How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 3

  The dog at last let go of his boot, and with a disdainful shake of its curling tail, it trotted over to its mistress.

  Lady Astley crooked her finger and beckoned. “This way, Lord Malverne and Lord Langdale. I wouldn’t want you to go away empty-handed considering the trouble you have already gone to.”

  Nate traded glances with Gabriel, and his friend shrugged as if to say, Why not?

  Bemused, Nate followed the countess into her lavishly appointed bedchamber. An enormous four-poster bed, its sheets and blue silk counterpane rumpled, dominated the center of the room. Bexley leapt into a bedside armchair, turned around three times, then plopped down with a censorious huff.

  “Over here,” called Lady Astley as she padded through to her dressing room. The doors of a large satinwood armoire stood open, and the countess was rifling through a pile of filmy and silky undergarments when Nate entered.

  With a flourish, she held up two pairs of drawers, one of dark crimson silk embroidered with white roses, and the other a rich cream satin. Her mouth curved into a seductive smile. “You can each have a pair if you like. They’re French. All I require is a kiss . . . from both of you. Also in the French style.”

  Holy hell. Nate ran a hand through his hair. He’d heard the Countess of Astley was a sexually brazen woman, but he hadn’t realized how brazen until now.

  Gabriel cleared his throat. “As much as we’re flattered by your offer, Lady Astley, I’m afraid the dare only required Lord Malverne to procure one pair of drawers.”

  “Please, call me Camilla,” she purred, approaching them both. She rubbed the crimson drawers against her flushed cheek. “Perhaps I could model them for both of you? Then you can decide which pair you like best.”

  Nate’s cock jerked. While his body would appreciate the show, his head told him to beware. The woman was clearly propositioning both of them, but he wasn’t going anywhere near her unless he was wearing a sheath. And, fool that he was, he hadn’t brought a single one with him.

  Gabriel could do what he liked, of course.

  “I’d be happy to take the crimson pair, Lady Astley,” Nate murmured in a voice that was clearly graveled with lust. Stepping forward, he tilted up her small chin. “For your original price of a kiss.”

  The countess pouted prettily for a moment, then licked her lips. “Very well,” she whispered. As she closed her eyes, she pressed her body against his. With the crimson drawers still in hand, she cupped his half-hard length.

  Nate groaned. The woman was sin personified. Best he get this over with before he began thinking with his cock instead of his brain. He bent his head and claimed her mouth in a brief but thorough kiss. When he pulled away, Lady Astley was smiling.

  “Oh, that was wonderful, Lord Malverne,” she breathed as her eyes fluttered open. She pushed her drawers into Nate’s hand, then turned her desire-glazed gaze to Gabriel. “Would you like a kiss, too, Lord Langdale? I wouldn’t want you to feel left out.”

  Gabriel gave her a wolfish smile. “Why thank you, Camilla.” One of his hands slid around the countess’s slender waist and he pulled her against him. “That’s most considerate of you.”

  Nate quietly exited the room. While he had indulged in a sexual threesome on the odd occasion, it had never been with another man’s wife. Or another man, for that matter.

  Besides, he achieved his aim for the night; he had procured a pair of Lady Astley’s drawers.

  Ignoring the low growl that emanated from the bedside chair, Nate headed for the hall and the stairs. When he gained the terrace, Max and MacQueen emerged from the shadows.

  “What the deuce happened up there?” whispered Max. “We heard a dog yapping. And where’s Gabriel?”

  Nate brandished the crimson drawers in the air. “Everything is all right,” he said. “Lady Astley is a most . . . amenable woman, even if her bloody terrier isn’t.”

  A snort of laughter escaped MacQueen. “Isn’t she just? If the recent rumors I’ve heard about her are true, I’m surprised she didn’t proposition both you and Langdale.”

  “She did. But I thought I’d leave Gabriel to it,” admitted Nate. “I got what I came for, and it seems you all owe me four hundred pounds.”

  “Good God,” breathed Max, ignoring the fact that Nate had won the bet. Staring up at the second-floor window where the light still shone, he continued, “Now I’m regretting the fact that I didn’t offer to go up with you.”

  MacQueen handed Nate his evening jacket. “You could always take Langdale’s coat up to him,” he said to Max. “And then see what happens.”

  “I wouldn’t unless you had some prophylactic sheaths on you,” warned Nate.

  Max grinned and patted his pocket. “I always come prepared.”

  MacQueen slapped him on the back. “Well, what are you waiting for, Your Grace?”

  Max tossed Gabriel’s jacket over his arm and headed for the French doors.

  “Just watch out for the terrier,” called Nate after his retreating back. “It might be small but it’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “Shall we call it a night then?” asked MacQueen when they stepped out onto Cavendish Square. Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck the half hour.

  Nate sighed. His head was clearer than it had been earlier on, but annoyingly, lust still fizzed through his veins. He knew he wouldn’t sleep unless he did something about it. So he could either drink more or slake his desire elsewhere. Both seemed like good options. Although he’d lived with nightmares for years, they were much worse since Waterloo. Not just for him but for his fellow brothers-in-arms: Max, Gabriel, and MacQueen. They’d all been there, and each of them still wrestled with the mental aftermath. Especially MacQueen—although the scarred Scot would probably stake his heart with his dirk if he ever suspected Nate knew his emotional wounds were worse than anyone else’s.

  “It’s early yet. Why don’t we stop by the Pandora Club?” he suggested. It had been at least a week since he last paid a visit to the exclusive “gentlemen’s club,” an establishment that was both a gaming hell and high-class brothel in St. James’s. It was also quite conveniently located; just a hop, skip, and a ten-minute stagger away from his bachelor’s residence, Malverne House.

  MacQueen grinned. “An excellent idea. And if you need a sheath”—he pointed to his breast pocket—“I have several.”

  “Brilliant.” As Nate watched the Scot hail a hackney cab, he grimly acknowledged, not for the first time, that the life he and his friends led was more than a little unhealthy. It could certainly be diverting, but there were moments, like now, when a bleak hollowness spread through his chest. A bone-deep emptiness. Sometimes he believed his father, Lord Westhampton, might actually be right: that he was a good-for-nothing scoundrel who would never amount to much.

  Christ, he needed a drink and a woman. Perhaps two.

  And sleep. Most of all he needed dreamless sleep.

  Perhaps he’d achieve that blissful state by dawn.

  CHAPTER 3

  A Disgraced Debutante may just get her Season.

  Has the tide turned for Miss B. of M. G. . . . ?

  The Suffolk County Chronicle: Vignettes of Village Life

  Nettlefield Grange, Monkton Green, Suffolk

  March 6, 1818

  The End.

  Sophie put down her goose feather quill on her small beechwood writing table and scattered sand over the page to set the ink.

  Her mouth lifted into a smile as the warm glow of accomplishment filled her. She couldn’t quite believe it, but she’d done it!

  It took her over half a year, but at last she’d completed her first ever manuscript. A children’s novel. All the short stories she’d written years ago to help her youngest sister Jane learn to read had evolved into The Diary of a Determined Young Country Miss; or, a Young Lady of Consequence.

  Indeed, Sophie
had never experienced such heady elation. It fizzed through her veins like the champagne she’d tasted last Christmastide. She fancied that even the dust motes glimmering in the shaft of morning sunlight spilling through her bedroom window were dancing. Considering how stultifying her existence had been since her expulsion from Mrs. Rathbone’s academy, feeling joy of any kind was a rare occurrence.

  But then her happiness dimmed as she realized it would be useless sharing her good news with her mother and stepfather; they always dismissed her writing as fanciful scribbling and nothing more than a waste of time. Although, they might begin to think differently if her book were published and brought in income to help replenish the family’s almost empty coffers . . .

  Of course, her parents’ lack of support wasn’t the only obstacle she had to contend with. It would also take some time to scrape together the funds to send her manuscript to one of her preferred publishers. The postage to London would be exorbitant. A despondent sigh escaped Sophie as she capped her inkwell. It seemed there would be no quick fix to improve her family’s lot in life . . .

  At a knock on her bedroom door, Sophie hurriedly lifted the hinged lid on her writing slope, and heedless of the sand scattering everywhere, she slipped the barely dry page of her manuscript inside. Turning in her seat, she called, “Come in,” and was more than a little surprised to discover it was her mother.

  Oh, dear. Her mother never visited her room. This didn’t auger well at all. If Lydia Debenham wanted something, she usually sent the housemaid or one of Sophie’s half sisters to fetch her.

  Pushing her ink-stained fingers into the folds of her workaday pinafore—her mother was always lamenting the fact that Sophie didn’t possess pale-as-milk ladylike hands—she began, “What is it, Mama? If you’re worried that I haven’t finished the accounts for Father, well, I have. They’re all up to date.” She’d recently begun keeping the ledgers for her stepfather’s estate so he no longer needed to employ a steward. If she couldn’t marry well, she’d do whatever she could to help alleviate the financial pressure on her family. It was the least she could do under the circumstances.

  To her further astonishment, the corners of her mother’s blue eyes, so like her own, crinkled with an emotion akin to sympathy as she crossed the faded floral carpet and sat on the edge of Sophie’s narrow bed. “Now, there’s no need to sound so beleaguered, Sophie. I’m not here because something is wrong. Quite the contrary . . .” Her mother’s round cheeks split with a smile so bright, Sophie was quite dazzled. “I have news that will no doubt please you. Very much.”

  It was then that Sophie noticed her mother was holding a sheet of very fine ivory parchment, and hope swelled within her breast. “Has the post arrived? Is it a letter from one of my friends?” Even though she hadn’t seen Charlie, Olivia, or Arabella since that fateful night at the academy, she was grateful that she could still correspond with them.

  “It’s even better than that.” Still smiling, her mother passed her the page. “The Earl of Westhampton has extended a most kind invitation. You’ve been asked to stay after Easter so that you might be a companion for his daughter, Lady Charlotte, while the family resides in London for the Season. And after speaking with Mr. Debenham just now, we are both inclined to consent.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Sophie’s hand rose to her throat, where her pulse fluttered erratically. Tears misted her vision so much, she could barely make out the earl’s handwriting as she scanned the letter. She could scarcely believe that she’d been granted such a gift considering how dreadful the past three years had been. Three long, tedious years in which she’d spent most of her time confined to Nettlefield Grange.

  Since the academy incident, and the ensuing humiliation of being labeled “loose” and “unprincipled” far and wide, disgrace was the cross she’d had to bear. Shunned by the other genteel families of Monkton Green and surrounding villages, banned from attending any social events other than a weekly visit to St. Mary Magdalene Church for the Sunday service, Sophie had endured it all, telling herself that eventually another, more salacious piece of gossip would catch the attention of the lower gentry matrons and tabbies. That, in time, she would be forgiven her transgressions and invited to tea, or card parties, or dinner, or even a ball.

  Unfortunately for Sophie, no other scandal had come close to supplanting her own, and her notoriety as “that Brightwell girl”—the one who liked to illicitly imbibe alcohol, smoke, and peruse obscene books and pictures—continued unabated. Indeed, the whole family had been held to account because of her youthful foolhardiness. Sadly, seventeen-year-old Alice and fifteen-year-old Jane were never invited anywhere. And late last year, Sophie was denied a teaching position at the local charity school because she was deemed an unsuitable role model. Even though the vicar of St. Mary Magdalene’s had been most apologetic, it hadn’t really lessened the sting of rejection or the disappointment of not being able to bring in a little more income.

  But now . . . perhaps now Sophie’s fortunes and that of her sisters might be reversed. If she could somehow repair her reputation in the eyes of the ton, then surely the folk of Monkton Green would see her, and therefore her sisters, in a different light.

  And maybe her stepfather wouldn’t keep pushing her in the direction of their ghastly neighbor, the portly, middle-aged baron, Wilbur Northam, Lord Buxton. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Despite the fact that her stepfather still owed Lord Buxton a good deal of money, the baron was a regular visitor to Nettlefield Grange, particularly on a Saturday when Mama served her lovely roast luncheon. Sophie supposed Lord Buxton came because he was a widower and he might be lonely. She didn’t wish to be unkind, but there was something about the way he looked at her with an anticipatory gleam in his eyes that made her feel decidedly uncomfortable, as if she were one of the courses about to be served. A sacrificial-lamb-in-waiting.

  Barely suppressing a shudder, Sophie handed the invitation back to her mother and asked, “I’m curious. Why have you and Mr. Debenham been persuaded to accept Lord Westhampton’s offer?”

  Her mother’s gaze softened. “I know you’ve had the most horrible time of late, and it worries me how much it has affected you. You’re not the bright, smiling Sophie you used to be. And Alice and Jane are pining away too. Mr. Debenham took a little convincing—I think he’s worried something else untoward might happen considering Lady Charlotte’s prominent role in your expulsion—but there’s nothing more powerful than a title to help open doors. And Lady Charlotte’s aunt, the Dowager Marchioness of Chelmsford, will be your chaperone. While I’m not certain you’ll be able to acquire a voucher to Almack’s, I’m confident that under Lady Chelmsford’s care, you might gain admittance to at least some ton social events. And who knows . . .” Her mother leaned forward and patted her knee. “Perhaps you’ll meet an eligible gentleman of means.”

  An eligible gentleman of means. The weight of expectation was suddenly very heavy indeed. It was clear her mama and stepfather still harbored high hopes that she’d make an advantageous match. But how many wealthy gentlemen would be willing to overlook her tainted reputation? Well, aside from Lord Buxton.

  An image of Charlie’s older brother popped into Sophie’s mind’s eye, and her heart gave an odd flutter. She’d tried not to think of Lord Malverne—or Nate, as Charlie called him—and their fleeting encounter in Hyde Park over three years ago. He was certainly eminently eligible in her eyes, but according to Charlie still too entrenched in his rakish bachelor ways, particularly after returning from Waterloo. Charlie occasionally recounted some of his wilder exploits in her letters, and while certainly wicked, they always made Sophie laugh. If only she wasn’t “a shy country miss of no consequence,” then perhaps he might be tempted to consider her.

  One thing she knew for certain: she’d sooner stick a hatpin in her eye than become the next Lady Buxton.

  Realizing her mother was waiting for her to respond, Sophie pushed her foolis
h thoughts about her friend’s much-too-handsome viscount brother and the odious baron from her mind—surely they weren’t the only eligible gentlemen of means in the world—and summoned a smile. “One never knows, Mama. And nothing ventured, nothing gained. Perhaps I will find someone.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Hastings House, Berkeley Square, Mayfair

  March 6, 1818

  “Explain yourself!” Lord Westhampton slammed a newspaper down on his polished mahogany desk. “And don’t bother to deny you weren’t involved. I know you were. You and your equally dissolute friends.”

  Nate winced as he took in the first line of the society page in the latest edition of the Beau Monde Mirror. The great drawers caper!

  Bugger. Nate ran a hand down his face before looking up at his father; his scowl was thunderous as he stood over him. At this particular moment, the Earl of Westhampton was even more imposing than the towering oak bookcases that lined the walls of Hastings House’s library.

  “Yes, I took part.” With a deep sigh, Nate leaned back in his leather wing chair and silently wished the scandalmongers who contributed such dross to the Beau Monde Mirror, and all the other gossip rags for that matter, to hell. “But surely it’s not as bad as you think. It looks as though our names have been kept out—”

  “Really?” His father cocked a sardonic brow before retreating to the other side of his desk. “You can’t be that naive. Lord M., Lord L., Lord S., and ‘the Duke’? Everyone knows the four of you are as thick as thieves. Good God, Nathaniel. I swear you’ll be the death of me.”

  Lord Westhampton snatched up the crystal brandy decanter at the edge of his desk, sloshed a decent amount of the amber liquid into a tumbler, and then took a large swig. “This”—he jabbed a finger at the paper—“has got to stop. Your name has appeared in newspapers too many times over the past year. And I’ve had enough. It’s not even noon and look at me.” He waved the brandy glass in the air before taking another sizable gulp, draining it. “You’re driving me to drink.”