How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 11

  “I shall bid you all adieu then.” Lord Buxton gave a stiff bow as he continued, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Chelmsford, Lady Charlotte . . .” His smiled faded. “Lord Malverne.” With that, the clearly disgruntled baron turned on his heel and stalked off down Conduit Street in the opposite direction from which he’d originally been heading.

  “What a horrid man,” remarked Charlie with a shudder as they turned onto Mill Street. Lord Malverne and Lady Chelmsford led the way again. “Does he really know your family that well?”

  “It is quite true that he’s been friends with my stepfather for many years,” replied Sophie. “He sometimes comes to Nettlefield Grange for dinner.”

  “You poor thing.” Charlie shuddered again. “The way he looks at women. You especially. I feel as though I need to take a bath as well when we return to Hastings House. I’m glad Nate made short shrift of him.”

  Sophie was rather glad too. She studied Lord Malverne’s wide shoulders and his handsome profile as he leaned in closer to listen to something his aunt was saying. He’d been her unexpected champion today, and she was nothing but grateful.

  It seemed quashing her foolish tendre for him was going to be much harder than she’d originally thought.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lord L. might have stolen her drawers, but has he stolen this lady’s heart too?

  Or perhaps she has stolen his . . . In either case, what if her husband finds out?

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  White’s Gentleman’s Club, St. James’s Street, London

  April 5, 1818

  You’re not still under the weather after last night, are you?” Max, the Duke of Exmoor, asked with a cocky grin when Nate waved away the footman offering him a glass of sherry.

  “Either that or he’s just getting soft in his old age,” MacQueen remarked drily. Lounging in one of White’s dark brown leather chairs, he flicked a flake of pastry from the sleeve of his black superfine evening coat before choosing another bite-size venison pie from the silver tray on the low table between them. “Come to think of it, that might prove awkward if we pay a visit to Pandora’s later this evening.”

  Nate scowled at them both. “I’m simply overwhelmed by your wit and compassion.”

  The truth was, he was exhausted. Last night, after he’d escorted his aunt home, and then Charlie and Miss Brightwell back to Hastings House, he’d accompanied Max and MacQueen to an out-of-town boxing match. And that was followed by an all-day stint at the races.

  It hadn’t helped that when he was at home and in his own bed—he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice and enter his old room—he was plagued by thoughts of Miss Sophie Brightwell. He’d tossed and turned for hours, his head filled with visions of her: in Gunter’s with her wet skirts plastered against her long, slender legs; at Madame Boucher’s, modeling exquisite couture gowns with her creamy décolletage on display; in her room with the bodice of her nightgown gaping open after he’d tried to pleasure her breasts . . .

  He’d eventually been so desperate to fall sleep, he succumbed to the impulse to slake his lust by his own hand. Which had helped for a while, but then he dreamed of her and had woken with another bloody cockstand. He hadn’t been this consumed with desperate need since he was an adolescent. For Christ’s sake, it was enough to drive a man mad.

  Even more disturbing to his equilibrium was the knowledge that he’d experienced an unexpected surge of protectiveness when that slimy baron, Lord Buxton, had tried to foist his detestable company onto Sophie. Although he’d told himself he was protecting Charlie from the bastard, it was really Sophie he was defending. He’d immediately sensed how uncomfortable she was around the man, and so he thought nothing of sending the odious prat away with a flea in his ear.

  Yes, the last thing he needed was to develop tender feelings for Miss Brightwell. His lustful urges had already landed him in enough trouble. Given the bargain they’d struck, before he knew it, he’d be falling in love with the chit.

  He inwardly shuddered at that idea. Maybe he did need a drink.

  “Nate. Christ, anyone would think you’d been struck by Cupid’s arrow, the way you’re dreaming away,” prompted Max.

  “My apologies, gentlemen. What did I miss?” Nate gave a contrite grimace. He really needed to pull himself together.

  “Max was just asking if you know the whereabouts of Gabriel,” MacQueen said. “Neither of us has seen him since we met at Limner’s Hotel two nights ago.”

  Nate shook his head. “No . . . I suppose I’d assumed he was just spending a good deal of time with a certain countess.” Although the word about town was that Lord Astley had returned to his country estate again, it always paid to err on the side of caution when discussing another gentleman’s wife within the walls of White’s. One never quite knew who might be listening.

  “At some stage I expect he’ll have to come up for air,” observed Max with a wry smile. “If the countess lets him. She has quite an appetite, that woman.”

  Ah, so the question as to whether Max had joined the party in Lady Astley’s bedroom the night of the great drawers caper had at last been answered. Nate had never asked Max or Gabriel what had transpired. And he wasn’t about to now. For some reason, a story that might have once titillated suddenly didn’t hold much appeal for him.

  Maybe MacQueen was right after all.

  He was going soft.

  However, that didn’t seem bloody likely considering he was half-hard all the time thanks to a certain black-haired, blue-eyed chit who tasted sweeter than strawberries.

  Damn. His balls tightened again. Even though he didn’t much feel like it, Nate waved over one of the footmen and ordered a decanter of claret to replace the one MacQueen and Max had just polished off.

  Max grinned. “Now that’s more like it, Malverne. There’s nothing like the hair of the dog that bit you to repair a flagging constitution.”

  Nate reached for a pastry. “So what do you propose we do for the rest—”

  At that moment, Gabriel materialized in their quiet corner of the club.

  “Are you all right, man?” MacQueen asked, his one good eye darkening with concern at the sight of their friend’s haggard appearance. Gabriel’s hair—always a storm of black curls at the best of times—was even messier than usual, and dark stubble shadowed his jaw. His clothes were rumpled, and beneath his green eyes were smudges of fatigue.

  Gabriel threw himself into a vacant leather wing chair and ran a hand down his face. “She’s killing me,” he said after a moment. “I can’t keep up with this woman.”

  Max let out a loud guffaw that drew a few stares from other noblemen around the room, and Nate grinned. Even MacQueen couldn’t suppress a smile.

  “Maybe you should retire to your country estate for a while,” suggested Nate. The Earl of Langdale’s ancestral seat was in Cumberland. “I’m sure she won’t follow you there.”

  Gabriel heaved a great sigh. He looked truly dazed. “Maybe you’re right. I can now see why her husband keeps disappearing back to his country estate.”

  MacQueen offered him the platter of pastries. “Eat up, man. It looks like you need the sustenance.”

  Gabriel took one. “Christ, it’s enough to make a man consider marriage just to have a legitimate excuse to say no.” He shook his head and grimaced. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” chuckled MacQueen.

  The footman returned with the decanter of claret and fresh glasses. Once they were all armed with drinks, they settled back into their chairs.

  “What say we pay a visit to Vauxhall tomorrow night, to see what delights are on offer?” suggested Max. “I think a change of scenery would do us all good.”

  “Now that’s a capital idea,” agreed Gabriel after taking a large swig of his claret. He reached for anot
her oyster vol-au-vent. “And perhaps the following day we could plan a trip to Brighton. I could do with some fresh sea air.”

  Nate blew out an exasperated sigh. “I’m afraid I can’t, old chaps.”

  MacQueen’s dark brows snapped together in a suspicious frown. “Why?”

  Nate shrugged. “Business.” How could he admit to his friends that he’d been blackmailed into taking part in a husband hunt for his sister’s best friend? They’d skewer him alive with their gibes.

  Max cocked a skeptical brow. “Business? You have business?”

  Nate refilled his claret glass. The smooth wine was blunting the sharp edges of his tension already. “Yes. I do.”

  Gabriel smirked. “Female business, I’d warrant.”

  Nate mustn’t have adequately schooled his features, as MacQueen pinned him with a penetrating stare. “Out with it, Malverne. You haven’t been your devil-may-care self lately, and I think we’d all like to know why.”

  Damn. Was he that easy to read? Nate took another sizable swig of his wine, then contemplated the toes of his boots. What could he say that wouldn’t sound awful? He really didn’t want to talk about Miss Brightwell. Or how his sister was involved. Or how he got caught up in the crazy scheme in the first place.

  But then again, his friends were bound to notice when he began escorting both ladies around town. All of society will be sure to notice.

  “I’ve been tasked with chaperoning my sister and her friend to a number of social events over the next few weeks, so I won’t be free to carouse as much as usual,” he said at last.

  For a moment, there was deathly silence, and then his friends all burst out laughing, drawing more annoyed looks from other club members.

  Max eventually wiped the tears from his eyes. “I’m sorry. Did you really just say you’re going to act as a chaperone?”

  Nate sighed. “Yes. I did.”

  “Good God, man. Why?” asked Gabriel.

  “I . . . cannot say. It’s a . . . delicate matter.”

  “Delicate matter?” repeated MacQueen, his tone incredulous. “Next you’ll be telling us you’re falling in love with your sister’s friend. Because why else would you agree to such an arrangement? Unless you’ve changed your mind about seducing debutantes and you have nefarious designs on her?”

  “I hardly think so,” scoffed Nate. “She’s Charlie’s age so practically out of the schoolroom as far as I’m concerned. In any case, my sister would have my guts for garters. And you all know how good she is with a sword.”

  “Ah, so she’s one of the notorious girls that was expelled from your sister’s ladies’ academy then,” surmised Max, his blue eyes still brimming with tears of laughter.

  Nate sat back and studied the play of firelight in the ruby red depths of his claret. “It hardly matters. You can speculate all you like, but I won’t be drawn into sharing any more details.”

  “Christ,” Gabriel said in a low voice laced with shock, “he won’t kiss and tell. Gentlemen, I think he actually does harbor a tendre for this girl.”

  “That’s absolute rot.” It wasn’t a tendre. There were no tender feelings involved. It was lust, pure and simple. And he needed to put out the fire in his veins, straightaway.

  The problem was, he didn’t seem to know how.

  “I think our friend doth protest too much,” MacQueen said, his steel gray eye glimmering with amusement. He refilled his claret glass. “But don’t worry, your secret is safe with us.”

  “Egad, you three can be bastards sometimes.”

  Gabriel gave him a good-natured slap on the shoulder. “We won’t disagree with you, my friend. But look on the bright side. You’re in good company because, most of the time, you behave like a bloody bastard too.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Promenading in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour isn’t what it used to be.

  Not when a certain pair of Disreputable Debutantes venture forth . . .

  To what lengths will these young “ladies” go to catch a husband?

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  Hyde Park, Mayfair

  April 6, 1818

  Miss Brightwell, you look truly splendid today,” observed Lord Malverne with a polite smile as Sophie and Charlie descended the stairs into the vestibule of Hastings House.

  Charlie had decided they should promenade around Hyde Park this afternoon; they would be testing the ton’s waters, so to speak, before they embarked upon a journey into London’s ballrooms and salons—if they received any invitations, of course.

  Sophie tried not to blush as she met Lord Malverne’s eyes and replied sedately, “Why thank you, my lord.” She would assume his compliment was sincere as she’d donned one of her new ensembles—a smart poke bonnet and promenade gown, which was a lovely gentian blue trimmed with black frogging and buttons.

  She’d almost observed that the viscount looked remarkably splendid as well, but that would draw attention to the fact that she’d made note of his striking appearance. Charlie would cast her a suspicious look, and Lord Malverne would undoubtedly smile in that knowing way of his. And then she would blush and, oh, she really should stop overthinking things where Lord Malverne was concerned.

  Charlie arched an eyebrow. “I’m pleased to see you’ve decided to take your responsibilities seriously, Nate.”

  Lord Malverne offered an arm to both Charlie and Sophie to escort them out to the waiting barouche, a shiny black affair with an elegant pair of matched grays strapped into the traces. “Considering what’s at stake for both Miss Brightwell and myself, believe me, I’m taking them very seriously.”

  Charlie inclined her head in approval. “Good to hear.”

  Although a liveried footman stood at the ready by the barouche’s steps, Lord Malverne himself handed them into the carriage, then took the black leather seat opposite theirs. Leaning back, he canted his long legs across the space between the seats, his black Hessians brushing against Sophie’s skirts.

  “Is your aunt coming too?” asked Sophie as the barouche moved off.

  Charlie nodded, the green feathers in her neat bonnet bobbing with the movement. “Yes, we shall drive past her residence on Park Lane on the way. Aunt Tabitha agreed that, on our first public foray, we must adhere to the etiquette rule book as much as possible. The scandalmongers can have nasty teeth, and we don’t want to give them anything to feed off of. Our behavior must be beyond reproach.”

  Sophie pulled a face. “Heavens, you make the ton’s gossips sound like sharks, Charlie.”

  “They can be,” remarked Lord Malverne drily. “Society’s hunger for scandal borders on the insatiable.”

  Charlie’s mouth twitched with a smile. “You don’t seem to mind feeding the gossipmongers on occasion though, Nate. You’re quite used to it.”

  Lord Malverne shrugged one shoulder and grinned. “What can I say? I aim to please.”

  An impish twinkle appeared in Charlie’s eyes. “Yes, especially the ladies of the ton. Sophie, did you know Nate was almost arrested for public indecency about a year ago? He lost a wager at White’s and had to ride down Rotten Row, stark naked, during the fashionable hour. Of course, I wouldn’t have enjoyed such a salacious spectacle, but I’m sure there were many ladies who did.”

  My goodness. Heat rushed over Sophie’s face as a mental image of a Lord Malverne in all his naked, muscular glory atop a shining steed popped into her head. Aloud she managed to stammer, “Al-almost arrested?”

  Charlie’s smile was pure devilry. “A mounted Bow Street Runner who was on patrol gave chase, but apparently Nate’s horse was faster. Although, Nate didn’t get away entirely scot-free.” She turned her amused gaze on her brother. “You did complain about chafing for a week or so afterward, didn’t you, Nate?”

  “Charlotte,” Lord Malverne warned. There was a faint wash of color a
cross his high cheekbones, and Sophie realized he was blushing too. “I’m sure Miss Brightwell does not wish to hear you recount such . . . unpleasant details.”

  Charlie was unrepentant. “Unpleasant for you perhaps. But it was really quite funny watching you walk around with a bow-legged gait for several days.”

  Sophie bit her lip to stop herself from smiling. It must be lovely to be in a position like Lord Malverne’s. Not only was he rich, handsome, and titled, it seemed he could do whatever he pleased and society didn’t really give a fig. Whereas she would always be watched, pointed at, and judged, rather like a pilloried prisoner, or one in the docks awaiting sentencing. Any misstep off the narrow path of decorum could end her just as effectively as the hangman’s noose. To have the same amount of privilege that circumstance had bestowed upon Lord Malverne would be heady indeed.

  When they reached Park Lane, Lady Chelmsford took her place beside her nephew in a flurry of gray and lilac skirts. After she was settled and greetings were exchanged, the barouche set forth for Hyde Park.

  “I’ve never done this before. Promenaded in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour,” admitted Sophie as they rolled down one of the carriage drives. “I’m really not sure what to expect.” It was actually quite crowded with other equipages; light phaetons and smaller curricles bowled merrily past, along with dashing ton bucks and ladies atop their equally dashing mounts. Other gentlemen and women strolled here and there across the manicured grounds or gathered in small groups to converse. Of course, there were no naked rakehells about, mounted or otherwise.

  Lady Chelmsford offered an encouraging smile. “If you are wondering how to make a good impression, my advice to you is just sit up as straight as you can and smile serenely as though you hadn’t a care in the world.”

  “Yes,” agreed Charlie. “It’s all about being noticed in the ‘right’ way. While we don’t wish to be ignored by others, we also don’t want to create a spectacle”—she shot her brother a pointed look—“that will keep us firmly imprisoned in the dungeon reserved for social pariahs.”