Viscount Vagabond

  Lord Browdie was nudged out of his painful meditations. “Catherine Pelliston, you mean?”

  “If you say so. With the great eyes and everything else so little,” she added disparagingly. “I was going into the dressing room and she comes out with a horrid little boy holding her hand. Miss Hoity Toity went all white,” she sniffed. “The way she stared at my gown—she even had me thinking there was something nasty crawling on it. That one.” She nodded towards the frock Lord Browdie had absently picked up while she was talking. “Which of course when I thought of it I had to give her some credit, as it didn’t really suit me at all.”

  Lord Browdie stared at the gown as his brain slowly, ponderously creaked into motion.

  “Such a stir she made. The boy starts howling and Madame comes running in and no one has a thought for me, because they must give the delicate lady the cup of tea—so she could recover from the terrible shock of seeing a fallen woman.” Lynnette smiled. “Actually, I did feel sorry for her. She looked so ill and white that for a minute she put me in mind of that poor country servant I told you about—the one that cost that viscount so much money. Remember?”

  “Yes.” Lord Browdie’s head began to throb.

  “I expect Miss Prim and Proper would faint dead away if she knew she reminded me of her fine gentleman’s low sweetheart.”

  “No,” said Lord Browdie. “She’s too obstinate to faint. Did she really look like the girl? Maybe that’s why Rand took up with her.”

  “Oh, you naughty boy!” Lynnette reached out to playfully ruffle the garish red hair, then changed her mind and settled for a coquettish smile instead. “Maybe that is why. I told you I never saw much of her myself. You know how Granny is—never liked the girls to get together because she thought we’d plot behind her back. I couldn’t say really if she’s like her or not. It was just one of those odd ideas that come into your head sometimes.”

  Lord Browdie had a very odd idea in his head at the moment. Lynnette had connected the dress with Catherine during her monologue. Now he made his own connection.

  This was the frock Catherine had donned when she’d emerged from those unspeakable mourning costumes she’d worn for her great aunt. The warm colour had been such a relief from the ghastly blacks and half-mourning that he’d noticed. He even recalled thinking at the time that for once she didn’t look like a corpse herself. No wonder he’d remembered the gown.

  Catherine’s gown. Now Lynnette’s gown. In between it had been, briefly, Granny Grendle’s—and she had stolen it from the female Lord Rand had paid fifty quid for. In a brothel.

  The idea of Catherine Pelliston—the most sanctimonious of prigs—in a brothel was so outlandish that the baron would need two bottles of wine to assimilate it. He ordered Lynnette off to the milliner’s. He was too taken up with his wonder to think of the bills that would result, and knew only that he needed to be alone, to think.

  Lynnette promptly obliged him. She was gone before he’d opened the first bottle, in fact. Many glasses later, Lord Browdie’s bewilderment had given way to the happiest of daydreams.

  Another man might shrink at the prospect of a soiled wife, but Lord Browdie was not just any man and this was not just any wife. A soiled Catherine Pelliston was vulnerable, and a vulnerable Catherine Pelliston was the only female of that name who would agree to marry him—once, that is, he pointed out the alternative.

  The precise name for what Lord Browdie contemplated was blackmail, but he was not overly concerned with semantics, any more than he was concerned with physical technicalities, such as virginity. That only meant he wouldn’t have to endure any tiresome whining on his wedding night.

  As long as she wasn’t breeding already—and he’d make sure of that first—her maidenhead was of no concern to him. If she was breeding... he frowned briefly, but only briefly. In that case, the price of keeping her secret would be to let him enjoy the favours others had tasted—like that insolent Rand, for instance.

  Lord Browdie refilled his glass and swallowed its contents with as much joy as if it had been the ambrosia of Olympus. After all, what greater happiness is there than contemplating the humiliation of one’s enemies?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lord Rand’s plans and Mr. Langdon’s hopes were doomed to disappointment. Miss Pelliston did not appear at Almack’s that evening because Lady Andover had been suddenly taken ill.

  The countess was better the following day, though somewhat stunned by the experience. She had never been sick a day in her life—she scorned illness, refused to have anything to do with it.

  Given her attitude, it was hardly surprising that she insisted on attending the celebration of Miss Clarissa Ventcoeur’s betrothal to Lord Fevis. Louisa most certainly could not lie abed all day, and if she were forced by her brute of a husband to remain at home, she would drive herself mad. The brute, who had merely suggested—in the gentlest way—that his wife indulge in a day’s rest, shook off his alarm and withdrew the hateful suggestion.

  Lord Rand also attended the exuberant celebration, mainly to be at hand in case Mr. Langdon required any guidance or moral support in the pursuit of Miss Pelliston.

  The party was held out of doors on the Ventcoeurs’ large estate several miles from London. This meant that the guests were at liberty to join in the planned entertainments or amuse themselves by wandering about the beautiful grounds. Being at liberty to wander, Jack did so. He got into a lively debate with a literary gentleman on the merits of the Lake Poets and strolled off with him into the maze. There the two intellectuals met up with Miss Gravistock and her cousin, who promptly joined the battle.

  Lord Rand decided that the mountain had better be brought to Mahomet. He found Miss Pelliston conversing with his mama and proposed that the ladies walk with him. That was perfectly acceptable—until his mother got herself lost en route. Lady St. Denys spied one of her friends and, in her usual fuddled manner, went where her gaze led her and forgot all about her son and the young lady.

  That was when disaster struck. The maze and Mr. Langdon were due east. Due west Miss Pelliston caught sight of a Greek temple. She had never seen such an elaborate folly before, having never explored an elegantly landscaped estate. Unlike other young ladies, she was unaccustomed to discovering temples and statues, pagodas and grottoes in every nook and cranny. Instead of being overcome by ennui, she was charmed—and admitted it.

  “Oh, it is like a story, isn’t it?” she cried in delight. “Can one go inside, do you think?”

  One could. One—or two, rather—did.

  In the rotunda, she skipped from one carved deity to the next, quoting from the Iliad or the Odyssey—Lord Rand was not sure which. As she turned, smiling, to answer some wry comment he made, his heart began to thud. Her open joy warmed him.

  He moved nearer and unthinkingly took her hands in his. Hers were so small and slender in their ladylike white gloves. The touch made him feel amazingly strong, but needful of something. He drew her to him.

  Her smile wavered. Meaning to reassure her, he bent his head and whispered, “You’re like a happy nymph.”

  Her eyes grew troubled, but he was already lost, searching in her gaze for he knew not what. Even as she started to answer, his head bent closer still, and his mouth covered hers.

  The lips that always scolded him—that in a moment must berate him cruelly—were soft and sweet. He meant only to taste them, but the taste was a delicious surprise, and he needed to savour it. Then he knew what the shock had been last time. Yearning that made no sense hammered in his heart as he waited for her to push him away. Don’t, he thought. Not yet.

  His arms slipped around her to keep her near just another moment and a thrill shot through him when he felt her hands move up to his neck. He sensed her answering shudder, and that was the last he knew of thought. What remained was the fragrance of violets, the clean scent of her skin, the tickle of frothy curls, and the dizzying warmth of her slim body melting into his arms. She was light and delicate, but to
kiss her was to plunge into a summer storm, and that intoxicated him, as storms always did. He forgot she was small and fragile, and crushed her to him.

  Catherine was lost. Whatever inner warnings she tried to heed at the start stilled when his lips sought hers—perhaps because that seeking was so gentle, coaxing, surprisingly tender. The taste of him, the scent of him, drew her as easily as his encircling arms.

  She had not expected the gentleness or the sweetness or the sense of homecoming, still less the longing he so easily kindled. As his mouth grew more insistent, she answered helplessly. The frantic pumping of her heart warned her she was being drawn to danger, but the alarm was muffled in the sweet chaos of physical sensation. He surrounded her and she, trusting him, abandoned herself to him. The strong arms about her and the press of his hard chest secured her, even as she felt herself sinking into warm, enticing, turbulent darkness.

  Falling, she thought vaguely, as her lips opened in answer to some felt command from his. Falling. Fallen. Her eyes flew open and she jerked her head back.

  “Good heavens! What are you doing to me?” she asked, horrified, as reality crashed down upon her.

  The viscount’s blue eyes were dark as midnight. “Kissing you, Cat,” he answered huskily. “Surely you remember what a kiss is. I gave you one just a few weeks ago.”

  “This was not at all the same thing.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” was the grave reply. “This was a deal better. This time you cooperated.”

  She pulled away and was alarmed to find herself still weak-kneed. Embarrassed, she glared at him. “You tricked me!”

  “On the contrary, you tricked me. You are very deceitful. Never once have you hinted that you were passionate. You were most unsporting to take me unawares. I might have fainted.”

  Two bright spots of colour appeared in Miss Pelliston’s cheeks.

  “Passionate? How dare you!” she cried, furious with herself for the humiliating proof she’d given him. “Oh, you are the most provoking man!” She stamped her foot. Then, realising she was having a childish tantrum, she raised her chin, collected her dignity, and marched out of the ersatz temple.

  Lord Rand might have been more tactful, but misery loves company. Being agitated himself, he felt obliged to vex his companion. Now, as he watched her storm off, he was torn between wanting to follow her to apologise, as he should, and remaining to dash his head against the temple’s stone pillars. Though the latter course of action promised more relief, he decided he had better go after her.

  Another moment’s delay and he would have lost track of her. She was moving very quickly. As he hastened down the path they’d come, he saw a flash of white muslin before she turned down another pathway.

  That way led to Lord Ventcoeur’s man-made grotto, Max knew. He also knew that if she continued at that pace, she’d stumble and probably fall into the (also man-made) lake. The path was narrow and inclined steeply. It was meant for leisurely exploration, not foot races. Damning her temper and himself for goading it, he hurried along in pursuit.

  Because of the turns and angles of the walkway, the heavy plantings and occasional rock outcroppings, she disappeared from view for a few minutes. Then he caught another glimpse of white at the grotto’s entrance. At that moment, his foot slipped on a patch of moss, he lost his balance, and landed on his backside.

  Cursing softly, he got up, brushed himself off, and hurried on. He had just turned towards the cave entrance when he heard a disagreeably familiar voice—Lord Browdie’s— crying, “Hold a minute, Cathy. I want a word with you.”

  There was a muttering of male voices then Max saw Sir Reginald Aspinwal give a shrug and turn back onto the lower path by the lake’s edge.

  Apologies of the sort Lord Rand contemplated cannot be made in the presence of other gentlemen. On the other hand, a gentleman cannot leave an innocent young lady— especially one in an emotional state—alone with a lecherous old sot. And, the viscount was curious what Lord Browdie wanted to talk about. Very likely he had more slander about Max, which would be entertaining. And if there was the least sign of danger to Catherine, Max would be on hand. Perhaps afterwards he would reward the brute with a broken jaw.

  By now Sir Reginald was out of sight. Lord Rand took up a position under an enormous rhododendron at the grotto’s entrance. He leaned back against the smooth stone, folded his arms across his chest, and eavesdropped.

  In a few minutes he’d unfolded his arms and was clenching his fists.

  “Me?” he heard Catherine cry in affronted disbelief. “In a—in such a place? You are mad—or drunk—I do not care which –”

  “No, I ain’t—and there’s a peach-colour frock your Aunt Deborah’ll recognise fast enough if I show it to her. Which I can, you know, if you won’t be sensible.”

  “I will not stay and listen to this, this—I hardly know what to call it.”

  “I wouldn’t run off if I was you, Cathy. Not unless you want the world to know what you been up to.”

  Lord Rand made up his mind to hear no more, but to commence immediately upon the breaking of jaws. He was about to turn into the entrance when he caught Miss Pelliston’s surprising response.

  “You have my leave, sirrah, to tell anyone you like. Tell them this instant, do.”

  Max hesitated. What was she thinking of?

  “I should,” Browdie growled. “After the sorry trick you’ve served me. If it wasn’t for your papa—”

  “Oh, pray don’t trouble about Papa. Do tell your filthy slander to the world,” Catherine urged. “I should like nothing better than to see you made the laughingstock of London.”

  “Ain’t me they’ll be laughing at, Miss Hoity Toity, and laughing’ll be the kindest of it. You won’t be marrying any of your fine beaux, I promise you. Too good for me, are you? Well, you won’t be good enough for anyone else, not even your randy viscount. Not that he’d marry you anyhow when he can get what he wants without.”

  “Now I see what this is about, My Lord. You have lost a dowry and a rich piece of property, have you not? And this is how you think to get them back.”

  “Your papa promised—”

  “Let me make you a promise, sirrah.” Catherine’s voice deepened, became ominous. “Do you so much as breathe a hint of this scurrilous tale and I shall take it up and trumpet it abroad.”

  Max heard Browdie’s outraged gasp and smiled. She had called his bluff, the clever Cat. Browdie could not publicly condemn her then turn around and marry her after.

  “Yes, I think you understand me,” Catherine went on. “Even you would not wed a woman the world believes is damaged goods. Tell your slander, then. I have always lived a retired life, and if one must remain a spinster, it is best to be a rich one. Perhaps I shall bequeath my great aunt’s property to a charity. Coram’s Foundling Hospital, I think. The children would do better for country air.”

  Lord Rand decided that it was high time to make his presence known. Catherine may have vanquished her foe, but that foe was likely infuriated enough at present to drown her. The viscount picked up a stone and skimmed it over the water. Then he sauntered into sight. Without looking towards the entrance, he picked up another flat stone and skimmed it. He was bending to find another when he heard footsteps echoing. Lord Browdie, his face an interesting display of swelling veins and maroon coloration, stomped into the sunlight.

  Max feigned surprise and offered an amiable greeting to which the baron muttered some surly response before tramping away. Max turned and strolled into the grotto.

  Inside were a few statues of mythological figures connected, aptly enough, with water. These were set in niches carved for that purpose. In one corner a stone nymph was reclining, her hand trailing in a shallow pool. Near her, on a seat carved into the wall, sat Miss Pelliston, her head in her hands.

  “Cat,” he said.

  Her head went up, but she did not appear surprised to see him. “We were wrong,” she said simply. “He knows everything.”

 
“Yes. I heard.”

  “Oh Lord.” She resumed her posture of despair.

  Max moved closer. “What are you so unhappy about? You were brilliant—but I knew you had it in you, Cat. Though I did feel rather a fool, about to dash to your rescue and then finding you quite capable of rescuing yourself.”

  “Yes, with a great pack of lies.”

  “ Truly, to tell lies is not honourable, but when the truth entails tremendous ruin, to speak dishonourably is pardonable.”

  “You need not quote me Sophocles, My Lord. Even the devil can quote scripture to his purpose.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t any purpose. Only wanted to show off my formidable knowledge, ma’am.”

  “I think you have shown me quite enough of your knowledge for one day,” she answered tartly, apparently beginning to recover her natural waspish spirits.

  ‘Yes, I know. I came after you to apologise. At the moment that seems anticlimactic. Besides,” he went on, feeling at a loss, “I’m not sure if I am sorry.”

  “Why should you be?” she answered angrily. “You had your amusement and didn’t even get slapped for it. I raised no objections. Why should you be sorry?”

  He moved nearer still, and knelt so she would not have to crane her neck to look at him.

  “Oh, Cat, you’re having an attack of conscience. You let me kiss you, then you told fibs to Browdie, and now you think you’re completely corrupt. Shall I make an honest woman of you? Will you marry me?”

  Catherine gazed into his lean, handsome face and wished that the eyes, for this one time at least, truly were windows to the soul. If she could have but one glimpse inside, and if that glimpse could give her some reason to hope...

  “Why?” she asked.