How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Read online

  He certainly wasn’t going to pursue Lady Penelope. His father had rocks in his head if he thought that chit was a suitable match. She might be physically appealing, but in other respects, she wasn’t attractive at all. The way she’d looked at Charlie and Sophie made his blood boil. He’d rather seek an introduction to Lord Whitmore’s statuesque daughter with good teeth, Lady Emily.

  Although prostitutes currently had no appeal, and married women were out of bounds—the risk of causing a public scandal that would upset his father was too great—there were plenty of attractive widows here tonight . . . like the lovely and sexually adventurous Lady Taunton.

  Nate was certain he’d spied the young baroness in the card room shortly after his arrival. His mouth curved into a smile as he recalled their past encounter at a house party the year before. Lady Taunton and her equally adventurous friend, Lady Seymour, had been enthusiastic participants in a game of strip vingt-et-un before they both joined him in a vigorous all-night round of bed sport.

  Straightening his shoulders, Nate pushed through the crowd with determined strides.

  Viscount Malverne was on the hunt.

  CHAPTER 13

  Secrets. Everyone has them.

  But are your friends trustworthy enough to keep them safe?

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Essential Style and Etiquette Guide

  Hastings House, Berkeley Square

  April 15, 1818

  The morning was gray and cold when Sophie left her room in search of breakfast. Charlie’s door opened as hers clicked shut.

  “Perfect timing,” her friend said as she slipped her slender arm through hers. “I trust you slept well?”

  “Like a proverbial log. And you?”

  Charlie’s topaz eyes shone brightly. “The same. There’s nothing quite like a bit of flirting and dancing to make one both exhausted and content, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Entirely.” Sophie hoped Charlie would forgive her for the little white lie. While it was true she’d been exhausted after the Penriths’ ball last night, she couldn’t really claim she felt content.

  Although she’d half expected Lord Malverne to pursue the imperious rather than “perfect” Lady Penelope to keep in his father’s good books, she was taken aback when she observed him shamelessly flirting with an older, very attractive woman for the remainder of the night; a certain widowed blond baroness by the name of Lady Taunton. Lady Chelmsford had identified her when Lord Malverne escorted the widow into supper. It shouldn’t hurt, she knew she was being ridiculous, but it did all the same.

  Even though Lord Claremont asked her to dance a second time, and joined her, Charlie, and Lady Chelmsford during supper, her gaze had inexorably strayed to Lord Malverne. Envy had pricked at her as she’d watched him talk and laugh with Lady Taunton; the stab of jealousy was especially sharp when he’d leaned close, his large hand sliding to the woman’s waist as he whispered something meant only for her, in her ear.

  It was silly to feel so piqued. Lord Malverne was a rakehell after all. But knowing it and observing him in action were two entirely different things.

  Once they reached the gallery below, a squall of rain lashed the casement windows.

  “Goodness gracious,” said Charlie, gathering her paisley silk shawl more closely about her shoulders. “What an appalling day. I know we had discussed calling on Olivia, but I’m wondering if it would be best if we holed up somewhere warm, reading books and drinking hot chocolate.”

  “I think that sounds like an excellent idea.”

  As they drew closer to the morning room where breakfast was served, the sound of raised voices could be heard over the sheeting rain. Male voices. Lord Westhampton and his son were arguing.

  Pausing a few feet from the door near a window embrasure, Charlie raised a finger to her lips.

  “Should we go back to our rooms and order trays?” Sophie whispered. It felt wrong to be eavesdropping on such a heated moment.

  Charlie shook her head. “Their disagreements never last long. And I’m starving. Ordering trays will take too long.”

  Sophie turned to face the window and tried to focus on the rain-lashed pane and the view of the sodden courtyard garden beyond, instead of the snatches of angry conversation drifting out through the ajar door and along the gallery.

  “It doesn’t matter what you say, Father, I won’t be spending the summer at Elmstone. When I’m not in town, I shall devote my energies to setting things to rights at Deerhurst Park. As we agreed.”

  “Your management of Deerhurst isn’t the issue at the moment, Nathaniel. Your ongoing refusal to spend more than a day or two once a year at Elmstone is. Your brothers miss y—”

  “Father, you know how difficult it is for me.”

  A razor-sharp silence extended for the space of one heartbeat, then another, before Lord Westhampton broke it. “I know. But it’s been fourteen years since Thomas—”

  “Just like you, I’m very well aware how long it’s been.” Lord Malverne’s deep voice was as rough as gravel. “Not a day goes by that I don’t . . .”

  Another silence, marked only by the tick of a nearby longcase clock and the drumming of rain, stretched out for a full, painful minute. Assailed with awkwardness and guilt, Sophie turned to Charlie, who again put her finger to her lips.

  Lord Malverne said something else, but his voice was so low, Sophie couldn’t make out the words. Not that it was any of her business to begin with. She glanced at Charlie and wondered why she’d wanted to remain here in the gallery.

  “Nathaniel, before you go . . .” Lord Westhampton faltered and there was another awkward interval in which Sophie would have bolted if Charlie hadn’t placed a hand on her arm. “At the risk of upsetting you further, there’s something else I need to bring to your attention. While I’m heartened to hear that you’ve been squiring your sister about town and at long last attending respectable events, I’m less than thrilled to also hear that you may be pursuing Miss Brightwell. Your aunt was so concerned, she sent a note first thing this morning. In her words, you were ‘flirting up a storm.’ However, I would caution you against forming an attachment with someone like her. I still firmly believe the Duke of Stafford’s daughter would be a much better—”

  “I know what your opinion is, Father. Rest assured, I have no desire to court Charlie’s friend. Or any particular affection for her. She’s a lovely girl but I agree with you. She’s not right for me. And while I will keep Lady Penelope in mind, I would also like to consider other . . . options, shall we say? It’s only the beginning of the Season after all.”

  “Quite.”

  Well, there it is. I’m not good enough. And Nate feels nothing for me. At least I know for sure. Tears of humiliation burning her eyes, Sophie was about to flee when Charlie gathered her into a brief, fierce hug. “Oh, Sophie. I’m so sorry you heard that. Don’t think for a minute you’re not welcome or wanted here. I’m sure my aunt and father are just worried that Nate is toying with your affections and will hurt you.”

  Sophie dashed away her tears and nodded. She hoped Charlie was right. She was just about to tell her friend exactly that when Lord Malverne spoke again. “If there’s nothing else, Father . . .”

  Oh heavens, he is leaving. Panic flaring, Sophie pulled away from Charlie. But before she could retreat, the viscount appeared in the doorway, his expression as dark and somber as the day.

  Sophie’s breath caught in her throat. She’d never seen Lord Malverne display such stark, deeply felt emotion, and it made her momentarily forget her own pain.

  As his gaze touched hers and then shifted to Charlie, his manner immediately changed. A forced smile replaced his scowl. “Miss Brightwell. Charlotte. Good morning to you both.” And then he continued on his way, his strides long and purposeful. Within a moment, he’d disappeared up the stairs.

  “Will he be all right?” S
ophie asked. Despite what he’d said to his father about his lack of affection for her, part of her yearned to go after him. To offer comfort. “He looks so . . . bereft.”

  “Don’t worry about Nate.” Charlie clasped both of Sophie’s hands in hers. “He has the same argument with Father about Elmstone Hall every year. I’m sorry you had to hear it like this, but I suppose you should know . . .” She broke off and the expression in her brown eyes became so sad, Sophie’s heart cramped with emotion too. “Nate hasn’t always been the oldest. We had another brother, Thomas. When Thomas was fifteen, he met with an accident at our country home, Elmstone Hall.” She swallowed before whispering, “He . . . he drowned in the nearby river.”

  Sophie’s breath hitched and tears pricked her eyes. “Oh, my Lord. I’m so sorry, Charlie. I had no idea.”

  “You weren’t to know. It was a long time ago. I was only seven years old at the time, and I feel so dreadful as my memories of Thomas are not as strong as I’d like them to be. Nate was thirteen when it happened and he . . . he blames himself even though he’s not to blame at all.”

  Poor Lord Malverne. Nathaniel.

  Nate.

  What a terrible burden for a boy to bear. It made her wonder how it had shaped the man he’d become. There were so many things she didn’t know about him. Charlie had also told her he’d served in Wellington’s army. That he’d been at Waterloo.

  Yet he hid his pain so well.

  Charlie touched her cheek. “Don’t cry, my sweet friend. Nate will be all right.” She took her arm again. “Come. Let us breakfast with my father. I’m sure he’ll be glad to have the company.”

  Sophie wasn’t at all sure considering what he’d just said about her to Nate. The earl had already been so very kind to sponsor her Season. She prayed he didn’t regret his decision.

  When they entered the morning room, they discovered Lord Westhampton had abandoned the breakfast table and was standing, cup of coffee in hand, at the window, studying the rainy aspect. Like Lord Malverne, he was tall and broad shouldered but with dark hair rather than chestnut. Although there was a touch of gray at his temples, he was clearly still a vigorous man for his age.

  Sophie suddenly wondered why he’d never married again. From what Charlie had told her, her mother had died from complications following childbirth many years ago. Sadness tugged at her heart. Charlie’s family had been touched by too much loss and sorrow. And it seemed they were still learning to deal with the aftermath.

  At the sound of their entry, Lord Westhampton turned and greeted them with a polite smile that instantly relieved Sophie’s tension to some degree. It didn’t seem as though he was angry with her for flirting with his son.

  “Good morning, Miss Brightwell. Charlotte,” he said smoothly with a slight inclination of his head.

  Sophie curtsied. “And a good morning to you, my lord. Although, it seems the weather is determined to make it otherwise.”

  Lord Westhampton’s smile was genuine this time. “Yes indeed. But it seems your fair company and my daughter’s has brought some of the sunshine back.”

  Charlie crossed the room and kissed her father on his lean cheek. “Good morning, Papa,” she said warmly. “If you have the time, come and sit with us and we will tell you all about the ball at Lord and Lady Penrith’s last night.”

  “Ah, yes. I would indeed like to hear your stories.” Lord Westhampton’s gaze traveled to Sophie as they approached the table. “I trust you had a good time, Miss Brightwell?”

  “Yes indeed, my lord. It was most diverting. The most exciting night of my life, in fact. I am most grateful to you, and Lady Chelmsford, for making this possible.”

  “It’s been my pleasure. And I’m sure my sister would say the same.” The earl rang a bell by his place setting, and several footmen appeared to pull out his chair, hers, and Charlie’s. Sophie was always astonished at the number of staff Lord Westhampton retained; she couldn’t even begin to count them. At Nettlefield Grange, her stepfather only employed a housekeeper, a butler, two housemaids, a footman, and a few men who tended the stables and the grounds.

  After the footmen had replenished Lord Westhampton’s coffee and had served her and Charlie cups of steaming hot chocolate, Charlie proceeded to give a detailed account of everyone they’d encountered, and the gentlemen they’d both danced with.

  “So it sounds as if Lord Claremont has taken an interest in you, Miss Brightwell,” remarked Lord Westhampton as he took a thick slice of ham and a poached egg from the platter offered to him by one of the footmen. “Dancing with you twice in one night, and sharing supper with you? It sounds as though he might wish to pay you formal court.”

  Sophie blushed and studied the toast on her plate. “I’m sure he was only being polite.”

  Charlie smiled. “I’m sure he wasn’t.”

  “And what was your brother up to during all of this?” asked the earl as he sliced neatly through his ham. “I was rather hoping he might take a fancy to a suitable debutante at long last.”

  Clenching her napkin beneath the table, Sophie tried to ignore the small slice of pain provoked by his remark.

  Charlie put down her honey-slathered crumpet. “He . . . I’m not certain.”

  Lord Westhampton cocked an eyebrow. “Which means he was up to no good. Chasing some widow, was he?”

  Charlie replenished her hot chocolate and said carefully, “I really couldn’t say.”

  The earl sighed. “Well, one can only hope that one day he meets such a lovely young woman that he’ll fall head over heels in love before he’s even had a chance to realize it. I think a bolt from Cupid’s bow is the only sure remedy for Nathaniel’s ennui.”

  When Sophie looked up from buttering her second piece of toast, Lord Westhampton was studying her with a speculative gleam in his eye. Confusion swirled through her. Surely he didn’t mean her. Especially after he warned Nate not to dally with her. She might be a suitable friend for Charlie, but he didn’t really think someone like her—a girl from a quiet corner of Suffolk with no connections or fortune to speak of—would be a suitable match for his son, a viscount? Would he?

  But then, Lord Claremont seemed to be pursuing her . . .

  Dismissing the whole idea as nonsense, Sophie took a bite of her toast. Her family might hope she’d win the hand of a viscount—and she might also secretly hope to win a particular viscount’s heart—but that didn’t mean it would happen. She wasn’t a princess and her life wasn’t going to be a fairy tale. And the sooner she embraced that harsh reality, the better.

  * * *

  * * *

  Nate paused outside Charlie’s sitting room and placed his hand on the smooth oak paneling of the door. It was slightly ajar and while all was silent save for the sound of the incessant rain, he’d heard his sister and Sophie talking and laughing only a short time ago when he was headed to his rooms to change out of his sodden clothes after his ride in Hyde Park.

  It was just after three o’clock, and he’d thought about spending the rest of the afternoon and evening at White’s, but suddenly the idea held little appeal. He wanted . . .

  Truth to tell, he didn’t know what he wanted. He felt restless. Unsettled. Even more so than usual. After his argument with his father, he’d spent the next few hours directing his pent-up energy into his favorite physical pursuits aside from bed sport—boxing, fencing, and riding.

  Deep down he realized that what he really needed was a bout of good, hard swiving. However, even the prospect of bedding Lady Taunton had not been tempting enough last night. She’d certainly seemed amenable to just about anything when they’d kissed on the Penriths’ terrace. And he could have taken things much further considering their past amorous exploits.

  But he hadn’t.

  He was frustrated in the extreme, but he couldn’t seem to do anything about it other than come by his own hand. And that was hardly sa
tisfying.

  And now he was hovering outside his sister’s rooms, hoping Sophie might be inside. Christ, he was mooning about like a lovestruck adolescent.

  No, Nathaniel Hastings. You are not in love. You are in lust. No matter how hard he tried to fight his base urges, he’d become obsessed with the idea of seducing Sophie. And he couldn’t do that, corrupt his sister’s best friend, because he had an itch he needed to scratch. An insatiable thirst he needed to quench. Perhaps his palate was jaded and he suddenly craved something different, a taste of something sweet and innocent as opposed to his usual diet of well-practiced passion that bordered on the perfunctory.

  If only Sophie hadn’t openly flirted with him about kissing last night. She’d admitted she’d never been kissed before, and he couldn’t get the idea out of his head . . .

  Yes, he really should go before he did something both stupid and unconscionable.

  He pushed open the door.

  Even though the day was dull, Charlie’s sitting room was brightly lit by an abundance of candles, lamps, and a dancing fire. In the golden light, the gilt and polished satinwood furniture gleamed, as did the glossy raven locks of the girl his eyes immediately locked on to.

  Curled up on a silk-upholstered settee with her legs tucked beneath her and her head bent over a book bound in red leather, she hadn’t heard him enter. Charlie was nowhere about.

  I should leave . . .

  Too late. Sophie raised her head, and her beautiful blue eyes widened for a moment before she swiftly closed the book she’d been reading and put it to one side. “Lord Malverne,” she said, swinging her legs to the floor and sitting up straight. “Are you looking for Charlie? She’s not here.”

  He smiled. “Yes. I see.” Approaching the settee, he continued, “I imagine she’s not far though.”

  Sophie worried at her bottom lip as she placed her hand on top of her book. “No. No, she’s not. She’s taken her new kitten downstairs. It needed . . .” She blushed. “Well, it needed to go outside.”