The matter was all so simple. Miss Richmond wanted a marriage of convenience, and he was in the unique position of being able to offer it to her. His feelings, he was sure, stemmed out of pity. What person of breeding could, after all, be expected to contemplate with equanimity a lifetime under the same roof as the insufferable Lady Richmond? Oh, it was his duty to rescue Anastasia! And, since it neatly extricated his brother from a scrape, it served the purpose nicely.

  He must just take care to impress upon Miss Richmond the nature of their dealings. It would not pay to have her under any illusions. And the Honourable Lady Richmond on his left? She was still penciling in dates, gushing effusively, and breathlessly exclaiming. Andrew sighed and reached for his coffee. He would have done much for a sample of Lord Richmond’s renowned burgundy. He’d never needed it more.

  Lord Andrew Ralston, Viscount Waverley, had been right. Bertram was pleased to tease him unmercifully, though in a spirit of such profound relief that his brother had not the heart to scold—or not too awfully, at any rate.

  “Have done, Bertram. Your exuberance is tiresome.”

  The captain beamed as he picked a few prized cuttings from the viscount’s well-stocked herbarium. “Mint and lavender. I have been trying to pick it, but I believe Miss Townsend smells of both.”

  “You shall soon know, for I have invited both ladies to tea this evening.”

  Bertram’s eyes lit up, but then he regarded his brother wearily. “Does that include the dragon?”

  “I fear so.”

  Bertram threw the cuttings on a heap with the violets he had purloined and looked at his brother miserably. “Perhaps I shall claim a violent headache.”

  “Don’t you dare. I’ve not gone to this enormous deal of trouble for nothing.”

  “Come, Andrew. Don’t be coy! You like Miss Richmond! Vivienne says she is a darling.”

  “Perhaps she is, though I care not for such particulars. She will make a suitable wife, and it seems to be her earnest desire to marry. Leave it at that.”

  “How dull! Perhaps you should pick the lilies. I believe that is her particular scent.”

  “No. It is essence of rose water and a hint of something a little more sultry. Lilac, perhaps.”

  Bertram’s eyes twinkled with unholy glee, though he bit his tongue in uncharacteristic restraint. He was certain that, after all, his brother’s cold heart was melting. It had been a long time since he had noticed such a particular.

  “Have you spoken to Lord Richmond?”

  “I shall tomorrow, before Her Ladyship preempts me by posting the banns. I would not be surprised if she has managed to wrangle an announcement in the Gazette for tomorrow. She is the most interfering, managing—”

  “Oh, I know! That is why I wish to speak for Miss Townsend at once! Her position in the house would be unbearable if Anastasia were gone.”

  “Has she indicated she will accept?”

  “No; she was quite positive that she would not. But that was when she thought I was to marry Stasia.”

  “And now? What are the odds?”

  Bertram grinned. “I deem them excellent. Oh, not to stand on my own consequence, but really, the girl was made for me!”

  “Heaven save us, one of you has always been more than sufficient!”

  “Yes, but I am not beautiful, like Vivienne.”

  The viscount privately thought Bertram was mad, for how could any lady—especially one with a profusion of freckles across her nose—possibly compete with Anastasia’s breathtaking looks?

  True, Anastasia was not handsome in the usual way, for her hair was brown rather than the obligatory blonde, and her curves were more subtle than voluptuous, but she was pleasingly slender, a willowy beauty with bright intelligence behind gorgeously lashed eyes. She was softly understated, but sultry, with wide lips that must surely lead any man—even Bertram—to passion.

  But no. Evidently not. Bertram was still prattling on about Miss Townsend as if there were not a girl in the world who could match her. The viscount sighed. That was as it should be. And as for himself—well, he had better look to his own heart. He would move heaven and earth not to be hurt a second time.

  The evening tea was rather stilted, with Lady Richmond monopolising the conversation, insisting on charades, and generally thwarting all Andrew’s efforts for private conversation with Anastasia. Lady Richmond was so preoccupied with the forthcoming nuptials and with “chaperoning” Anastasia, as she coyly put it a dozen times, that she did not notice the captain engaging Miss Townsend in the most scintillating—if highly improper—of conversations. Neither did she notice them sneaking out to renew their acquaintance, or the fact that Vivienne’s eyes were suspiciously bright when she returned indoors.

  Lady Richmond was so preoccupied, in fact, that she did not notice what Vivienne’s dresser noticed almost at once upon her return. The dreaded pantalets were back. The strange thing was, though, that whereas Vivienne’s had always sported a wisp of lace, these sported several very merry white ribbons and a band of exquisite seeded pearls that had cost a quite improper fortune.

  Vivienne’s eyes had danced with such naughty mischief that the dresser had not felt in the least bit inclined to report the circumstance. It was there, then, that the matter had, most fortunately, been allowed to rest.

  At least the tea was a success for someone, the viscount thought with no small measure of irritation. Certainly it had not been for him. With the dragon’s eyes upon her, Anastasia had answered most of his questions in monosyllables, assiduously avoiding his gaze and blushing painfully at every vulgarity uttered by her voluble parent. There had been no chance to quiz her on her feelings, or on whether she truly felt herself able to proceed with the momentous step. She had curtsied sweetly to him at the doorstep, and allowed him to tuck her snugly into the carriage, but beyond these minor attentions, there had been nothing to hint at any intimacy between them.

  With resignation, he had bowed elegantly and murmured all that was proper to Lady Richmond and the more ebullient Miss Townsend. That young lady had then had the confounded impudence to wink.

  It took several turns round the garden to cool Andrew’s rather strained temper. Bertram, of course, was no help. He had vanished like the veritable Cheshire cat, not to be glimpsed again until morning at the earliest.

  Though Lord Richmond needed to be hunted high and low in all the men’s clubs to be found the following afternoon, he looked upon Andrew’s suit with favour. His large Roman nose behind a newspaper, he seemed glad enough to welcome the viscount into the family, muttering only that he wished Anastasia happy and hoped that the nuptials could take place quickly.

  The viscount, mistaking this comment for an indication that Richmond feared he might change his mind, raised his dark, besettingly handsome brows loftily.

  “I do not renege on my obligations, sir! Unseemly haste, I assure you, is not necessary for a positive outcome to this affair.”

  Richmond looked at him with a slight twist to a once handsome mouth.

  “You do not know my wife, sir! I beg pardon if I have offended, but I assure you my life shall be unbearable until this thing is done. I have heard nothing but nuptials all morning till my head rings, and what with the entire house needing rehanging in silk drapes—I am assured this is definitely the case—and a thousand hangdog relations invited to witness the splendour, I fear I am quite overset. If you wish to do me a kindness—and I assure you, Viscount, that I am in need of kindness—you will take Anastasia and marry her over the anvil tomorrow.”

  The ice melted from Andrew’s eyes. He found he rather liked the man who was so unexpectedly to become his father-in-law “Very tempting, I am sure, but your daughter may have something to say to that!”

  “Anastasia? Pooh! She might have a few scruples, for she is always inclined to be a little retiring, but I am convinced she would forgo the fanfare at the snap of a finger. She has always, I am afraid, been a sad disappointment to her mama.”

  “Oh?” Amusement lit up Andrew’s tone.

  “Yes, indeed. Lady Richmond seizes the limelight at every opportunity. Anastasia shrinks from it like a wallflower.”

  “Wallflowers are not without a charm of their own.”

  “You have noticed, then?” For the first time, Lord Richmond’s eyes sparkled with a hint of animation.

  “I have noticed, sir, though I will not humbug you into believing I am in love with Anastasia. Rather, let us say we appear mutually compatible and have interests that shall both be served by this union.”

  The old man eyed him closely. “That is good enough for me. Lady Richmond and I were swept away in a swirl of passion, and I am not convinced that that was altogether such a good thing. Passion dies, but compatibility must mature with the passing of time.”

  “Like your burgundy?”

  “Exactly so.” Richmond smiled, his teeth gleaming surprisingly white in the light that streamed in through the arch windows. “The cellars are the one place that Lady R does not meddle. If you stop by, I shall be happy to allow you to sample some of my finest.”

  “An intriguing prospect. And now, my dear sir, I must bid you good day. You may find this remarkably behindhand of me, but I have yet to elicit an affirmative response from your daughter. The whole matter seemed wrested from our hands entirely.”

  Lord Richmond nodded sympathetically. “Lady R, I suppose. If you wish to speak with Anastasia privately, try the back entrance and the first flight of stairs. A twist to the right will see you in the nursery passage. Right again will take you to her quarters.”

  “Good God!” Shock mingled with amusement and a new respect for the unsuspected wiliness of the man before him. “You cannot be suggesting, sir, that I solicit your daughter’s hand in such a thoroughly disreputable manner?”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures, sir! If you compromise her, you shall marry her. Since that is, at all events, your intention, take the risk. You shall never separate her from Lady R any other way that I know, short of poisoning the old . . . ahem!”

  Lord Richmond cleared his throat apologetically.

  Andrew’s eyes twinkled. It was years since he’d had a more edifying conversation. Life, though possibly running far ahead of him, at least had ceased being boring. Even the leaden pain he had carried with him since Lady Araminda’s defection seemed suddenly easier to bear. Truth to tell, he had almost forgotten it.

  “Very well, sir, I shall take your advice. And I promise you, if Anastasia has any second thoughts, I shall not press her in the matter.”

  Lord Richmond grunted slightly, though his lips curved and his eyes appeared gratified. “It is well.” He picked up his newspaper as Andrew prepared to leave. Just as the viscount was placing a particularly elegant beaver and velvet hat upon his head, Richmond spoke again. “I have often thought Anastasia needs to be thoroughly kissed.”

  The viscount forgot the hat and twisted round in sudden shock. “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “You heard me. You don’t look to me to be a namby-pamby boy. If the filly needs convincing, convince her!”

  Waverley eyed him for a moment in silence. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. His future father-in-law, it seemed, was full of surprises.

  Lord Waverley decided to ride to Brampton that very day. With a moment’s regret, he declined his delightful-looking new tilbury, with its fresh, high-stepping team for a more sensible bay. The ride might be a trifle exhausting, but at least he could tether the horse inconspicuously. If Lord Richmond’s advice was to be heeded, he needed a little stealth, a great deal of cunning, and an ample measure of impudence. The day was so cheery that he felt up to all three. Thwarting Lady Richmond added piquancy to the challenge ahead.

  Stopping only to press a posy into his saddlebag, he had no time to notice the announcement that had been hastily inserted in the Gazette, nor to see the hordes of interested morning callers who were even now lining his marbled corridors and elegantly carpeted morning rooms. His butler and housekeeper, had he but known it, were at wit’s end. Fortunately, his groom had not seen fit to apprise him of the matter, he being a taciturn character who liked to keep himself to himself. Consequently, the viscount set out, looking, as usual, as fine as nine pence, and entirely oblivious to the fact that his affairs were now known to all of London and half of Brighton at the very least.

  Lord Richmond had not lied. The back entrance of the Richmond home, set apart from the servants’ entrance by a tall trellis covered in vines, was easily accessible if one was prepared to muddy one’s Hessians in several flower beds and one particularly annoying cabbage patch. Andrew braved both, and was rewarded for his intrepidity by the sight of a winding series of stairs in polished mahogany.

  SEVEN

  “Can I help you, Your Lordship?”

  Drat! Foiled by a housemaid in crisp, clean linen who eyed him coyly and bobbed him the slightest of curtsies.

  “No, I believe I am perfectly able to help myself. You, on the other hand, need a great deal of help!”

  The maid stared at him in suspicious befuddlement.

  “I daresay you could use some sweetmeats and several fripperies for your half day.” The viscount treated her to his smile-to-swoon-for look—a countenance he had not bothered to assume for several years—and the maid was suitably bemused, such that she began to flutter her eyelashes archly and utter half sentences that were entirely unintelligible to the Honourable Viscount Waverley.

  He felt around in his greatcoat and extracted a coin. Her eyes widened as he pressed it into her hand and bade her “be a good girl and run along.” As she turned to do so, he pulled her back gently and placed his finger to his lips meaningfully. The maid giggled a little and swore she wouldn’t “tell nobody nuffin.” Whereupon the viscount grinned, told her she was a woman of fine good sense, and turned once more to the stairs.

  Andrew strode through the nursery quarters without hesitation, though his heart beat quite considerably fast and he was reminded of the clandestine work he had undertaken several times on behalf of the king. Not many were aware of these activities, but in certain circles Viscount Waverley was known as more than simply a peer of the realm. He had proven himself many times over in the courts of Paris and on the battlefields of Spain. A man of rough justice, perhaps, but one whose integrity was unquestionable and whose wiliness was legendary among those privy to his actions.

  Now some of that wiliness was in force once again. Andrew ignored the drumming in his chest as he veered to the right. This, he presumed, was Miss Richmond’s private wing. He must tread carefully so as not to startle her—or, worse, trigger a farcical situation that might utterly compromise her good name. The viscount was not aware of why he went to such trouble, only that her good opinion mattered to him. He was also painfully aware that she had never had a chance to rebut his proposal. It would be unsporting to marry her out of hand without offering her this simple courtesy.

  He was just debating whether to continue on down the passage or try the handle of the gilded door before him when the lyrical notes of a harp assailed his senses. He left the gilded door at once and strode a little further down the corridor. There, by a window, sat Anastasia. The light streamed in on her unbound hair as long, ungloved fingers plucked at the strings. The melody trailed off as the young woman sat, her back quite impeccably straight, staring into the middle distance. To the fanciful it might have seemed that she was gazing into the unseen strands that tangled into her future.

  The viscount stared at her a long moment before striding into the room and making his presence known. When he did, she startled so profoundly that Andrew was forced to steady her a little, the twang of a harp string echoing in the charged room.

  “Oh!” Anastasia put her hand to her hair and realised that it was shockingly unpresentable. Andrew’s warm eyes crinkled a little at the corners, though he was not unaware of the tightening of his rib cage as their eyes locked.

  “My lord!” Anastasia set down the harp and took two paces backward. It was a useless gesture, for the viscount closed the gap upon the instant. His perceptive eyes noticed a telltale pulse in her neck, and he wondered whether it was the shock of the unexpected or the shock of confronting him alone that caused the heightened anxiety.

  “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “I am not frightened, only surprised.”

  “Pleasantly so, I hope?”

  “I am not certain.” Anastasia regarded him closely and removed a wisp of recalcitrant hair from her eyes. They were not slate gray, anymore, the viscount noticed with interest. They appeared to be a silvery green. He wondered what that meant, for Anastasia was one of those rare individuals whose moods were reflected in her countenance. Even her lips, wide and unconsciously sensuous, seemed to be bearing a message. The devil of it was that the viscount could not, at that point, decipher it. Perhaps that was because the pink tongue, only just visible, was maddening to his unsuspecting senses.

  “Can I make you certain?”

  “I mistake your meaning, sir.”

  “I think not.” The viscount ignored her trim, willowy body—though he was aware of every inch of it and concentrated fully on her eyes.

  She seemed mesmerised by him, and their glance held quite beyond the proper, acceptable limits. Though she said nothing more, the viscount had the gratification of seeing her pulses quicken even further. It was her eyes that were the first to flutter downward, affording the viscount a heavenly view of dark, lustrous lashes.

  “Come here. I wish to talk to you.”

  “You can talk where you are.”

  “Not with a gilded harp between us.”

  “Very well, I shall set the harp against that chair.” Anastasia’s fingers clutched the instrument, her eyes everywhere but on those of the viscount. She placed the harp gently out of the way and folded her hands.

 

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