The Devil and the Viscount, page 3
“Miss Wallace.” He bowed, trying to gather his wits while he glanced around for the chaperone. “I thought I had missed you. Are you about to set off?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No, just for a walk. Mrs. Fitzwilliam is still under the weather and remains in bed. She may rally by the afternoon, but she is already talking about staying for another night.” She glanced around her as though to be sure of privacy on the empty terrace. “I saw your friends depart. In quite a sorry state.”
Rollo grinned. “Rank amateurs in the art of dissipation.”
“Then you are not suffering?”
“Devil a bit. Which is why, if you summon your maid, I can offer to escort you on a walk in the pleasure garden.” So much for going home and doing his duty. Well, what difference did a few hours make?
She hesitated, a hundred expressions chasing across her face so quickly that he couldn’t read them. “There is no need, sir.”
“No, but if you want the company, I am happily at your disposal. I can, equally, keep out of your way if you prefer solitude.” He smiled to show he wasn’t remotely hurt by her lack of enthusiasm.
To his surprise, her eyes lightened at once and she smiled again. “Actually, I would be glad of the company. And since Mrs. Fitz requires two maids to wait on her, mine is fully occupied.”
Chapter Three
Gina was unprepared for the rush of happiness that struck her as soon as she saw him. And then a thousand tiny fears flitted through her mind, the chief of which was that he would not recognize her, that he would be embarrassed to meet her, or that he would simply give her the cut direct. Last night he had been drunk and amiable. This morning, in the sober light of day, she had no idea what she would face.
Astonishment. An austere offer to escort her—with her maid—to walk in the gardens. And then, at her hesitation, a suddenly vulnerable boy, unexpectedly easy to hurt. Which meant his offer had been genuine, and her euphoria rushed back.
She took his proffered arm. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam informed me I would meet no one who matters in the gardens at this time of the morning.”
“She’s probably right. Never been before midday myself. Have you breakfasted?”
“Yes, we had it sent to our rooms. So how do you avoid the sorry mornings after? My brother, who is only eighteen but should know better, sits with a damp cloth around his head until luncheon, will eat nothing, and growls all day like a bear with a sore tooth.”
“So would I with a damp cloth around my head for hours. Surprised he doesn’t catch a lung fever.”
“So, what would you recommend?”
He glanced at her with a smile playing around his sensual lips. She had lain awake last night, wondering how those lips would feel on hers. She still wondered, and so did the butterflies dancing in her stomach.
“Copious amounts of clean water before bed,” he said, “and lots of coffee in the morning, followed by fresh air and a decent breakfast.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice. But then, a friend of mine swears by tea and a huge breakfast before leaving his chamber. Each to their own. Why are we discussing something so improper for young ladies?”
They wandered into the pleasure gardens. The sun winked out from behind a cloud, bringing a welcome warmth.
“Curiosity is my besetting sin,” Gina confessed.
“You mean you never stole into your father’s study as a child to try his brandy?”
“We never had it in the house until my brother went up to university. Why, is that what you did?”
“I’ve a vague recollection of Grace and me doing it on a couple of occasions. It didn’t take much to make her giggle, and I had to smuggle her out before we got caught. It was easier at school.”
“School!”
He grinned. “I was a bad boy, always being sent home for some misdemeanor or other.”
“Did your parents look at you as though you were a sad disappointment to them?”
He considered. “No. Not sure my mother actually noticed, beyond being pleased to see me, and my father seemed to regard it as a source of pride and amusement in equal measure.”
The smile in his eyes died slowly.
“Do you miss him badly?” she asked.
“Oddly, I do. Apart from our mighty disagreements, we had little enough to do with each other, and he wasn’t much of a guiding light. But we did laugh sometimes. And he was there.”
Gina nodded. “My mother was a bit of a Puritan, and we always rubbed each other up the wrong way, but she was always there, too.”
He nodded as though he understood. “But more of the guiding light, I imagine.”
“Not as much as she should have been,” Gina said ruefully. “I was a wayward child.”
“When did she die?”
“Oh, years ago. I was fourteen, Jason was ten, and the girls eight. I am used to running a household, which is one reason Lord…” She broke off, realizing what she had almost said. “Oh, look, this is pretty!”
They had come upon a quiet grove with a swing on its edge. She sat in it, more to distract him, for she thought he would gallantly push it for her. He didn’t. He sat in it beside her and casually swung his legs to make it move.
“Your promised husband?” he said. “You might as well tell me about him.”
In fact, she could see no reason not to. They seemed to have fallen back very quickly into the manner of friends. “He is a…mature gentleman. His manners are perfect.”
“Lord…?” he prompted.
“Longton,” she said, giving up.
His breath hissed. “Longton?”
“You know him?” she asked uneasily.
“He was a friend of my father’s.”
Somehow, she didn’t like the suddenly grim look in his eye. “Is he not as amiable as he appeared when he visited us?”
“Oh, he’s amiable enough. And old enough not to go picking up brides younger than his daughters.”
“I am two-and-twenty,” she said with dignity. “And, therefore, past my first flush of youth.”
“We can share walking sticks in another year or two.”
“You don’t like Lord Longton,” she observed.
Darblay shrugged impatiently. “I don’t dislike him.”
“Then what?”
His smile was crooked. “If he was younger, we might move in the same circles. But then, I believe he has calmed down recently. He may well make you a decent husband.”
It was all she had hoped for when she had left home. But now, something she didn’t want to think about was churning inside her, and she had to squash it ruthlessly. “What about your prospective brides? Who are they?”
“Miss Gush and Mrs. Take-me-as-you-find me,” he said absently.
She smiled. “Their real names!”
His black brows lifted. “Actually, I don’t remember.”
A choke of shocked laughter escaped her. “And you’re planning to marry one of them?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“Then which holds your grudging favor?”
“I haven’t decided, yet.”
“Well, when you do, I advise you to learn her name before you make your offer. And don’t let the nickname slip out by mistake.”
He grinned. “I am quite out of line, I know. Between ourselves, they’re not the type of women I usually admire.”
“Well, you can’t marry your ladybird,” she said reasonably, and this time it was his shout of laughter that disturbed the peace.
“You can’t go around saying things like that,” he warned. “It will put old Longton into a huff.”
“I must not notice his ladybirds.” She meant it to be light, but it came out rather desolately instead.
Darblay took her hand in a comforting squeeze, and she realized suddenly that the gentle movement of the swing had brought them closer together. His thigh actually rested against hers, warm and muscular. A pulse leapt in her throat.
“Could you like him?” Darblay asked.
No one had actually asked her that before. “He is an interesting dinner companion.” Her breath caught, and she jumped to her feet. “Shall we walk on?”
She didn’t want to think about Lord Longton, let alone talk about him, in this bonus few hours of freedom she had been granted. Fortunately, the viscount seemed to sense that and changed the subject by imitating various bird songs about them. He possessed a rather fine baritone voice, so the lowering of the bird’s cheeps made her laugh. Eventually, she joined in, making up words for the songs, which made him laugh. And when they got into a shouting match with the crows, they both laughed, along with a growing array of small children who had appeared from nowhere.
Eventually, they left the children making up their own bird songs and found themselves by some tables and chairs where a few people were drinking tea or eating sandwiches under a canopy.
“Breakfast,” the viscount said with relish and invited her to precede him. A young woman in a cap and apron smiled hugely and showed them to a table.
“What would you like?” he asked Gina.
“Perhaps just a cup of tea. It’s not long since I ate.”
“We have freshly baked scones, ma’am,” the waitress told her proudly. “Still warm from the oven.”
“We’ll have some of those,” Lord Darblay said, “Along with tea and a plate of ham and eggs and toast.”
It seemed delightfully strange and daring to be eating alone in public with a man. A very attractive man. Gina was not blind to the admiring glances and surreptitious stares of the waitress, female patrons at other tables, and even passersby. Lord Darblay himself, however, seemed quite oblivious. He smiled at the waitress who brought their food, almost causing the poor girl to swoon, but otherwise paid attention only to Gina.
And to his food, of course, which he ate with enthusiasm but perfect manners, before sitting back in satisfaction and reaching for his tea.
“Better?” Gina asked humorously.
“Quite set up. I need to walk it off now. Do you want to wander a bit more? The gardens are filling up, and there will probably be jugglers and stilt-men and so on.”
“And music?”
“In the afternoon, certainly. If the rain stays off, they hold concerts in the rose garden at midday. Are you musical?”
“I enjoy music. Don’t you?”
“I can appreciate it. Except for opera. Sopranos hurt my ears with their caterwauling, especially the ones who can’t stay on the dashed note. They have a particularly fine harpist here.”
They spent another enjoyable hour wandering the gardens, watching jugglers, who were a great draw to the children, as were the men and women on stilts who joked and clowned around from their massive height.
At last, Gina said reluctantly. “I should go back and see how Mrs. Fitzwilliam goes on. And I suppose you will want to get back to town.”
“I should,” he admitted. “I’ll walk back with you and throw my things in a bag.”
“How did you come out here?”
“Hackney.”
“Perhaps you could come with us in the carriage.”
He cast her a sardonic glance. “I wouldn’t suggest that to your Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”
“I suppose not,” she agreed. “Too many awkward questions.”
They walked on toward the hotel in companionable if slightly sad silence. She liked the way he moved beside her, all restless, somehow reckless elegance. She felt curiously protected by his large form, his friendship.
And yet they could not really be friends. Circumstances had thrown them together, but they barely knew each other. That fact did not slow her growing physical awareness of him. Last night, foxed, he had been charming and just a little dangerous. Enough to appeal to her own dormant recklessness. Sober, and in the sunshine, he presented a much more subtle yet intense danger. His carelessly wicked smile disturbed her, his lightest, casual touch excited her in ways she couldn’t grasp, ways that felt nothing like friendship.
But whatever these confused feelings were, they would be gone in moments, along with him…
“Let me know if you’re staying for the rest of the day,” he said abruptly. “We can go and hear the music if you like.”
Her heart lightened as though someone had thrown a lever. “How will I find you?”
“I’ll be in the rose garden.”
She nodded, and since there were people alighting from a carriage outside the hotel, she merely curtseyed in return to his bow and hurried inside.
What if I never see him again? What if that is the last thing he remembers of me? Or I him? A civil bow. An indifferent curtsey… It didn’t matter, of course. She would always have the fun of last night’s dancing and this morning in the garden.
She found Mrs. Fitzwilliam propped up in bed by a mass of pillows, drinking some cordial prepared for her by her devoted maid. Little, Gina’s maid, was reading to her.
“Oh, there you are, Gina,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said weakly. “I am so sorry. This must be so dull for you, to be stuck so close to town but not yet there and with no company.”
“The gardens are very pleasant, ma’am. I have enjoyed walking after so many days trapped in the coach. How are you feeling?”
“As weak as a kitten, my dear. I swear I have absolutely no energy, though my headache is a little better.”
“Well, that is something. I suppose the rattling of the coach must be responsible for your poor head.”
“It is true I am always laid low by a journey,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam mourned.
“Perhaps,” Gina suggested, “we should stay another night until you are feeling more the thing. Then the short journey tomorrow should not trouble you.”
Feeling rather guilty about her attempted manipulation, Gina awaited the older woman’s decision with bated breath.
“No,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam decided. “I could not keep you from town another day. Your family has entrusted you to me for the purpose—”
“Certainly not for the purpose of making you ill, ma’am! My father would be appalled to think you had made yourself more ill for such a paltry reason. For his sake as well as mine, you should not travel any further until you are quite recovered.”
“Oh. Do you think so, my dear?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam asked hopefully.
“Miss Gina is quite right,” declared Colton, Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s maid, bustling into the room. “Have you drunk up all that cordial?”
Shortly after, Mrs. Fitzwilliam was settled down for a nap, and Gina slipped away to her own chamber to repair her hairpins and splash a little water on her face and hands.
“Do you not want a nap, miss?” Little said, replacing the loosened pins. “Especially since you were so late to bed.”
“No,” Gina said uncompromisingly. “I have too much energy to sit still. I am going to go out again and listen to the music in the garden.”
“I should come with you,” Little said morosely. She was not much interested in the outdoors, except in so far as it affected her mistress’s clothing.
“We’re not in town, yet, Little,” Gina assured her. “I shall be quite safe in the garden for an hour or so.” With that, she stood, redonned her hat and spencer, and sallied forth to the rose garden with unholy glee.
Lord Darblay was exactly where he had said he would be, leaning against a hedge just inside the rose garden, moodily picking the petals off a fallen rosebud. Her heart thudded. When he saw her, a slow smile curved his lips, and as he straightened and walked toward her, she realized with awe that he really was pleased to see her. He wasn’t just being kind.
For a little, they stood together, listening, while Gina gazed around the garden.
Several rows of chairs had been laid out in front of the makeshift platform where the musicians played. Though the concert had begun with rather dignified chamber music, the audience appeared to be quite fluid, with only a few people maintaining their seats. Others came, sat, and went again, to be replaced by others wandering past. Everyone seemed to be dressed in their Sunday best, mostly middling sort of folk with a scattering of the obviously poorer among them.
One man entering the garden caught her attention by his straight, military bearing, although he wore the civilian dress of a gentleman. He also had one empty coat sleeve pinned to his shoulder. Without looking to right or left, he sat on the end of a row, just as the music came to an end and the orchestra took a bow.
Lord Darblay seized her arm and urged her along the hedge toward the back of the seats.
“Do you know that man?” Gina whispered.
“Lord Richard Gorse. Old army officer, lost his arm at Waterloo. His brother’s a friend of mine, so I don’t want him seeing me with you. Not that he goes out much, and he’s hardly a gossip by nature. Wonder what he’s doing here?”
“Perhaps he likes music.”
The viscount ushered her to a seat in the back row and lounged beside her. How could a man look so disreputably careless, and yet so elegant at the same time? He took her breath away.
The orchestra was welcoming a demurely dressed young woman to the stage. She walked on quietly and sat behind a harp. With her first note, the audience quieted, and Gina had the immediate impression that here was something special.
The music was almost heavenly. Gina listened in awe, aware of nothing else, except, as a subtly thrilling background that merged with the music, the firm warmth of Lord Darblay’s arm against hers. Only when the music came to a soft, tragic end, did she draw in a deep breath and surreptitiously wipe her gloved finger across the corner of her eye.
Darblay was not watching the stage. He was watching her. And the expression in his eyes, though she didn’t understand it, caused those butterflies in her stomach to dive sharply, depriving her of air all over again.
Time seemed to stop. Then his fingers closed around hers and her heart thudded. What in the world is…?
A soprano’s voice rang out over the renewed harping, and Darblay sprang up from his seat, dragging Gina with him. Charging past the plump couple on the end of their row, he muttered an apology and bolted for the gate.
