didn’t. Perhaps it was the pain of her injured wrist, or perhaps it was the pain of her wounded heart and her dented pride that was dampening her spirits.

  But beneath all that, Sophie had the awful feeling there was more than a little bit of guilt pinching at her. Should she really be encouraging Lord Claremont if her heart wasn’t truly free to give?

  Goodness, Sophie. You barely know the man. Surely there’s no harm in giving him a chance. And there’s no sense in pining away for Nate. You’ve given him ample opportunities to stake a claim. But he doesn’t want to. You will not be a victim of unrequited love for the rest of your days.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Beau Monde Mirror has it on good authority that a certain viscount—one who has only recently returned to the capital—might have his sights set on one of the infamous Disreputable Debutantes!

  It seems there is no accounting for taste. Perhaps love is blind after all . . .

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  Hastings House, Berkeley Square, Mayfair

  April 25, 1818

  Malverne, do you mind if I have a word?

  Nate scowled as he recalled the conversation he’d had with Lord Bloody Claremont not more than five minutes ago in this very room. The viscount had gone, but Nate’s foul mood remained. He poured himself another glass of whisky, downed it in one gulp as he’d done with the first, and then poured a third.

  Throwing himself into the leather wing chair before the drawing room fire, he then loosened his damnably tight cravat.

  God, he was still acting like a lovesick schoolboy. No, not lovesick, because he wasn’t in love. He was in lust with Sophie Brightwell and, like the dog that he was, he simply didn’t want another man sniffing around the female he wanted to bed.

  Malverne, do you mind if I have a word? What a completely innocuous way to begin a conversation about whether he would oppose Claremont’s pursuit of Sophie.

  Of course, for all his misplaced rancor, he wasn’t going to.

  Nate sighed and placed the cool crystal glass against his hot forehead. The light was fading and he probably should go upstairs, ring for his valet, and then head out to White’s or Boodle’s or even some back-alley gaming hell. He was in a filthy, reckless mood, and drinking, heavy gambling, and fucking would be the only remedy to rid himself of it, of that he was certain.

  “Lord Malverne?”

  Shit. Sophie.

  Nate straightened and stood. “Miss Brightwell.�
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  “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lord. I just came to retrieve . . . my book,” she said with a weak smile. Her fingers pleated the sprigged muslin of her skirts, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. She looked uncomfortable. Uncertain. He didn’t blame her one bit for being hesitant.

  He’d rejected her yesterday. For her own good, he’d told himself. While he still firmly believed that he was doing the “right and honorable thing,” it didn’t make him feel any better.

  He was sure his foul mood radiated from him like heat radiated from hell.

  As his inner demons continued to wage war, he dredged up an equable voice and said, “You’re not disturbing me.”

  But that was a lie. He was a mess. He’d never felt more disturbed in his life.

  Sophie nodded and crossed to the other side of the hearth and picked up her book, Sense and Sensibility. It lay beside an enormous arrangement of pale pink roses framed by soft green feathery ferns; Claremont had sent the flowers this morning along with a card that still lay nestled in between the blooms. Nate took another sip of his drink to conceal a snarl. The courtship had begun before Claremont had even spoken to him.

  “How is your wrist?” he asked when Sophie didn’t immediately quit the room. She hovered by the flowers, trailing her fingertips through the ferns. The white bandage was bright against the dark gleaming mahogany of the tabletop.

  “Sore,” she replied. “But improving.”

  “I’m glad.” The physician had diagnosed a simple sprain, which he predicted would be completely healed within a few weeks.

  “Thank you.” Sophie stroked a soft pink petal and Nate swallowed. Bloody hell, he really shouldn’t focus on her fingers or what she could do with them. Or her lips. She was currently abusing the plump, delectable flesh with her teeth. He was bound to become aroused. Again.

  He dragged his gaze from her mouth, and at the same moment, she looked up too. Their eyes locked. For one long moment they stared at each other, the air crackling with tension, but it was Sophie who was brave enough to break the silence.