Viscount in Love, page 1
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my daughter, Anna,
who not only plotted and edited this novel with me,
but lent Florence her creepy tales, written at age nine.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
A Note about Bunnies, Sugar Plantations, and Oil Paintings
Announcement
About the Author
Also by Eloisa James
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
March 13, 1800
Lord Westcote’s Ball
Westcote House, London
“I’m so jealous of your sister,” the Honorable Miss Clara Vetry whispered, staring across the ballroom. “Torie, do you think a gentleman will ever adore me the way Leonora’s fiancé does her?”
“Absolutely!” But Miss Victoria Sutton felt compelled to add: “Though to be honest, I don’t think the viscount is in love, and neither is Leonora.”
Watching Viscount Kelbourne woo her older sister in the last months, Torie had seen no signs of rampant passion on either side. The viscount wore a glower, his customary expression. Leonora radiated triumph, which made sense since she had decided in the nursery to marry a mere viscount rather than a duke. Ladies of higher rank were dogged by reporters, and even back then, Leonora disdained gossip.
Romantic to the bone, Clara ignored this dampening observation. “Don’t you see the way Kelbourne is gazing at her? His eyes are blazing.”
Torie glanced across the dance floor to where Leonora was standing with her viscount, Lord Dominic Alston Augustus Kelbourne, who was just as rigid as his name implied. “His eyes are not blazing.”
“Don’t be silly, Torie. The latest gossip column in The Ladies’ Mercury named your sister’s match ‘the most romantic of the Season’! It couldn’t be romantic without Kelbourne being in love, could it?”
Torie made a mental note to ask her maid to read that column aloud. She couldn’t see any adoration in the viscount’s face. The two were standing together mutely, perhaps because Leonora disliked chitchat. In Torie’s jaundiced opinion, silence was an effective tool by which her sister promoted a serene and ladylike reputation.
Kelbourne would likely be surprised to meet the real Leonora, whose true temperament was akin to that of his notorious mistress, a volatile Italian lady who reportedly eschewed tea for pink champagne at breakfast.
“You aren’t imagining that Kelbourne will give up that opera singer, are you, Clara?” she whispered. “Because I assure you that he won’t.”
“Ladies ignore such unpleasantries,” Clara said, and promptly broke her own rule. “Did you hear that Lord Kelbourne’s sister, Lady Dorney, has left her husband and gone to live with her latest paramour?”
“That’s not true,” Torie said flatly.
“She left two children behind!” Clara added with relish.
“Lady Dorney and her husband dined with us last night to celebrate Leonora’s betrothal. I’m not saying the lady doesn’t have a lover, because she and her husband didn’t speak a word to each other, but they were there. Together.”
“Disappointing,” Clara remarked. Then she perked up. “Lord Kelbourne just spread his hand across your sister’s back. I would die if he touched me like that. His hands are so large that they span her ribs.”
“Likely because she rarely eats more than a few leaves of lettuce. You do not want to be her.”
Clara looked back at the dance floor. “I would nibble lettuce, if that would win me such a ravishing man.”
True, Kelbourne was strong and lean, with a jaw that appeared to be fashioned out of marble, and a tumble of dark hair. There was no denying that his broad shoulders and muscled body were a pleasure to behold.
Not that Torie would ever ogle her sister’s future husband.
“I’d prefer my husband wasn’t infamous for losing his temper and bellowing in the House of Lords when he doesn’t get his way,” she said. “In my opinion, Kelbourne would be greatly offended if Cupid shot an arrow in his direction. Gentlemen of his sort don’t bother with love. Perhaps not even with affection.”
“Yes, they do! Didn’t you read Love in Excess?” her friend demanded.
“Novels are superficial . . . frivolous,” Torie said, pitching her tone to lofty disdain.
“Oh pooh,” Clara cried. “You and I are frivolous, Torie! I can’t believe you haven’t read it yet.”
“I scorn such trivialities,” she informed Clara.
Her friend narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about? Just last week you told me that your husband would have to manage all the household expenses, because you plan to spend your spare time sorting your ribbons.”
Torie staged an abrupt counterattack. “Frivolous I may be, but at least I’m not dragging a cat to a ball!”
Clara held up a bag fashioned in the shape of a cat’s face. “Are you talking about my darling reticule?”
“Yes! Are those whiskers made of wire? Because something just poked me in the leg.”
Clara started pulling the whiskers straight. “They keep getting bent and tangled, especially when I dance. You changed the subject, Torie.”
Torie didn’t want to talk about books or gossip columns. “Kelbourne showed no signs of infatuation at dinner last night. As for my sister, I assure you that Leonora sees him as a heap of sovereigns topped by a coronet.”
“I would give anything to marry him,” Clara sighed.
“The viscount is haughty—and bad-tempered. He would squish you like a bug. At dinner, he spoke of nothing other than some bibble-babble going on in the House of Lords.”
“Bibble-babble!” Clara repeated, giggling. “Torie, he probably spent the day rewriting the laws of the land.”
“I don’t care. He’s boring. And old.”
“Not old,” Clara protested. “He was at Eton with my brother, so he’s not yet thirty. Twenty-seven at most.”
“That’s old,” Torie said dispassionately. “Anyway, you can’t tell me Kelbourne was more charming when he was young.”
Clara opened her mouth, but Torie interrupted her. “Perhaps he cares for Leonora as much as he’s capable. If you ask me, they are like two fish swimming along side by side and deciding to mate. You don’t see a romantic twinkle in the eye of a trout, do you?”
Clara turned red, and a peculiar sound escaped her mouth.
“Drat.” Torie willed herself not to blush as she turned about. “Didn’t your nanny tell you that eavesdroppers never hear good things about themselves?”
“I’m fond of fish, so I take your remark as a compliment,” Viscount Kelbourne said. “Though I agree that the eight years between us might make me appear old, or conversely, you infantile.”
His expression was so daunting that Clara squeaked, bobbed a curtsy, and ran away.
Chapter 2
Torie had the refreshing thought that Leonora’s betrothal meant there was at least one man in London whom she had no need to please. That would be her sister’s task from now on.
If Leonora bothered.
“Your frown chased off my best friend,” she observed.
“I gather that you rate yourself above a trout,” his lordship said.
“Actually, I don’t rate myself very high,” Torie told him. “The problem is that I have resolved to marry for more than my market value.”
He looked gratifyingly surprised. “You are beautiful, charming, and well-bred.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “I would rate you a luxury commodity.”
Torie gave him a twinkling smile. “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.”
He rolled his eyes.
“True, I am very extravagant,” Torie said, thinking that Kelbourne was ten times more handsome when he was surprised out of his haughtiness. “Just look at my fichu, for example.”
“If I am correct, a fichu is a piece of lace that circles a woman’s neck. You are not wearing one.”
“Precisely! The modiste delivered this gown with an elegant piece of Alsace lace, which as you can see I promptly discarded.”
Then she winced. Somehow, she’d come close to flirting with her future brother-in-law, though his eyes didn’t drop to her admittedly low neckline.
“May I escort you to supper, Miss Victoria?”
“Oughtn’t you to be escorting my sister?”
“Miss Sutton plan
“I suppose she’s trying to keep him away from the brandy.”
Kelbourne’s eyes didn’t flicker, which meant that he already knew about her father’s propensity to overindulge.
“We’re family now,” Torie told him, waggling her eyebrows. “You’ll learn all our secrets. I promised the supper dance to Lord Paterson, so I’ll have to give up the pleasure of a meal en famille.” She liked to throw French phrases about now and then, to counter the widespread belief that she was ignorant.
Which she was, but never mind.
“You shouldn’t dine with Paterson,” Kelbourne said, frowning. “The man’s a ne’er-do-well.”
Torie shrugged. “It’s not as if I’m going to marry him.”
He opened his mouth, so Torie raised her hand. “Or wander into the shrubbery with him. This may be my first Season, but I’m hardly a fool.”
Leonora showed up at Torie’s shoulder. “Of course you are not,” her sister said in a sharp tone. “Any number of people can’t read. I hold out hope that you might master the art before the Season’s end.”
Torie felt the viscount’s surprised gaze, but she refused to flinch. At least he knew now why her market value was so low. Two gentlemen had withdrawn their proposals when her father informed them of her illiteracy.
“Another family secret, Lord Kelbourne,” she told him. “My sister tears through books as if they were ballad sheets, so you needn’t fear that your heir will inherit my marginal intelligence.”
“Your curls are disordered,” Leonora observed. “I suggest you retire and compose yourself. Supper has been announced.”
Torie blew a white-blond curl away from her face. “We can’t all be as perfect as you are, Nora.”
“Do not call me that,” her sister hissed.
“I thought we were sharing our secrets with your fiancé. When I was little, I couldn’t pronounce Leonora’s name,” she told Kelbourne. “I shortened it to Nora, which my sister has never liked, so don’t imitate me.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Kelbourne replied. He turned to his fiancée. “Miss Sutton, shall we find Sir William?”
“You could call her Leonora,” Torie put in. “For that matter, you may call me Torie. For goodness’ sake, your betrothal has been announced—even if you don’t plan to marry for a year.”
“I would consider such an address impertinent,” Leonora said, with chilling emphasis. She tucked her hand into the viscount’s arm. “Perhaps there is a children’s table, Victoria.”
Kelbourne nodded farewell.
“Pooh,” Torie muttered after the two of them walked off.
They were both as cold and as stiff as iced-over branches in winter.
They deserved each other.
Two Years Later
After the service, mourners are invited to join the cortege that will accompany the remains to interment in the family vault at Kelbourne Chapel.
Chapter 3
February 13, 1802
The Drawing Room
Kelbourne House, London
The twins were holding hands.
They were a peculiar-looking pair, to Torie’s mind: light-framed and pallid, with pale green eyes and narrow chins, perhaps ten or eleven years old. Their black clothing made them resemble skinny ravens.
The children had not been invited to attend their parents’ funeral or the interment, since outbursts of violent emotion—such as offspring of the deceased were likely to experience—were discouraged at such occasions.
In truth, they showed no signs of grief.
The girl was twisting one foot behind the other to rub her ankle; her heavy black stockings must itch. Their nanny cuffed her on the shoulder, and she subsided before switching legs and starting again. Her brother stared straight ahead, as if he were pretending to be elsewhere.
Torie could sympathize.
Viscount Kelbourne cleared his throat. “Miss Sutton, Miss Victoria, Sir William, may I present my late sister’s children, Miss Florence and Master Valentine. Accompanied by Nanny Bracknell.”
Neither child moved nor said a word until the nanny shoved Valentine forward. He bowed; Florence curtsied.
“They seem well enough,” Torie’s father said. “Not overtaken by grief, eh?”
“They have resided in the country,” Kelbourne remarked.
Presumably the twins had had little acquaintance with their notorious mama, Lady Dorney, and given the scandal after their birth—when all society competed to guess which of Lady Dorney’s lovers fathered the children—Lord Dorney likely kept his distance as well.
Torie looked sideways at her sister, but Leonora was twirling an emerald bracelet that Kelbourne had given her last month, after she finally allowed him to set the date for their wedding.
Torie nudged her in the ribs.
Leonora started. “What?”
“The children,” Torie whispered.
Her sister jumped to her feet. “Please forgive me. I am Miss Sutton,” Leonora said, “and I am betrothed to your guardian. I offer my sincere condolences.”
Torie stood up too. “I am her sister, Miss Victoria. I’m so sorry about your parents’ passing.”
The children gave them clear-eyed looks and chorused, “Thank you.”
Her sister’s fiancé was regarding the orphans with the air of a man who had inherited a puzzle box without a key. His eyes were shadowed, and his face drawn.
Kelbourne had clearly loved his scandalous sister. Torie was certain that he had felt grief during the funeral, though the only outbursts of violent emotion came from Lady Dorney’s former lovers, who revealed themselves as such by sobbing inconsolably throughout.
Whether the viscount could love his sister’s orphaned children was another question. He certainly wasn’t exhibiting paternal warmth now. He nodded curtly at Nanny Bracknell. One bow and a curtsy later, the woman escorted the children away.
As soon as the door closed, Sir William bounded out of his seat and headed for the brandy decanter. “The boy’s a bit weedy, isn’t he? Can’t see a resemblance to Dorney, but that’s a moot point.”
“I assure you that young Valentine resembles his paternal ancestors,” Kelbourne stated.
Torie winced at his lordship’s grim expression. Unfortunately, her father had his back to the room.
“Of course!” he threw over his shoulder, pouring himself a drink. “Bad luck the Dorneys were in that carriage together, given that they lived apart by most accounts. You did the funeral good and proper, Viscount. The mourning coaches were a nice touch. None of the gossips can claim that you didn’t give your poor sister an excellent send-off, even given her free-spirited ways. Must be a relief, but you didn’t let on.”
“I shall never consider Lady Dorney’s demise to be a relief,” Kelbourne said, his voice as frigid as arctic ice.
Sir William drained his brandy and poured himself another finger before he turned around. Even a man as oblivious as Torie’s father couldn’t overlook the warning note in his lordship’s voice. “Damme, but I always put my foot in it,” he cried. “I’ll ask you to forgive me for my lack of good breeding. It’s not as if we don’t have free-spirited women in my own family.”
Leonora looked up and then back at her bracelet.
“My wife was inclined to dance to the beat of her own drum,” Sir William said. “Ah, but she was a delightful lass, high-spirited, dazzling . . . flirtatious. She couldn’t help herself. Ravishing, the picture of your own Leonora.”
He finished his glass and turned back to the decanter. “Sure I can’t give you a slug?”
“No, thank you,” the viscount replied. Torie had a sickening feeling that Kelbourne wouldn’t stand for more of her father’s loutish sentiments.
Leonora was staring at the emeralds ringing her wrist with the keen attention of a jewelry merchant.
“Course, my wife looked like Leonora, but that was the end of their similarity,” Sir William added. “It’s our Torie who takes after her mama. Never met a lad she couldn’t charm.”
Torie managed a smile. “Thank you, Papa. It’s quite untrue, but I appreciate it.”
“Frivolous, the both of you,” her father said. “I’ve always said it, especially when governesses would complain that Torie couldn’t read. Why shouldn’t a lady be frivolous? Why should a woman read or write? It’s like asking a pig to sing opera.”
