Read Bewitching the Viscount (Regency Romance) (Regency Lords Book 3) Online
Authors: Regina Darcy
The very next day, the duel between Lord Wiltshire and Lord Dudley was the talk of the London
ton
. What their disagreement had been, was only whispered about, however the outcome was clear. Lord Wiltshire had shot and wounded Lord Dudley in his crown jewels. A most devastating outcome for any duel. A fate worse than death according to many gentlemen.
Lord Dudley was now unlikely to beget an heir and because of a ricochet shrapnel, he would be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. His wife, traumatised by the events, had moved to the continent to regain her spirits. It was rumoured she was unlikely to return to care for her invalid husband.
A couple of days later, Abigail and Nathaniel’s engagement became public. The news spread around London and the surrounding shires like wildfire. It was the talk of the
beau monde
. The Viscount of Wiltshire had finally decided to give up his life as a bachelor. Snared by an incomparable beauty surely. But the difference in their social standing was scandalous. Her dowry was not significant enough to make this an advantageous match.
Rumour had it that Lord Nathaniel Hughes doted on his fiancée though. Without the necessity of having her family attend the wedding, he would have whisked her away to Gretna Green. Many started calling her the girl who bewitched the Viscount.
“Does that bother you my dear?” Nathaniel asked Abigail as the two of them walked through Kensington Gardens.
The rest of the Baxter family walked a suitable distance away, acting as chaperones but providing the young couple some sorely needed privacy.
“Bothered by the rumours? Not at all. Why? Do you think I have put you under a spell, my dear husband-to-be?” she answered, winking.
“I am as enchanted as any fairy-tale prince,” he replied with a smile.
“Bewitched then?” Abigail feigned offense. “And here I mistakenly assumed you considered me a unique flower to be picked and preserved forever.”
“Ah, yes, that was it.” Nathaniel laughed as Abigail playfully tapped him with her fan. “I had almost forgotten.”
“Very funny.”
“My dear,” his tone suddenly became serious, “You do know that I love you more than anything?”
“And I you,” she whispered, looking deep in his eyes. Abigail Baxter had never though she could be this happy. Now she knew she had found all that she needed. She had no intention of ever letting go of her viscount. She laced her hand through his arm and they continued their walk, eagerly planning their future.
As make-believe as fairy tales are, they give pretty young women a sense of vanity while in good fortune, and hope while suffering. Raised on the dreams of poetry and make-believe, Emmeline Knight had received a fair share of both. Despite being a gentleman’s daughter, she held herself loftily above the flirtations of those who shared her rank—and of those flirtations there were many. She instead dreamt of a prince charming, or at least a wealthy peer, who would sweep her off her feet into a world of more lavish living.
She had spent the entire evening in the centre of revelry, passed from one gentleman to another, until she had torn herself away for a moment to breathe. Bodies were packed close together and potential lovers stole furtive glances at one another as the music continued to swell. Her dearest friend, Miss Lucy Grove, pulled her behind the crowd.
“Well now, Emmeline, are your feet sore yet?” she teased. “You have hardly found a moment’s rest since the night began. Quite popular among the local prospects, are we?”
“Even so, I can hardly remember the name of a single gentleman from this evening,” Emmeline admitted.
“Ah, they would weep to hear such news. Half of them looked ready to propose.”
Emmeline merely scoffed. “Forgive me if I feel relieved that none acted on such urges. A rejection would absolutely ruin the mood of the ball.”
“Now, now, Miss Knight. That is not an attitude befitting a lady such as yourself,” Lucy said with a wry smile. “They all seemed perfectly nice. You have plenty of time to find a husband who fits your tastes, but if you reject every kind soul who comes your way...”
“Oh, Lucy. I hardly think it any fault of mine that the local boys are all just that—boys.” She sighed. “Is it wrong to wish for a few better options?”
The surrounding people parted like the red sea, eagerly making room with eyes politely downcast and hungry. Lord William Blackwood, viscount and heir to the Earl of Dingby, wore a light expression of haughtiness, that was so common of the aristocracy, as he sailed through the crowd.
Lord Blackwood had come by his title suddenly, when his older brother had died during his commission in the French revolutionary war of the Second Coalition. As the sole heir of the Earl of Dingby, it was anticipated that he should marry soon. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in the Berkshire society. Unfortunately, he was also not the most eloquent gentleman around, frequently comporting himself much older than his mere 28 years.
“What of Lord Blackwood? He has always been most cordial to you,” Lucy murmured, “and you cannot do much better than a viscount.”
“Archibald told me that there’s only one thing he would want from someone of my status, and it is not marriage,” Emmeline whispered back.
“How oddly realistic. I would never have expected such beliefs from you.”
“I trust my brother’s judgement. Besides, he is too much of a cold fish. Now, come along before he sees me; I should not wish to dance again yet.”
Her mother stood at the side of the dance floor next to her younger brother, Archibald, who was only half listening to her, as the couples in the centre of the room giggled and pranced around each other. Emmeline made her way towards them.
“Yes, mother. Of course,” Emmeline heard him say as they approached.
“Archibald, you always say that. When will you accomplish the task of providing an heir?” her mother chided in response. “The matter is of outmost importance. You’re getting to the age that—oh! Emmeline! Have you been enjoying the dance?” Mrs. Knight smiled in an eager manner that indicated she was asking something else entirely.
“The dancing, yes. The gentlemen, however, I found far less interesting,” she responded. Mrs. Knight’s face fell.
“Oh, Emmeline. Must you be so choosy?”
“Mother, these boys are hardly worth your fretting. Besides, it is not as if there’s a threat of me becoming an old maid. At nineteen, I can afford to wait for someone truly wonderful for a little while longer, can I not?”
“I fear your judgement may be tainted by all those fairy tales you love so dearly,” Archibald muttered.
“Oh, you are hardly in a place to lecture me on judgement,” Emmeline shot back at her brother.
Archibald tutted. “So bold. You are fortunate that none of your followers heard that.” Miss Lucy Grove watched the playful sibling rivalry with an amused smile, but Mrs. Knight seemed eager to change the subject.
“Now, you two, please. Emmeline, I
would
like you to be married in a timely manner,” Mrs. Knight said. “Though a love-match would be perfect, my dear, most maidens marry out of practicality and convenience. You are unlikely to find a prince in these parts.”
“That’s not quite so,” Lucy interjected, lips touched with a sly smile. Emmeline’s curiosity was piqued.
“What do you mean, Lucy?” she asked.
“Well, I heard whispers while you were on the dance floor. Apparently, someone just rented Archester Manor.”
“Archester? Really?” Emmeline said, breathless. Archester Manor was no humble abode. The estate covered nearly 4,000 acres and looked fit for a royal’s summer retreat. For the money it would take to rent it, the guest may as well be royal. Lucy watched her friend’s shock with excitement.
“You have yet to hear the best of it,” she said.
“Please stop holding me in suspense and just say it, Lucy!” Emmeline cried. By this point, all three Knights were leaning in, eyes wide.
Lucy enjoyed her last few moments of superior knowledge, then spoke. “The guest is a Peer from France.” Her small crowd let out a single synonymous gasp. She continued, “His name is
Le Comte de Coligny
, and rumour is he plans to stay all season.”
“Did you say his name was de Coligny?” Mrs. Knight echoed. “Hmm…a Count…I believe my grandfather knew him. Archibald, perhaps you should call on him?”
Emmeline seemed not to have heard her mother.
“Did you say that he came alone?” Lucy nodded.
“I hope I do not presume too much to say that may be the reason he came for the season,” she said.
“Why Berkshire?” Archibald mused quietly. “If he is truly of the peerage as the rumours say, why not look for a companion in a city like London?”
“I do hope you do not mean to insult Berkshire ladies, Mr. Knight, or some of us may take offense,” Lucy said, still wearing her sly and amused smile.
“I can hardly believe—here. A French Count!” Emmeline said. Her thoughts enveloped her. She imagined a reason as to exactly why he had come to their humble village instead of some city; he wanted to meet women of a more non-material nature, who had lived in luxury less than those he was used to. This golden-hearted Lord wanted the company of humble ladies, polite and plain in attitude despite soft and lovely appearances. In her mind, they were already a perfect fit.
“Well, we already have the heir to an earldom. Not that I’ve seen you pay any attention to Lord Blackwood,” Mrs. Knight said, sounding sour. Emmeline paid her no head.
“Oh dear,” Emmeline sighed, fanning herself, “a Peer.” Distantly, the music swelled and descended into silence as the band prepared itself for the next song.
A hand fell softly on her shoulder and rested there for a moment before jerking off as if it had been burnt. It tore Emmeline from her thoughts, and she stared into the stern face of Lord Blackwood. “My apologies, Miss Knight. I simply wanted your attention.”
“Apologies for what?” She looked at his hand, held carefully at his side, then back at her shoulder. He looked about as surprised as she did—perhaps at his own boldness.
“Oh. There is no need for apologies, Lord Blackwood. How may I assist you?”
“I would like to ask your company for this final dance of the evening, if it would please you.”
“Hmm? Oh, of course,” she replied with a dreamy lopsided grin. Lord Blackwood’s eyebrows furrowed at her distance.
“Thank you, Miss Knight.” He held out his hand and she placed hers in it. He looked down at their joined hands and breathed in deeply before leading her to the dance floor.
The band began to play. This song was one that they had clearly been saving, for it was the lightest tune of the evening. It seemed to lift Emmeline’s spirits even higher, even as she was not fully present for it. In mind if not in body, she was with her imagined
Count de Coligny
, living her dearest fantasy. If Lord Blackwood held her hand a little tighter than was considered polite, or caressed the underside of her gloved wrist with his thumb for a brief, blissful moment, she did not notice. Nothing could distract her from her daydreams. Her very own fairy tale had just begun.
The candles in the drawing-room of Sheperton Manor glittered as brightly as the jewellery worn by the ladies dancing beneath it.
Despite the almost illicit nature of the activity being undertaken in the house’s gaming rooms, the ballroom was filled with a fair number of the
ton
, searching for some entertainment in the Buckinghamshire countryside. Those not indulging in a spot of dancing with one fair lady or another, were busy gambling in the nearby rooms.
Their hostess, Lady Archer, had once been a well-to-do dowager, but had fallen on hard times after several gambling misfortunes. But, being ever the entrepreneurial woman, she had taken her
penchant
for card games and made it into a minor business. An activity that would have warranted her exclusion from polite society.
But the
ton
were addicted to a good game of cards.
When Lady Archer had first thrown such a vulgar event, it had been quite the scandal in their local community. However now it was seen as the height of decadency to have attended such a gathering. Known through the county for her gambling soirees, she had turned misfortune to fortune, which had to be admired.
Her gaming gatherings differed in that both women and men could attend, and dancing and socialising was a must. Of course she did charge an entry fee, which was collected ever so discreetly on arrival.
How popular these soirees were could be witnessed by the merriment of the attendees as they swirled across the ballroom to the strains of the Viennese Waltz. It was well known that most of the women attending were some man’s wife and probably another man’s mistress. Or aspiring to be one or the other. This was especially true during her masquerade balls, during the month of love. It was this very event that would draw the most reluctant rake to the countryside. At these times, every sensible matron would remain at home, keeping a close eye on their charge.
Yes, Lady Archer’s was a place for decadent amusement but one gentleman looked conspicuously bored and unmoved by the merriment. His very presence was such that the eyes of almost every woman kept returning to his imposing figure. This scrutiny could have been due to his stature, but more likely than not it was due to the man himself. Douglas Montgomery, the Duke of Staffordshire, commonly referred to as Monty by his friends.
He was not only tall, but also extremely handsome. He had a reputation of leaving a sea of broken hearts wherever he went. Despite this, matrons with aspirations to move up in the world, would not hesitate to throw their daughters at him. Unfortunately for him, this was a frequent occurrence. His reputation did nothing to dissuade them from coveting the title of Duchess for their daughter.
Douglas knew that if he ever found himself in a compromising situation with any of those insipid girls he was done for it. His own sense of honour would demand that he did the right thing. That is why he avoided debutants like the plague. No, he preferred a mature woman. Preferably one that was already married and bored with her husband. The thought brought a cynical smile to the corner of his lips.
He had learnt the hard way that women were not to be trusted. At least his paramours were honest about their desires and what they expected of him. At the thought of his mistress he frowned.
Unfortunately, today he had to undertake the unpleasant task of informing her that their time together was at an end.
He had noticed the first signs of what he could only describe as affection in the lady’s rapport with him. He did not do affection. Douglas would stake his rogue reputation on his skills to satisfy any woman, however emotional satisfaction they had to look for elsewhere. His current liaison was set to get messy as the lady’s husband, the Earl of Chelsford, had recently been named
Lord Steward
.
His influence over the Sovereign was not to be underestimated. Although Countess Desdemona was an incomparable beauty, she wasn’t worth the hassle of having to tackle with her husband’s displeasure. Besides, as far as the Countess was concerned, he had grown restless, bordering on bored. Matters had not been helped by the fact that she had sent him three messages last week urging him to come urgently to Buckinghamshire. For what purpose, he did not know, but he would take this opportunity to end their assignations.
It was with quiet discomfort that he saw the Countess glide seductively towards him across the ballroom. Douglas frowned at this outward display. At this rate she would have the gossip tongues wagging before the end of the night. Even at an event such as this, a modicum of discretion was required.
Her elaborate gown with its full skirt, no doubt the latest French style, emphasised her 15 inch waist. The front was cut as low as decency permitted – which was very low indeed. But it served to accentuate her creamy shoulders and her ample bosom. Her mask served only to highlight the curves of her perfect mouth. Where once he would have been mesmerised by the sight, he was instead slightly irritated. Before she reached him, he turned and walked to a nearby alcove. He had no doubt she would follow.
“Douglas,” Desdemona whispered.
“Good evening Countess, how nice to see you in good health,” he replied coldly. It was best to get these matters over with as swiftly as possible in his experience.
“Why so cold my love? Do you not remember the heat of my embrace,” she pouted, while placing her hand on his arm. He promptly disengaged it.
“Desdemona, darling, stop wearing your affections on your sleeves. It is unseemly,” Douglas said in a cold voice.
It finally dawned on the Countess that this was not a secret rendezvous. Annoyed, she wrinkled her perfect forehead.
“Why did you call me here?” the Duke continued.
“Do I need a reason? Do you not long for my company as I crave yours?” she responded, fanning herself.
“No, my lady I do not.” Their gaze locked and it was in that moment the Countess understood she was in the process of being cast aside.
“I take no joy in this conversation,” Douglas resumed. But before he could finish he was abruptly interrupted. The Countess closed her fan violently and looked at him with venom. “My dear Douglas, I will not be cast aside as last night’s stale pastry,” she said and then smiled sweetly.
Douglas sighed deeply, “Surely you did not expect this to last? I have warned you on numerous occasions not to mistake our dalliance for more than a momentary pastime.”
“You
do
mean to cast me aside,” Desdemona said in a disbelieving voice. “Who do you take me for?” Douglas now suspected that their goodbyes were going to be much more tiring than he anticipated.
“I know too well the look you are currently sporting. I had not imagined to be on the receiving end of your scorn,” Desdemona spat. “Mark my words,
Your Grace
, you will feel my wrath and regret your actions today,” she whispered venomously.
Before the matter got completely out of hand, a male voice called the Duke’s name from behind. “Your Grace! So this is where you have been hiding out all night.”
It was with huge relief he welcomed the sight of Lord Nathaniel Hughes, the Viscount of Wiltshire, his nearest and dearest friend. Despite his mask, Nathaniel’s stature and sky-blue eyes were so distinctive, his disguise was unnecessary. The Viscount was impeccably well-dressed. Not a chemise misaligned.
“Countess,” he greeted with a nod. Desdemona spared him not so much as a glance, but instead sailed regally back out to the ballroom.
The moment she was out of sight, Nathaniel’s face cracked a big smile and he clasped hands with his friend.
“Monty, good to see you,” he said with a smile.
“Hughes, I was almost afraid you would leave me standing here with that shrew for another two hours, whilst you busied yourself with your cravat,” his friend replied, with a knowing smile.
“Give it a rest Monty, I get enough of a grilling from the chaps at the club.” Nathaniel removed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “Besides, I just saved you from what looked to be a very unpleasant exchange. Not to mention, I am only in this godforsaken countryside hole to lend you a hand.”
“That you are indeed.”
“Is he here?”
“Yes, he is currently occupied in the gaming room.”
“Let’s get to the matter at hand.”
Douglas turned around and started walking back to the main room when he
stopped dead in his tracks. Despite her mask, the cascade of flaming hair from the beauty in the far room, beckoned him like a beacon. He looked in bemusement as the dainty little lady stomped her foot.
“Quite a beauty, old chap,” the Viscount whispered amused, “I wonder what has her so riled up?”
The beauty in question looked furious to say the least. Douglas watched intrigued as the man she was conversing with turned around and walked away. He could only assume this was her lover and he was witnessing an awkward end to their assignation. The woman was exceedingly young to be involved in such matters of the flesh. But based on the outwardly passion she exhibited, he could only imagine she was a hellion between the sheets. He smiled knowingly to himself as he watched her fan her heaving bosom.
“Monty, we do not have time for this,” Nathaniel warned in an exasperated voice, “we need to focus on this charade you dragged me to, not on some slip of a girl.”
“Not to worry Hughes, I will be with you shortly. Save a space for me at the whist table,” he replied with a distracted smile. Before the Viscount could reply, the Duke started making his way through the crowd; the woman and her ethereal beauty his sole focus.
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